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"You did?"

"Yes, sir." “How about you, Cal?” “I guess I'll let Aron have her,” said Cal.

Adam laughed, and the boys could not recall ever having heard him laugh. "Is she a nice little girl?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," said Aron. "She's nice, all right. She's good and nice." “Well, I'm glad of that if she's going to be my daughter-in-law.”

Lee cleared the table and after a quick rattling in the kitchen he came back. "Ready to go to bed?" he asked the boys.

They glared in protest. Adam said, "Sit down and let them stay a while." “I've got the accounts together. We can go over them later,” said Lee. “What accounts, Lee?” “The house and ranch accounts. You said you wanted to know where you stood.” “Not the accounts for over ten years, Lee!” “You never wanted to be bothered before.” “I guess that's right. But sit a while. Aron wants to marry the little girl who was here today.” “Are they engaged?” Lee asked. “I don't think she's accepted him yet,” said Adam. “That may give us some time.”

Cal had quickly lost his awe of the changed feeling in the house and had been examining this anthill with calculating eyes, trying to determine just how to kick it over. He made his decision. “She's a real nice girl,” he said. “I like her. Know why? Well, she said to ask you where our mother's grave is, so we can take some flowers.”

"Could we, Father?" Aron asked. "She said she would teach us how to make wreaths."

Adam's mind raced. He was not good at lying to begin with, and he hadn't practiced. The solution frightened him, it came so quickly to his mind and so glibly to his tongue. Adam said, "I wish we could do that, boys. But I'll have to tell you. Your mother's grave is clear across the country where she came from." “Why?” Aron asked. “Well, some people want to be buried in the place they came from.” “How did she get there?” Cal asked. “We put her on a train and sent her home—didn't we, Lee?”

Lee nodded. "It's the same with us," he said. "Near-ly all Chinese get sent home to China after they die." “I know that,” said Aron. “You told us that before.” “Did I?” Lee asked. “Sure you did,” said Cal. He was vaguely disappointed.

Adam quickly changed the subject. "Mr. Bacon made a suggestion this afternoon," he began. "I'd like you boys to think about it. He said it might be better for you if we moved to Salinas—better schools and lots of other children to play with."

The thought stunned the twins. Cal asked, "How about here?" “Well, we'd keep the ranch in case we want to come back.”

Aron said, "Abra lives in Salinas." And that was enough for Aron. Already he had forgotten the sailing box. All he could think of was a small apron and a sunbonnet and soft little fingers.

Adam said, “Well, you think about it. Maybe you should go to bed now. Why didn't you go to school today?” “The teacher's sick,” said Aron.

Lee verified it. "Miss Gulp has been sick for three days," he said. "They don't have to go back until Monday. Come on, boys."

They followed him obediently from the room.

2

Adam sat smiling vaguely at the lamp and tapping his knee with a forefinger until Lee came back. Adam said, "Do they know anything?" “I don't know,” said Lee. “Well, maybe it was just the little girl.”

Lee went to the kitchen and brought back a big cardboard box. "Here are the accounts. Every year has a rubber band around it. I've been over it. It's com-plete." “You mean all accounts?”

Lee said, “You'll find a book for each year and receipted bills for everything. You wanted to know how you stood. Here it is—all of it. Do you really think you'll move?” “Well, I'm thinking of it.” “I wish there were some way you could tell the boys the truth.” “That would rob them of the good thoughts about their mother, Lee.” “Have you thought of the other danger?” “What do you mean?” “Well, suppose they find out the truth. Plenty of people know.” “Well, maybe when they're older it will be easier for them.” “I don't believe that,” said Lee. “But that's not the worst danger.” “I guess I don't follow you, Lee.” “It's the lie I'm thinking of. It might infect every-thing. If they ever found out you'd lied to them about this, the true things would suffer. They wouldn't believe anything then.” “Yes, I see. But what can I tell them? I couldn't tell them the whole truth.”

I an tell then a part truth, enough so that you won't suffer if they find out." “I'll have to think about that, Lee.” “If you go to live in Salinas it will be more danger-ous.” “I'll have to think about it.”

