The Grass Harp, Including a Tree of Night and Other Stories

by Truman Capote

  Back of her there appeared to be an entire orphanage emptying out of the truck. Babies barely able to toddle on their rickety bowlegs, towheads dribbling ropes of snot, girls old enough to wear brassieres, and a ladder of boys, man-sized some of them. I counted up to ten, this including a set of crosseyed twins and a diapered baby being lugged by a child not more than five. Still, like a magician’s rabbits, they kept coming, multiplied until the road was thickly populated.

  “These all yours?” I said, really anxious; in another count I’d made a total of fifteen. One boy, he was about twelve and had tiny steel-rimmed glasses, flopped around in a ten-gallon hat like a walking mushroom. Most of them wore a few cowboy items, boots, at least a rodeo scarf. But they were a discouraged-looking lot, and sickly too, as though they’d lived years off boiled potatoes and onions. They pressed around the car, ghostly quiet except for the youngest who thumped the headlights and bounced on the fenders.

  “Sure enough, dear: all mine,” she answered, swatting at a mite of a girl playing maypole on her leg. “Sometimes I figure we’ve picked up one or two that don’t belong,” she added with a shrug, and several of the children smiled. They seemed to adore her. “Some of their daddies are dead; I guess the rest are living—one way and another: either case it’s no concern of ours. I take it you weren’t at our meeting last night. I’m Sister Ida, Little Homer Honey’s mother.” I wanted to know which one was Little Homer. She blinked around and singled out the spectacled boy who, wobbling up under his hat, saluted us: “Praise Jesus. Want a whistle?” and, swelling his cheeks, blasted a tin whistle.

  “With one of those,” explained his mother, tucking up her back hairs, “you can give the devil a scare. They have a number of practical uses as well.”

  “Two bits,” the child bargained. He had a worried little face white as cold cream. The hat came down to his eyebrows.

  I would have bought one if I’d had the money. You could see they were hungry. Riley felt the same, at any rate he produced fifty cents and took two of the whistles. “Bless you,” said Little Homer, slipping the coin between his teeth and biting hard. “There’s so much counterfeit going around these days,” his mother confided apologetically. “In our branch of endeavor you wouldn’t expect that kind of trouble,” she said, sighing. “But if you kindly would show us—we can’t go on much more, just haven’t got the gas.”

  Riley told her she was wasting her time. “Nobody there any more,” he said, racing the motor. Another driver, blockaded behind us, was honking his horn.

  “Not in the tree?” Her voice was plaintive above the motor’s impatient roar. “But where will we find her then?” Her hands were trying to hold back the car. “We’ve important business, we …”

  Riley jumped the car forward. Looking back, I saw them watching after us in the raised and drifting road dust. I said to Riley, and was sullen about it, that we ought to have found out what they wanted.

  And he said: “Maybe I know.”

