For the next few days he took the butter mold out every afternoon, repeating these assurances to himself, until finally after a week he emptied the mold, washing it in the marvelous bathing room that had been installed while he was in prison. He put the mold on the rear shelf of his closet, promising himself never to refill it. But he kept the mold.
After lunch that same afternoon, Stephen looked at him long and pensively. "You feel up to taking a look at the new field we're clearing?"
Peter looked away, then thought of the empty butter mold upstairs in tiis closet. He was inordinately
proud of that empty container. Then he thought of Jamie. If he had taken one step, he could take two. Stephen would be with him. He was home and he was safe. "Yes," he said finally.
"Good! I'd like your opinion. It's not as good a soil as the rest. I'm not so certain we should even try putting it in hops. I've been thinking of making it the home garden, but no one knows soil better than you. I'd like you to tell me what it's best to plant."
The field lay just beyond the east boundary of the original tract of land Peter had bought. It was in the process of being cleared.
"Doesn't look too bad, do you think?" Stephen asked, waiting, hoping, half expecting to see Peter bend down to feel the soil and work it in his hands, smelling it as he used to.
Peter was rigid, holding firmly to the fence rail. 'It seems all right," he said tensely. He shook his head, biting his lower lip. Perspiration stood out on his brow and lip.
Stephen put his hand around Peter's tight, cramped shoulders. "Are you all right? You're not ill?" He followed the direction of his brother's gaze, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. In the center of the new field Dick Adams drove a team of horses as they took a large tree stump from the cleared land. "Peter?"
"I'm all right," Peter said, then repeated it under his breath.
"Mr. Berean!" Stephen turned as one of the men from the brewery rode up. He dismounted and handed Stephen a sheet of paper.
Stephen read the message his foreman had written; then he smiled grimly. Tom Baker was waiting for him at the brewery. "I wondered how long it would take that greedy son of a bitch to show up." He folded the note and stuck it into his shirt pocket "A little
business matter has come up," he said to Peter. 1*11 be back in fifteen or twenty minutes. This will be short and to the point."
Peter shook his head woodenly, still watching the team of horses struggling in the wet earth.
Stephen went back to the brewery with the messenger while Peter stood for nearly half an hour gripping the fence rail until his hands hurt and he was trembling. Dick Adams drove the team, cracking his whip behind their heads as he shouted, urging them on. The smaller of the two animals went down on its knees in the mud, snorting as it struggled to regain footing.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut, then put his hands over his ears to block out the sound of the man shouting commands to the horses. He began to walk away, fighting the feelings that were rioting inside of him. He kept saying to himself that this was normal. It was the way of things. They were horses, not men. This was home, not prison. But he couldn't keep his eyes off the sight in the field, and he couldn't help but flinch and feel all his muscles tighten every time a command was shouted, every time he heard Dick Adams's whip snap. He looked back to the field.
Adams brought his whip down on the small horse's flank, and the animal whinnied, struggling for footing in the mud. Peter leaped the fence, running across the field. He threw himself at Dick Adams.
As Stephen rode up, Peter was on the ground, hitting Dick with the handle of the whip. The horses pawed and pranced in fear, making more headway with the stump than before.
Stephen turned his horse, giving it room to make a run at the fence. He was beside the struggling men in seconds. He leapt from the saddle shouting Peter's name. Peter paid no attention. With clenched teeth he
muttered, "No beast . . . man is no beast . . * each time he struck Dick. Stephen tried to pull him away without success. Then with one hard motion, carrying all his strength and weight, he hit Peter, knocking him off Dick.
Stephen got Dick to his feet, groggily shaking his battered and bloody head. "Tha' mans a killer. He come outta nowhere, Mr. Berean. I'm tellin' you I was mindin' my own business an here he comes a flyin at me. I never seen him till he had me on the ground beatin the hell outta me. I'm sorry about this, Mr. Berean, 'cause I alius liked workm for you, but I'm not stayin* here as long as he's around. Find yourself a new man."