Lee went on insistently, “My father told me about my mother when I was very little, and he didn't spare me. He told me a number of times as I was growing. Of course it wasn't the same, but it was pretty dreadful. I'm glad he told me though. I wouldn't like not to know.” “Do you want to tell me?” “No, I don't want to. But it might persuade you to make some change for your own boys. Maybe if you just said she went away and you don't know where.” “But I do know.” “Yes, there's the trouble. It's bound to be all truth or part lie. Well, I can't force you.” “I'll think about it,” said Adam. “What's the story about your mother?” “You really want to hear?” “Only if you want to tell me.” “I'll make it very short,” said Lee. “My first memory is of living in a little dark shack alone with my father in the middle of a potato field, and with it the memory of my father telling me the story of my mother. His language was Cantonese, but whenever he told the story he spoke in high and beautiful Mandarin. All right then. I'll tell you—” And Lee looked back in time.

"I'll have to tell you first that when you built the railroads in the West the terrible work of grading and laying ties and spiking the rails was done by many thousands of Chinese. They were cheap, they worked hard, and if they died no one had to worry. They were recruited largely from Canton, for the Cantonese are short and strong and durable, and also they are not quarrelsome. They were brought in by contract, and perhaps the history of my father was a fairly typical one. "You must know that a Chinese must pay all of his debts on or before our New Year's day. He starts every year clean. If he does not, he loses face; but not only that—his family loses face. “That's not a bad idea,” said Adam.

"Well, good or bad, that's the way it was. My father had some bad luck. He could not pay a debt. The family met and discussed the situation. Ours is an hon-orable family. The bad luck was nobody's fault, but the unpaid debt belonged to the whole family. They paid my father's debt and then he had to repay them, and that was almost impossible. “One thing the recruiting agents for the railroad companies did—they paid down a lump of money on the signing of the contract. In this way they caught a great many men who had fallen into debt. All of this was reasonable and honorable. There was only one black sorrow.” “My father was a young man recently married, and his tie to his wife was very strong and deep and warm, and hers to him must have been—overwhelming. Nev-ertheless, with good manners they said good-by in the presence of the heads of the family. I have often thought that perhaps formal good manners may be a cushion against heartbreak. “The herds of men went like animals into the black hold of a ship, there to stay until they reached San Francisco six weeks later. And you can imagine what those holes were like. The merchandise had to be deliv-ered in some kind of working condition so it was not mistreated. And my people have learned through the ages to live close together, to keep clean and fed under intolerable conditions. “They were a week at sea before my father discov-ered my mother. She was dressed like a man and she had braided her hair in a man's queue. By sitting very still and not talking, she had not been discovered, and of course there were no examinations or vaccinations then. She moved her mat close to my father. They could not talk except mouth to ear in the dark. My father was angry at her disobedience, but he was glad too. “Well, there it was. They were condemned to hard labor for five years. It did not occur to them to run away once they were in America, for they were honor-able people and they had signed the contract.”

Lee paused. "I thought I could tell it in a few sentences," he said. "But you don't know the background. I'm going to get a cup of water—do you want some?" “Yes,” said Adam. “But there's one thing I don't understand. How could a woman do that kind of work?” “I'll be back in a moment,” said Lee, and he went to the kitchen. He brought back tin cups of water and put them on the table. He. asked, “Now what did you want to know?” “How could your mother do a man's work?”

Lee smiled. "My father said she was a strong woman, and I believe a strong woman may be stronger than a man, particularly if she happens to have love in her heart. I guess a loving woman is almost indestructible."

Adam made a wry grimace.

Lee said, "You'll see one day, you'll see." “I didn't mean to think badly,” said Adam. “How could I know out of one experience? Go on.” “One thing my mother did not whisper in my father's ear during that long miserable crossing.”

And because a great many were deadly seasick, no remark was made of her illness."

Adam cried, "She wasn't pregnant!"

"She was pregnant," said Lee. "And she didn't want to burden my father with more worries." “Did she know about it when she started?” “No, she did not. I set my presence in the world at the most inconvenient time. It's a longer story than I thought.” “Well, you can't stop now,” said Adam. “No, I suppose not. In San Francisco the flood of muscle and bone flowed into cattle cars and the engines puffed up the mountains. They were going to dig hills aside in the Sierras and burrow tunnels under the peaks. My mother got herded into another car, and my father didn't see her until they got to their camp on a high mountain meadow. It was very beautiful, with green grass and flowers and the snow mountains all around. And only then did she tell my father about me.” “They went to work. A woman's muscles harden just as a man's do, and my mother had a muscular spirit too. She did the pick and shovel work expected of her, and it must have been dreadful. But a panic worry settled on them about how she was going to have the baby.”