  HE DID KNOW A GREAT deal, Amos Legrand having informed him thoroughly on the subject of Sister Ida. Although she’d not previously been to our town, Amos, who does a little traveling now and then, claimed to have seen her once at a fair in Bottle, which is a county town not far from here. Nor, apparently, was she a stranger to the Reverend Buster who, the instant she arrived, had hunted out the Sheriff and demanded an injunction to prevent the Little Homer Honey troupe from holding any meetings. Racketeers, he called them; and argued that the so-called Sister Ida was known throughout six states as an infamous trollop: think of it, fifteen children and no sign of a husband! Amos, too, was pretty sure she’d never been married; but in his opinion a woman so industrious was entitled to respect. The Sheriff said didn’t he have enough problems? and said: Maybe those fools have the right idea, sit in a tree and mind your own business—for five cents he’d go out there and join them. Old Buster told him in that case he wasn’t fit to be Sheriff and ought to hand in his badge. Meanwhile, Sister Ida had, without legal interference, called an evening of prayers and shenanigans under the oak trees in the square. Revivalists are popular in this town; it’s the music, the chance to sing and congregate in the open air. Sister Ida and her family made a particular hit; even Amos, usually so critical, told Riley he’d missed something: those kids really could shout, and that Little Homer Honey, he was cute as a button dancing and twirling a rope. Everybody had a grand time except the Reverend and Mrs. Buster, who had come to start a fuss. What got their goat was when the children started hauling in God’s Washline, a rope with clothespins to which you could attach a contribution. People who never dropped a dime in Buster’s collection plate were hanging up dollar bills. It was more than he could stand. So he’d skipped off to the house on Talbo Lane and had a small shrewd talk with Verena, whose support, he realized, was necessary if he were going to get action. According to Amos, he’d incited Verena by telling her some hussy of a revivalist was describing Dolly as an infidel, an enemy of Jesus, and that Verena owed it to the Talbo name to see this woman was run out of town. It was unlikely that at the time Sister Ida had ever heard the name Talbo. But sick as she was, Verena went right to work; she rang up the Sheriff and said now look here Junius, I want these tramps run clear across the county line. Those were orders; and old Buster made it his duty to see they were carried out. He accompanied the Sheriff to the square where Sister Ida and her brood were cleaning up after the meeting. It had ended in a real scuffle, mainly because Buster, charging illegal gain, had insisted on confiscating the money gathered off God’s Washline. He got it, too—along with a few scratches. It made no difference that many bystanders had taken Sister Ida’s side: the Sheriff told them they’d better be out of town by noon the next day. Now after I’d heard all this I said to Riley why, when these people had been wrongly treated, hadn’t he wanted to be more helpful? You’d never guess the answer he gave me. In dead earnest he said a loose woman like that was no one to associate with Dolly.

  A TWIG FIRE FIZZED UNDER the tree; Riley collected leaves for it, while the Judge, his eyes smarting with smoke, set about the business of our midday meal. We were the indolent ones, Dolly and I. “I’m afraid,” she said, dealing a game of Rook, “really afraid Verena’s seen the last of that money. And you know, Collin, I doubt if it’s losing the money that hurts her most. For whatever reason, she trusted him: Dr. Ritz, I mean. I keep remembering Maudie Laura Murphy. The girl who worked in the post office. She and Verena were very close. Lord, it was a great blow when Maudie Laura took up with that whiskey salesman, married him. I couldn’t criticize her; ’twas only fitting if she loved the man. Just the same, Maudie Laura and Dr. Ritz, maybe those are the only two Verena ever trusted, and both of them—well, it could take the heart out of anyone.” She thumbed the Rook cards with wandering attention. “You said something before—about Catherine.”

  “About her goldfish. I saw them in the window.”

  “But not Catherine?”

  “No, the goldfish, that’s all. Mrs. County was awfully nice: she said she was going to send some dinner around to the jail.”

  She broke one of Mrs. County’s cinnamon rolls and picked out the raisins. “Collin, suppose we let them have their way, gave up, that is: they’d have to let Catherine go, wouldn’t they?” Her eyes tilted toward the heights of the tree, searching, it seemed, a passage through the braided leaves. “Should I—let myself lose?”

  “Mrs. County thinks so: that we should go home.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Because—she did run on. Because you always have. Always made your peace, she said.”

  Dolly smiled, smoothed her long skirt; sifting rays placed rings of sun upon her fingers. “Was there ever a choice? It’s what I want, a choice. To know I could’ve had another life, all made of my own decisions. That would be making my peace, and truly.” She rested her eyes on the scene below, Riley cracking twigs, the Judge hunched over a steaming pot. “And the Judge, Charlie, if we gave up it would let him down so bad
ly. Yes,” she tangled her fingers with mine, “he is very dear to me,” and an immeasurable pause lengthened the moment, my heart reeled, the tree closed inward like a folding umbrella.

  “This morning, while you were away, he asked me to marry him.”

  As if he’d heard her, the Judge straightened up, a schoolboy grin reviving the youthfulness of his countrified face. He waved: and it was difficult to disregard the charm of Dolly’s expression as she waved back. It was as though a familiar portrait had been cleaned and, turning to it, one discovered a fleshy luster, clearer, till then unknown colors: whatever else, she could never again be a shadow in the corner.

  “And now—don’t be unhappy, Collin,” she said, scolding me, I thought, for what she must have recognized as my resentment.

  “But are you …?”