Stephen talked to Dick, trying to calm and reassure him. He made little headway. Dick stalked from the field, leaving the horses where they stood.
Stephen turned angrily to Peter still sitting on the ground. "What the hell got into you? You've lost me the best man I have."
Peter kept his eyes downcast.
"Get up on your feet, damn it! Help me with these horses. They can't be left out here in harness."
Peter hesitated, and Stephen yelled at him. "Get up!"
Peter got to his feet, the whip still in his hand. He held it out, handle end to Stephen.
Stephen stood staring at the whip, then he looked at Peter. Peter stood with his eyes cast down, looking at the ground. "Don't use the whip on them," he said so softly that Stephen wouldn't have heard him if he hadn't just realized what had caused Peter to attack.
He wanted to reach out and comfort him as Callie had done, but knew for him it would be wrong. That was Callie's place, and as he looked at Peter he knew that was where she ought to be. Callie would remain
with Peter, and Stephen would do as he had always done—be there, love her, love them both.
For Peter he couldn't change a threatening world, but he could keep safe the small world of the farm. It was becoming clear to Stephen that Peter would never leave here. This farm, a safely contained and protected world, was the only possible world Peter might ever be able to handle, if that.
"Unharness them, Peter," he said, taking the whip.
Peter went obediently to do as he was asked. When they took the horses back to the stables, Stephen handed the whip to Peter. "Destroy it. Destroy them all. Remember one thing; this is our farm, Peter, no one else's. We do as we want here, and you're the boss. You always were."
Peter didn't appear for dinner that night, and Callie looked up in concern when Stephen said, "Let him do as he likes. It's been a bad day."
Callie remained seated. Neither of them ate. When it was time to retire and Peter had still not made an appearance, Callie stopped by his room. Peter wasn't there.
She found him sitting in his study, looking out the window that overlooked the Hudson. A half-empty bottle of rum sat on the desk beside him.
"I wondered where you were," she said, coming into the room. "Are you hungry? I'll fix something for you if you like."
"I'm not hungry."
"Stephen said you had a bad day. Will you tell me about it?"
"No."
"Peter, talk to me, please."
"There's nothing to talk about," he said edgily.
"You're unhappy." *
"Let me be, Callie," he pleaded.
"I cant. I want to know everything that concerns you."
"You can't do anything, Callie."
"If I knew what to do . . . just talk to me, Peter."
He stood up, putting his glass down on the desk. The rum was doing no good tonight. The memories were razor sharp, and no amount of rum seemed to dull them. He looked at Callie, then away, not able to bear looking at her. The greater his longing grew, the more repulsive he found the idea of her ever really being with him. He couldn't think of her by his side without hating what he had become. He didn't want her, by her nearness, ever to learn the things he had learned in prison. When he finally managed to look at her again, his voice was unsteady. "I . . . can't talk to you. I don't want to talk to you." His voice rose and quivered with emotion. "I don't want you to know. Can't you understand that!? I dont want you to know!"
Chap
ter 42
Natalie had not spoken to Peter since his return. She stayed in her room, going out only to watch Jamie play. If Peter came near or tried to talk to her, she fled. He seemed to accept her peculiar behavior as he did everything else. After awhile he paid little attention to Natalie, but Callie began to.
Natalie had done nothing toward Peter that Callie could put her finger on, but she had begun to talk to Jamie about Peter.
"Aunt Natalie says Papa is a rake-hell. What's a rake-hell, Aunt Callie?"
"It's a very naughty thing for Aunt Natalie to call your papa."
"Are you going to get mad at her?"
"I certainly am."
"Will you wash her mouth out with soap?"
Callie grinned at him, then laughed. 'It's not such a bad idea."
"What is a rake-hell?"
"Someone who is wild and bad."
Jamie wandered around the kitchen, coming back
to poke his fingers in Callie's bread dough. "What did Papa do?"
"Nothing bad."