Adam said, "Were they ignorant? Why couldn't she have gone to the boss and told him she was a woman and pregnant? Surely they would have taken care of her." “You see?” said Lee. “I haven't told you enough. And that's why this is so long. They were not ignorant. These human cattle were imported for one thing only—to work. When the work was done, those who were not dead were to be shipped back. Only males were brought—no females. The country did not want them breeding. A man and a woman and a baby have a way of digging in, of pulling the earth where they are about them and scratching out a home. And then it takes all hell to root them out. But a crowd of men, nervous, lusting, restless, half sick with loneliness for women—why, they'll go anywhere, and particularly will they go home. And my mother was the only woman in this pack of half-crazy, half-savage men. The longer the men worked and ate, the more restless they became. To the bosses they were not people but animals which could be dangerous if not controlled. You can see why my moth-er did not ask for help. Why, they'd have rushed her out of the camp and—who knows?—perhaps shot and buried her like a diseased cow. Fifteen men were shot for being a little mutinous. “No—they kept order the way our poor species has ever learned to keep order. We think there must be better ways but we never learn them—always the whip, the rope, and the rifle. I wish I hadn't started to tell you this—” “Why should you not tell me?” Adam asked. “I can see my father's face when he told me. An old misery comes back, raw and full of pain. Telling it, my father had to stop and gain possession of himself, and when he continued he spoke sternly and he used hard sharp words almost as though he wanted to cut himself with them. “These two managed to stay close together by claim-ing she was my father's nephew. The months went by and fortunately for them there was very little abdomi-nal swelling, and she worked in pain and out of it. My father could only help her a little, apologizing, 'My nephew is young and his bones are brittle.' They had no plan. They did not know what to do. “And then my father figured out a plan. They would run into the high mountains to one of the higher mead-ows, and there beside a lake they would make a burrow for the birthing, and when my mother was safe and the baby born, my father would come back and take his punishment.”

And he would sign for an extra five years to pay for his delinquent nephew. Pitiful as their escape was, it was all they had, and it seemed a brightness. The plan had two requirements—the timing had to be right and a supply of food was necessary.”

Lee said, “My parents”—and he stopped, smiling over his use of the word, and it felt so good that he warmed it up—”my dear parents began to make their preparations. They saved a part of their daily rice and hid it under their sleeping mats. My father found a length of string and filed out a hook from a piece of wire, for there were trout to be caught in the mountain lakes. He stopped smoking to save the matches issued. And my mother collected every tattered scrap of cloth she could find and unraveled edges to make thread and sewed this ragbag together with a splinter to make swaddling clothes for me. I wish I had known her.” “So do I,” said Adam. “Did you ever tell this to Sam Hamilton?” “No I didn't. I wish I had. He loved a celebration of the human soul. Such things were like a personal triumph to him.” “I hope they got there,” said Adam. “I know. And when my father would tell me I would say to him, 'Get to that lake—get my mother there—don't let it happen again, not this time. Just once let's tell it: how you got to the lake and built a house of fir boughs.' And my father became very Chinese then. He said, There's more beauty in the truth even if it is dreadful beauty. The storytellers at the city gate twist life so that it looks sweet to the lazy and the stupid and the weak, and this only strengthens their infirmities and teaches nothing, cures nothing, nor does it let the heart soar." “Get on with it,” Adam said irritably.

Lee got up and went to the window, and he finished the story, looking out at the stars that winked and blew in the March wind. “A little boulder jumped down a hill and broke my father's leg. They set the leg and gave him cripples' work, straightening used nails with a hammer on a rock. And whether with worry or work—it doesn't matter—my mother went into early labor. And then the half-mad men knew and they went all mad. One hunger sharpened another hunger, and one crime blotted out the one before it, and the little crimes committed against those starving men flared into one gigantic maniac crime. “My father heard the shout 'Woman' and he knew. He tried to run and his leg rebroke under him and he crawled up the ragged slope to the roadbed where it was happening. “When he got there a kind of sorrow had come over the sky, and the Canton men were creeping away to hide and to forget that men can be like this. My father came to her on the pile of shale.

She had not even eyes to see out of, but her mouth still moved and she gave him his instructions. My father clawed me out of the tattered meat of my mother with his fingernails. She died on the shale in the afternoon."