  “I’ve never earned the privilege of making up my own mind; when I do, God willing, I’ll know what is right. Who else,” she said, putting me off further, “did you see in town?”

  I would have invented someone, a story to retrieve her, for she seemed to be moving forward into the future, while I, unable to follow, was left with my sameness. But as I described Sister Ida, the wagon, the children, told the wherefores of their run-in with the Sheriff and how we’d met them on the road inquiring after the lady in the tree, we flowed together again like a stream that for an instant an island had separated. Though it would have been too bad if Riley had heard me betraying him, I went so far as to repeat what he’d said about a woman of Sister Ida’s sort not being fit company for Dolly. She had a proper laugh over this; then, with sudden soberness: “But it’s wicked—taking the bread out of children’s mouths and using my name to do it. Shame on them!” She straightened her hat determinedly. “Collin, lift yourself; you and I are going for a little walk. I’ll bet those people are right where you left them. Leastways, we’ll see.”

  The Judge tried to prevent us, or at any rate maintained that if Dolly wanted a stroll he would have to accompany us. It went a long way toward mollifying my jealous rancor when Dolly told him he’d best tend to his chores: with Collin along she’d be safe enough—it was just to stretch our legs a bit.

  As usual, Dolly could not be hurried. It was her habit, even when it rained, to loiter along an ordinary path as though she were dallying in a garden, her eyes primed for the sight of precious medicine flavorings, a sprig of penny-royal, sweet-mary and mint, useful herbs whose odor scented her clothes. She saw everything first, and it was her one real vanity to prefer that she, rather than you, point out certain discoveries: a birdtrack bracelet, an eave of icicles—she was always calling come see the cat-shaped cloud, the ship in the stars, the face of frost. In this slow manner we crossed the grass, Dolly amassing a pocketful of withered dandelions, a pheasant’s quill: I thought it would be sundown before we reached the road.

  Fortunately we had not that far to go: entering the cemetery, we found Sister Ida and all her family encamped among the graves. It was like a lugubrious playground. The crosseyed twins were having their hair cut by older sisters, and Little Homer was shining his boots with spit and leaves; a nearly grown boy, sprawled with his back against a tombstone, picked melancholy notes on a guitar. Sister Ida was suckling the baby; it lay curled against her breasts like a pink ear. She did not rise when she realized our presence, and Dolly said, “I do believe you’re sitting on my father.”

  For a fact it was Mr. Talbo’s grave, and Sister Ida, addressing the headstone (Uriah Fenwick Talbo, 1844–1922, Good Soldier, Dear Husband, Loving Father) said, “Sorry, soldier.” Buttoning her blouse, which made the baby wail, she started to her feet.

  “Please don’t; I only meant—to introduce myself.”

  Sister Ida shrugged, “He was beginning to hurt me anyway,” and rubbed herself appropriately. “You again,” she said, eyeing me with amusement. “Where’s your friend?”

  “I understand …” Dolly stopped, disconcerted by the maze of children drawing in around her; “Did you,” she went on, attempting to ignore a boy no bigger than a jackrabbit who, having raised her skirt, was sternly examining her shanks, “wish to see me? I’m Dolly Talbo.”

  Shifting the baby, Sister Ida threw an arm around Dolly’s waist, embraced her, actually, and said, as though they were the oldest friends, “I knew I could count on you, Dolly. Kids,” she lifted the baby like a baton, “tell Dolly we never said a word against her!”

  The children shook their heads, mumbled, and Dolly seemed touched. “We can’t leave town, I kept telling them,” said Sister Ida, and launched into the tale of her predicament. I wished that I could have a picture of them together, Dolly, formal, as out of fashion as her old face-veil, and Sister Ida with her fruity lips, fun-loving figure. “It’s a matter of cash; they took it all. I ought to have them arrested, that puke-faced Buster and what’s-his-name, the Sheriff: thinks he’s King Kong.” She caught her breath; her cheeks were like a raspberry patch. “The plain truth is, we’re stranded. Even if we’d ever heard of you, it’s not our policy to speak ill of anyone. Oh I know that was just the excuse; but I figured you could straighten it out and …”

  “I’m hardly the person—dear me,” said Dolly.