"Then why do so many people say he's bad?"
"Who?"
"Aunt Natalie, and sometimes Mary Anne."
Callie stopped kneading the dough. She looked at Jamie and then away, unwilling to allow him to see the depth of her anger. Without realizing, her hands began to pummel the dough revealing what she wouldn't permit her eyes to do.
Jamie watched her hands in fascination and went on, "Some of the kids at the schoolhouse say they know all about Papa. I'm not allowed to play with some of them. I don't know why they know if I don't"
"What do they know?"
"That he's bad."
Callie forced herself to move slowly, talk softly. "How bad? What did he do?"
"I don't know."
"That's what they know too. He did nothing bad. Now think what you do know. Is he good to you? Does he love you? Is he kind?"
"Lots of yesses."
"Then that's what you know, and yours is better."
Callie went to Natalie's room late that afternoon. She knocked at the door and waited what seemed a long time for Natalie to answer. "Who is it?"
"It's Callie. I want to talk to you, Natalie."
"Are you alone?"
"Of course, I'm alone. Open the door."
Natalie opened the door a crack, peeking out to see if Peter was near. Satisfied, she let Callie in, closing the door and locking it.
"I've just been talking to Jamie, Natalie."
Natalie tested the door to be certain it was secure.
"Did you hear me? I know what you've been up to. I won't have it. I am willing to put up with all your other nonsense, but not this."
"Shhh."
Callie took her shoulders and roughly turned Natalie to face her. "Listen to me! You may not talk badly of Peter. Not ever! I mean it, Nat!"
"Peter's going to die." She nodded her head earnestly. "I saw it. I've been watching and I've seen it."
Callie rolled her eyes in exasperation at Natalie's favorite evasive tactic. "You're not going to get out of this with one of your dreams, Natalie. If you dare say one more word, just one single word more to Jamie against his father, I'll move you right out of this house. I mean it, Nattie. Ill get you a room in Poughkeepsie, or send you back to Kent."
"No . . . no . . . not me . . . I'm not the one who did it. He did! They said he did!"
"Don't try to test me, Nat. I'll do it."
"But you can't! Everything will be all right again as soon as Peter ... is gone. It will be just like it was."
"Peter isn't the one who will go. It is you. Don't say any more. Not to me or to anyone else."
That evening after supper Callie told Stephen about her threat to Natalie. "Where's Peter?" she asked, making sure he wasn't in the room as she entered.
"Upstairs with Jamie. He gets along well with Jamie."
"No thanks to your sister!"
Stephen looked up from his newspaper. She sat across from him frowning. He put the paper down on his lap. "Well . . . ?" he asked, when she remained silent.
"You won't like what I've done, but it's done and I mean to stick to it."
"Am I supposed to guess?" he asked, grinning.
Bitter Eden q^3
"It isn't funny. I've told Natalie 111 put her in a rooming house in Poughkeepsie if she ever says an-other thing to Jamie about Peter being bad." "You want her to leave?" "Yes."
"She cant manage on her own." "Then shell have to change her ways." "You're becoming quite a little dictator, aren't you?" Callie looked hurt, then defiant. "It doesn't matter what you think I've become. She cannot behave as she has been." "All right. HI talk to her." "I already have."
"Well, if you've handled it and made your decision, why bother to tell me? Or do you want me to do your dirty work for you, and put her out?" It was mean of you to say that, Stephen." "No meaner than your thinking it." "You used to understand and help me." "We used to do things together, Callie. I don't like being your second Mary Anne." "Well, there's no talking to you! I can see that" "No, there isn't. I'm going to visit Jack," he said angrily.
"Oh, Jack," she scoffed. "Why don't you just say what you're going to do. Why always—Jack?"
"Because, my stiff-necked beauty, it would turn your face bright red to hear what I'm going to do called by its proper name," he said nastily and stalked out of the house.
After Stephen left, Callie sat alone in the parlor as long as she could stand it. She was angry at everyone. Peter stayed as much to himself as possible. Natalie got worse by the day, and Stephen was spending more time with Jack than he was at home.