Adam was breathing hard. Lee continued in a sing-song cadence, "Before you hate those men you must know this. My father always told it at the last: No child ever had such care as I. The whole camp became my mother. It is a beauty—a dreadful kind of beauty. And now good night. I can't talk any more."

3

Adam restlessly opened drawers and looked up at the shelves and raised the lids of boxes in his house and at last he was forced to call Lee back and ask, "Where's the ink and the pen?"

"You don't have any," said Lee. "You haven't written a word in years. I'll lend you mine if you want." He went to his room and brought back a squat bottle of ink and a stub pen and a pad of paper and an envelope and laid them on the table.

Adam asked, "How do you know I want to write a letter?" “You're going to try to write to your brother, aren't you?” “That's right.” “It will be a hard thing to do after so long,” said Lee.

And it was hard. Adam nibbled and munched on the pen and his mouth made strained grimaces. Sentences were written and the page thrown away and another started. Adam scratched his head with the penholder. “Lee, if I wanted to take a trip east, would you stay with the twins until I get back?” “It's easier to go than to write,” said Lee. “Sure I'll stay.” “No. I'm going to write.” “Why don't you ask your brother to come out here?” “Say, that's a good idea, Lee. I didn't think of it.” “It also gives you a reason for writing, and that's a good thing.”

The letter came fairly easily then, was corrected and copied fair. Adam read it slowly to himself before he put it in the envelope. “Dear brother Charles,” it said. “You will be surprised to hear from me after so long. I have thought of writing many times, but you know how a man puts it off. “I wonder how this letter finds you. I trust in good health. For all I know you may have five or even ten children by now. Ha! Ha! I have two sons and they are twins. Their mother is not here.

Country life did not agree with her. She lives in a town nearby and I see her now and then. “I have got a fine ranch, but I am ashamed to say I do not keep it up very well. Maybe I will do better from now on. I always did make good resolutions. But for a number of years I felt poorly. I am well now. “How are you and how do you prosper? I would like to see you. Why don't you come to visit here? It is a great country and you might even find a place where you would like to settle. No cold winters here. That makes a difference to 'old men' like us. Ha! Ha! “Well, Charles, I hope you will think about it and let me know. The trip would do you good. I want to see you. I have much to tell you that I can't write down. “Well, Charles, write me a letter and tell me all the news of the old home. I suppose many things have happened. As you get older you hear mostly about people you knew that died. I guess that is the way of the world. Write quick and tell me if you will come to visit. Your brother Adam.”

He sat holding the letter in his hand and looking over it at his brother's dark face and its scarred fore-head. Adam could see the glinting heat in the brown eyes, and as he looked he saw the lips writhe back from the teeth and the blind destructive animal take charge. He shook his head to rid his memory of the vision, and he tried to rebuild the face smiling. He tried to remem-ber the forehead before the scar, but he could not bring either into focus. He seized the pen and wrote below his signature, "P.S. Charles, I never hated you no matter what. I always loved you because you were my brother."

Adam folded the letter and forced the creases sharp with his fingernails. He sealed the envelope flap with his fist. "Lee!" he called, "Oh, Lee!"

The Chinese looked in through the door. “Lee, how long does it take a letter to go east—clear east?” “I don't know,” said Lee. “Two weeks maybe.”

Chapter 29

After his first letter to his brother in over ten years was mailed Adam became impatient for an answer. He forgot how much time had elapsed. Before the letter got as far as San Francisco he was asking aloud in Lee's hearing, “I wonder why he doesn't answer. Maybe he's mad at me for not writing. But he didn't write either. No—he didn't know where to write. Maybe he's moved away.”

Lee answered, "It's only been gone a few days. Give it time." “I wonder whether he would really come out here?” Adam asked himself, and he wondered whether he wanted Charles. Now that the letter was gone, Adam was afraid Charles might accept. He was like a restless child whose fingers stray to every loose article. He interfered with the twins, asked them innumerable questions about school.

"Well, what did you learn today?"

"Nothing!" “Oh, come! You must have learned something. Did you read?” “Yes, sir.” “What did you read?” “That old one about the grasshopper and the ant.” “Well, that's interesting.” “There's one about an eagle carries a baby away.”

"Yes, I remember that one. I forget what happens." “We aren't to it yet. We saw the pictures.”