  “But what would you do? with a half gallon of gas, maybe not that, fifteen mouths and a dollar ten? We’d be better off in jail.”

  Then, “I have a friend,” Dolly announced proudly, “a brilliant man, he’ll know an answer,” and I could tell by the pleased conviction of her voice that she believed this one hundred per cent. “Collin, you scoot ahead and let the Judge know to expect company for dinner.”

  Licketysplit across the field with the grass whipping my legs: couldn’t wait to see the Judge’s face. It was not a disappointment. “Lordylaw!” he said, raring back, rocking forward; “Sixteen people,” and, observing the meager stew simmering on the fire, struck his head. For Riley’s benefit I tried to make out it was none of my doing, Dolly’s meeting Sister Ida; but he just stood there skinning me with his eyes: it could have led to bitter words if the Judge hadn’t sent us scurrying. He fanned up his fire, Riley fetched more water, and into the stew we tossed sardines, hotdogs, green bay-leaves, in fact whatever lay at hand, including an entire box of Saltines which the Judge claimed would help thicken it: a few stuffs got mixed in by mistake—coffee grounds, for instance. Having reached that overwrought hilarious state achieved by cooks at family reunions, we had the gall to stand back and congratulate ourselves: Riley gave me a forgiving, comradely punch, and as the first of the children appeared the Judge scared them with the vigor of his welcome.

  None of them would advance until the whole herd had assembled. Whereupon Dolly, apprehensive as a woman exhibiting the results of an afternoon at an auction, brought them forward to be introduced. The children made a rollcall of their names: Beth, Laurel, Sam, Lillie, Ida, Cleo, Kate, Homer, Harry—here the melody broke because one small girl refused to give her name. She said it was a secret. Sister Ida agreed that if she thought it a secret, then so it should remain.

  “They’re all so fretful,” she said, favorably affecting the Judge with her smoky voice and grasslike eyelashes. He prolonged their handshake and overdid his smile, which struck me as peculiar conduct in a man who, not three hours before, had asked a woman to marry him, and I hoped that if Dolly noticed it would give her pause. But she was saying, “Why certain they’re fretful: hungry as they can be,” and the Judge, with a hearty clap and a boastful nod towards the stew, promised he’d fix that soon enough. In the meantime, he thought it would be a good idea if the children went to the creek and washed their hands. Sister Ida vowed they’d wash more than that. They needed to, I’ll tell you.

  There was trouble with the little girl who wanted her name a secret; she wouldn’t go, not unless her papa rode her piggyback. “You are too my papa,” she told Riley, who did not contradict her. He lifted her onto his shoulders, and she was tickled to death. All the way to the creek she acted the cut-up, and when, with her hands thrust over his eyes, Ri
ley stumbled blindly into a bullis vine, she ripped the air with in-heaven shrieks. He said he’d had enough of that and down you go. “Please: I’ll whisper you my name.” Later on I remembered to ask him what the name had been. It was Texaco Gasoline; because those were such pretty words.

  The creek is nowhere more than knee-deep; glossy beds of moss green the banks, and in the spring snowy dew-drops and dwarf violets flourish there like floral crumbs for the new bees whose hives hang in the waterbays. Sister Ida chose a place on the bank from which she could supervise the bathing. “No cheating now—I want to see a lot of commotion.” We did. Suddenly girls old enough to be married were trotting around and not a stitch on; boys, too, big and little all in there together naked as jaybirds. It was as well that Dolly had stayed behind with the Judge; and I wished Riley had not come either, for he was embarrassing in his embarrassment. Seriously, though, it’s only now, seeing the kind of man he turned out to be, that I understand the paradox of his primness: he wanted so to be respectable that the defections of others somehow seemed to him backsliding on his own part.

  Those famous landscapes of youth and woodland water—in after years how often, trailing through the cold rooms of museums, I stopped before such a picture, stood long haunted moments having it recall that gone scene, not as it was, a band of goose-fleshed children dabbling in an autumn creek, but as the painting presented it, husky youths and wading water-diamonded girls; and I’ve wondered then, wonder now, how they fared, where they went in this world, that extraordinary family.