She went to the kitchen for lack of anything better to do.
"I don't need any help, Miss Callie. Everything's all done," Bea said as she came in.
"Did you find my bread knife?"
"No, ma'am. I've looked everywhere. It just ain't here."
"Well, it has to be here," she said and pulled all the knives from their holders and drawers.
"It's not. I've been all over this kitchen looking. It ain't here!" Bea insisted, cleaning up behind Callie.
Callie moved angrily toward the pantry.
"Don't you mess my pantry, Miss Callie. It ain't there neither. Why don't you go ask Mr. Peter. If anyone knows, it'd be him."
Callie glared at her.
"Don't blame me. I don't know what he carts all that stuff off for, but he does. All kinds of things up there in that room of his. Ain't no business of mine, but when Ginnie and Penny clean up they tell me about it."
"Well, it's his house. He can do as he likes."
"That's what I'm tellin' you. It ain't my business, but if you want your bread knife, I'd look there."
Callie stormed from the pantry back into the parlor. The longer she thought of Bea, the knife, and Peter, the angrier she got. She went upstairs to his room.
He was standing by the open window looking out into the night.
"Peter!"
He turned around smiling tentatively, walking toward her. Then he stopped. "You're angry . . . what have I done?"
"Do you have my knife?"
"What knife?"
"You know very well what knife. My bread knife. Did you take it from the kitchen?"
"I took nothing."
"Don't lie to me!"
He stepped away from her. "I didn't take your knife."
Callie put her hands out helplessly. "Knives don't just disappear."
Peter's face was pale. "Why did you accuse me? Why not Stephen?"
Nonplussed, Callie stared at him. He continued to move away, putting the expanse of the room between them. "You . . . you bring things up here sometimes," she stammered.
"Not knives."
"No. I never really thought you had," she said deflated and ashamed. She walked over to him. "Will you forgive me?"
"Forgive you?"
"I don't know what's wrong with me these days. I've managed to snap at everyone in the house today. It isn't you, Peter. It's me that's all wrong."
He stood looking at her, not knowing what to say. He didn't like to see her blaming herself for anything. Without her they'd all be at a loss, and yet he was afraid to say anything for fear it would bring her back to an accusation of him.
"I don't know what to say, Peter."
"There's nothing you need say."
"I guess not," she said and turned to go. She walked to the door, thinking only of going to her room and closing herself inside. She didn't know what was wrong with her. It wasn't really the knife, although it did worry her, and she had wanted to know what had happened to it. It was mostly Stephen she was angry
with. She couldn't get near him anymore. He was always around and never truly there.
"Callie."
She turned, surprised to hear Peter call her name. He so seldom initiated any conversation. "Yes?" she asked and went back to him, waiting.
He looked at her, indecisive and tense, then shook his head. "Nothing/'
"Oh. Well then . . . good night, Peter," she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
He went back to his window, and Callie having had enough of a bad day went to bed.
Stephen and Jack had begun with the nearest tavern and were continuing their prowl of the village. By the third tavern, Stephen wanted broader horizons. "Let's go somewhere else. Poughkeepsie is too quiet."
"Way too quiet," Jack agreed. His driver wisely took them back to the first tavern they had visited.
Stephen laughed as they entered. "We've been here before. Hello, everyone! Good-bye, everyone!"
Jack sat down. "Let's rest here for a minute and catch our breath. Are you having fun, Stevie? You said you wanted fun when you came bangin' at my door."
The waiter brought them glasses and a bottle without being asked.
"No. I'm gonna leave," Stephen said morosely.
"Wait till we finish the drink."
"No, I mean I'm gonna leave the house."
"What house?" Jack asked, looking around and concentrating hard.
"My house—Peter's house—our house—everybody's house. I'm gonna leave it all." He sat quietly for a moment. "I don't want to be there."
Bitter Eden Page 53