The boys were disgusted. During one of Adam's moments of fatherly bungling Cal borrowed his pocketknife, hoping he would forget to ask for it back. But the sap was beginning to run freely in the willows. The bark would slip easily from a twig. Adam got his knife back to teach the boys to make willow whistles, a thing Lee had taught them three years before. To make it worse, Adam had forgotten how to make the cut. He couldn't get a peep out of his whistles.

At noon one day Will Hamilton came roaring and bumping up the road in a new Ford. The engine raced in its low gear, and the high top swayed like a storm-driven ship. The brass radiator and the Prestolite tank on the running board were blinding with brass polish.

Will pulled up the brake lever, turned the switch straight down, and sat back in the leather seat. The car backfired several times without ignition because it was overheated. “Here she is!” Will called with a false enthusiasm. He hated Fords with a deadly hatred, but they were daily building his fortune.

Adam and Lee hung over the exposed insides of the car while Will Hamilton, puffing under the burden of his new fat, explained the workings of a mechanism he did not understand himself.

It is hard now to imagine the difficulty of learning to start, drive, and maintain an automobile. Not only was the whole process complicated, but one had to start from scratch. Today's children breathe in the theory, habits, and idiosyncrasies of the internal combustion engine in their cradles, but then you started with the blank belief that it would not run at all, and sometimes you were right. Also, to start the engine of a modern car you do just two things, turn a key and touch the starter. Everything else is automatic. The process used to be more complicated. It required not only a good memory, a strong arm, an angelic temper, and a blind hope, but also a certain amount of practice of magic, so that a man about to turn the crank of a Model T might be seen to spit on the ground and whisper a spell.

Will Hamilton explained the car and went back and explained it again. His customers were wide-eyed, inter-ested as terriers, cooperative, and did not interrupt, but as he began for the third time Will saw that he was getting no place.

"Tell you what!" he said brightly. "You see, this isn't my line. I wanted you to see her. and listen to her before I made delivery. Now, I'll go back to town and tomorrow I'll send out this car with an expert, and he'll tell you more in a few minutes than I could in a week. But I just wanted you to see her."

Will had forgotten some of his own instructions. He cranked for a while and then borrowed a buggy and a horse from Adam and drove to town, but he promised to have a mechanic out the next day.

2

There was no question of sending the twins to school the next day. They wouldn't have gone. The Ford stood tall and aloof and dour under the oak tree where Will had stopped it. Its new owners circled it and touched it now and then, the way you touch a dangerous horse to soothe him.

Lee said, "I wonder whether I'll ever get used to it." “Of course you will,” Adam said without conviction. “Why, you'll be driving all over the county first thing you know.” “I will try to understand it,” Lee said. “But drive it I will not.”

The boys made little dives in and out, to touch something and leap away. “What's this do-hickey, Fa-ther?” “Get your hands off that.” “But what's it for?” “I don't know, but don't touch it. You don't know what might happen.” “Didn't the man tell you?” “I don't remember what he said. Now you boys get away from it or I'll have to send you to school. Do you hear me, Cal? Don't open that.”

They had got up and were ready very early in the morning. By eleven o'clock hysterical nervousness had set in. The mechanic drove up in the buggy in time for the midday meal. He wore box-toed shoes and Duchess trousers and his wide square coat came almost to his knees.

Beside him in the buggy was a satchel in which were his working clothes and tools. He was nineteen and chewed tobacco, and from his three months in automobile school he had gained a great though weary contempt for human beings. He spat and threw the lines at Lee. “Put this hayburner away,” he said, “How do you tell which end is the front?” And he climbed down from the rig as an ambassador comes out of a state train. He sneered at the twins and turned coldly to Adam, “I hope I'm in time for dinner,” he said.

Lee and Adam stared at each other. They had for-gotten about the noonday meal.

In the house the godling grudgingly accepted cheese and bread and cold meat and pie and coffee and a piece of chocolate cake.

"I'm used to a hot dinner," he said. "You better keep those kids away if you want any car left."

After a leisurely meal and a short rest on the porch the mechanic took his satchel into Adam's bedroom. In a few minutes he emerged, dressed in striped overalls and a white cap which had “Ford” printed on the front of its crown. “Well,” he said. “Done any studying?” “Studying?” Adam said. “Ain't you even read the litature in the book under the seat?” “I didn't know it was there,” said Adam. “Oh, Lord,” said the young man disgustedly. With a courageous gathering of his moral forces he moved with decision toward the car. “Might as well get started,” he said. “God knows how long it's going to take if you ain't studied.”

Adam said, “Mr. Hamilton couldn't start it last night.” “He always tries to start it on the magneto,” said the sage. “All right! All right, come along.

Know the prin-ciples of a internal combustion engine?" “No,” said Adam. “Oh, Jesus Christ!” He lifted the tin flaps. “This-here is a internal combustion engine,” he said. Lee said quietly, “So young to be so erudite.”

The boy swung around toward him, scowling. "What did you say?" he demanded, and he asked Adam, "What did the Chink say?"

Lee spread his hands and smiled blandly. "Say velly smaht fella," he observed quietly. "Mebbe go college. Velly wise." “Just call me Joe!” the boy said for no reason at all, and he added, “College! What do them fellas know? Can they set a timer, huh? Can they file a point? College!" And he spat a brown disparaging comment on the ground. The twins regarded him with admiration, and Cal collected spit on the back of his tongue to practice.

Adam said, "Lee was admiring your grasp of the subject."

The truculence went out of the boy and a magna-nimity took its place. "Just call me Joe," he said. “I ought to know it. Went to automobile school in Chicago. That's a real school—not like no college.” And he said, “My old man says you take a good Chink, I mean a good one—why, he's about as good as anybody. They're honest.” “But not the bad ones,” said Lee.

"Hell no! Not no highbinders nor nothing like that. But good Chinks." “I hope I may be included in that group?” “You look like a good Chink to me. Just call me Joe.”

Adam was puzzled at the conversation, but the twins weren't. Cal said experimentally to Aron, "Jus' call me Joe," and Aron moved his lips, trying out, "Jus' call me Joe."

The mechanic became professional again but his tone was kinder. An amused friendliness took the place of his former contempt. "This-here," he said, "is a inter-nal combustion engine." They looked down at the uglv lump of iron with a certain awe.

Now the boy went on so rapidly that the words ran together into a great song of the new era. “Operates through the explosion of gases in a enclosed space. Power of explosion is exerted on piston and through connecting rod and crankshaft through transmission thence to rear wheels. Got that?” They nodded blankly, afraid to stop the flow. “They's two kinds, two cycle and four cycle.

This-here is four cycle. Got that?"

Again they nodded. The twins, looking up into his face with adoration, nodded. “That's interesting,” said Adam.

Joe went on hurriedly, “Main difference of a Ford automobile from other kinds is its planetary transmis-sion which operates on a rev-rev-a-lu-shun-ary princi-ple.” He pulled up for a moment, his face showing strain. And when his four listeners nodded again he cautioned them, “Don't get the idea you know it all. The planetary system is, don't forget, rev-a-lu-shun-ary. You better study up on it in the book. Now, if you got all that we'll go on to Operation of the Automo-bile.” He said this in boldface type, capital letters. He was obviously glad to be done with the first part of his lecture, but he was no gladder than his listeners. The strain of concentration was beginning to tell on them, and it was not made any better by the fact that they had not understood one single word. “Come around here,” said the boy. “Now you see that-there? That's the ignition key. When you turn that-there you're ready to go ahead. Now, you push this do-hickey to the left. That puts her on battery—see, where it says Bat. That means battery.” They craned their necks into the car. The twins were standing on the running board. “No—wait. I got ahead of myself. First you got to retard the spark and advance the gas, else she'll kick your goddam arm off. This-here—see it?—this-here's the spark. You push it up—get it?—up. Clear up. And this-here's the gas—you push her down. Now I'm going to explain it and then I'm going to do it. I want you to pay attention. You kids get off the car. You're in my light. Get down, goddam it.” The boys reluctantly climbed down from the running board; only their eyes looked over the door.

He took a deep breath. "Now you ready? Spark retarded, gas advanced. Spark up, gas down. Now switch to battery—left, remember—left." A buzzing like that of a gigantic bee sounded. "Hear that? That's the contact in one of the coil boxes. If you don't get that, you got to adjust the points or maybe file them." He noticed a look of consternation on Adam's face. "You can study up on that in the book," he said kindly.

He moved to the front of the car. "Now this-here is the crank and—see this little wire sticking out of the radiator?—that's the choke. Now watch careful while I show you. You grab the crank like this and push till she catches. See how my thumb is turned down? If I grabbed her the other way with my thumb around her, and she was to kick, why, she'd knock my thumb off. Got it?"

He didn't look up but he knew they were nodding. “Now,” he said, “look careful. I push in and bring her up until I got compression, and then, why, I pull out this wire and I bring her around careful to suck gas in. Hear that sucking sound? That's choke. But don't pull her too much or you'll flood her. Now, I let go the wire and I give her a hell of spin, and as soon as she catches I run around and advance the spark and retard the gas and I reach over and throw the switch quick over to magneto—see where it says Mag?—and there you are.”

His listeners were limp. After all this they had just got the engine started.

The boy kept at them. "I want you to say after me now so you learn it. Spark up—gas down."

They repeated in chorus, “Spark up—gas down.” “Switch to Bat.” “Switch to Bat.” “Crank to compression, thumb down.” “Crank to compression, thumb down.” “Easy over—choke out.” “Easy over—choke out.” “Spin her.” “Spin her.” “Spark down—gas up.” “Spark down—gas up.” “Switch to Mag.” “Switch to Mag.” “Now, we'll go over her again. Just call me Joe.” “Just call you Joe.”

"Not that. Spark up—gas down."

A kind of weariness settled on Adam as they went over the litany for the fourth time. The process seemed silly to him. He was relieved when a short time later Will Hamilton drove up in his low sporty red car. The boy looked at the approaching vehicle. “That-there's got sixteen valves,” he said in a reverent tone. “Special iob.”

Will leaned out of his car. "How's it going?" he asked. “Just fine,” said the mechanic. “They catch on quick.” “Look, Roy, I've got to take you in. The new hearse knocked out a bearing. You'll have to work late to get it ready for Mrs. Hawks at eleven tomorrow.”

Roy snapped to efficient attention. "I'll get my clos'," he said and ran for the house. As he tore back with his satchel Cal stood in his way. “Hey,” Cal said, “I thought your name was Joe.” “How do you mean, Joe?”

"You told us to call you Joe. Mr. Hamilton says you're Roy."

Roy laughed and jumped into the roadster. "Know why I say call me Joe?" “No. Why?” “Because my name is Roy.” In the midst of his laughter he stopped and said sternly to Adam, “You get that book under the seat and you study up. Hear me?” “I will,” said Adam.

Chapter 30

Even as in Biblical times, there were miracles on the earth in those days. One week after the lesson a Ford bumped up the main street of King City and pulled to a shuddering stop in front of the post office. Adam sat at the wheel with Lee beside him and the two boys straight and grand in the back seat.

Adam looked down at the floorboards, and all four chanted in unison, “Brake on—advance gas—switch off.” The little engine roared and then stopped. Adam sat back for a moment, limp but proud, before he got out.

The postmaster looked out between the bars of his golden grill. "I see you've got one of the damn things," he said. “Have to keep up with the times,” said Adam. “I predict there'll come a time when you can't find a horse, Mr. Trask.” “Maybe so.” “They'll change the face of the countryside. They get their clatter into everything,” the postmaster went on. “We even feel it here. Man used to come for his mail once a week. Now he comes every day, sometimes twice a day. He just can't wait for his damn catalogue. Running around. Always running around.” He was so violent in his dislike that Adam knew he hadn't bought a Ford yet. It was a kind of jealousy coming out. “I wouldn't have one around,” the postmaster said, and this meant that his wife was at him to buy one. It was the women who put the pressure on. Social status was involved.

The postmaster angrily shuffled through the letters from the T box and tossed out a long envelope. "Well, I'll see you in the hospital," he said viciously.

Adam smiled at him and took his letter and walked out.

A man who gets few letters does not open one light-ly. He hefts it for weight, reads the name of the sender on the envelope and the address, looks at the handwrit-ing, and studies the postmark and the date. Adam was out of the post office and across the sidewalk to his Ford before he had done all of these things. The left-hand corner of the envelope had printed on it, Bellows and Harvey, Attorneys at Law, and their address was the town in Connecticut from which Adam had come.

He said in a pleasant tone, “Why, I know Bellows and Harvey, know them well. I wonder what they want?” He looked closely at the envelope. “I wonder how they got my address?” He turned the envelope over and looked at the back. Lee watched him, smiling. “Maybe the questions are answered in the letter.” “I guess so,” Adam said. Once having decided to open the letter, he took out his pocketknife, opened the big blade, and inspected the envelope for a point of ingress, found none, held the letter up to the sun to make sure not to cut the message, tapped the letter to one end of the envelope, and cut off the other end. He blew in the end and extracted the letter with two fingers. He read the letter very slowly. “Mr. Adam Trask, King City, California, Dear Sir,” it began testily, “For the last six months we have exhausted every means of locating you. We have adver-tised in newspapers all over the country without suc-cess. It was only when your letter to your brother was turned over to us by the local postmaster that we were able to ascertain your whereabouts.” Adam could feel their impatience with him. The next paragraph began a complete change of mood. “It is our sad duty to inform you that your brother Charles Trask is deceased. He died of a lung ailment October 12 after an illness of two weeks, and his body rests in the Odd Fellows cemetery. No stone marks his grave. We presume you will want to undertake this sorrowful duty yourself.”

Adam drew a deep full breath and held it while he read the paragraph again. He breethd out slowly to keep the release from being a sigh. "My brother Charles is dead," he said.

"I'm sorry," said Lee.

Cal said, "Is he our uncle?" “He was your Uncle Charles,” said Adam. “Mine too?” Aron asked. “Yours too.” “I didn't know we had him,” Aron said. “Maybe we can put some flowers on his grave. Abra would help us. She likes to.” “It's a long way off—clear across the country.”

Aron said excitedly, "I know! When we take flowers to our mother we'll take some to our Uncle Charles." And he said a little sadly, "I wish't I knew I had him be-fore he was dead." He felt that he was growing rich in dead relatives. "Was he nice?" Aron asked. “Very nice,” said Adam. “He was my only brother, just like Cal is your only brother.” “Were you twins too?” “No—not twins.”

Cal asked, "Was he rich?" “Of course not,” said Adam. “Where'd you get that idea?” “Well, if he was rich we'd get it, wouldn't we?”

Adam said sternly, "At a time of death it isn't a nice thing to talk about money. We're sad because he died." “How can I be sad?” said Cal. “I never even saw him.”

Lee covered his mouth with his hand to conceal his smile. Adam looked back at the letter, and again it changed mood with its paragraph. “As attorneys for the deceased it is our pleasant duty to inform you that your brother through industry and judgment amassed a considerable fortune, which in land, securities, and cash is well in excess of one hun-dred thousand dollars. His will, which was drawn and signed in this office, is in our hands and will be sent to you on your request. By its terms it leaves all money, property, and securities to be divided equally between you and your wife. In the event that your wife is deceased, the total goes to you. The will also stipulates that if you are deceased, all property goes to your wife. We judge from your letter that you are still in the land of the living and we wish to offer our congratulations. Your obedient servants, Bellows and Harvey, by George B. Harvey." And at the bottom of the page was scrawled, "Dear Adam: Forget not thy servants in the days of thy prosperity. Charles never spent a dime. He pinched a dollar until the eagle screamed. I hope you and your wife will get some pleasure from the money. Is there an opening out there for a good lawyer? I mean myself. Your old friend, Geo. Harvey."

Adam looked over the edge of the letter at the boys and at Lee. All three were waiting for him to continue. Adam's mouth shut to a line. He folded the letter, put it in its envelope, and placed the envelope carefully in his inside pocket. “Any complications?” Lee asked.

"No." “I just thought you looked concerned.” “I'm not. I'm sad about my brother.” Adam was trying to arrange the letter's information in his mind, and it was as restless as a setting hen scrounging into the nest. He felt that he would have to be alone to absorb it. He climbed into the car and looked blankly at the mechanism. He couldn't remember a single procedure.

Lee asked, "Want some help?" “Funny!” said Adam. “I can't remember where to start.”

Lee and the boys began softly, "Spark up—gas down, switch over to Bat."

"Oh, yes. Of course, of course." And while the loud bee hummed in the coil box Adam cranked the Ford and ran to advance the spark and throw the switch to Mag.

They were driving slowly up the lumpy road of the home draw under the oak trees when Lee said, "We forgot to get meat." “Did we? I guess we did. Well, can't we have some-thing else?” “How about bacon and eggs?” “That's fine. That's good.” “You'll want to mail your answer tomorrow,” said Lee. “You can buy meat then.” “I guess so,” said Adam.

While dinner was preparing Adam sat staring into space. He knew he would have to have help from Lee, if only the help of a listener to clear his own thinking.

Cal had led his brother outside and conducted him to the wagon shed where the tall Ford rested.

Cal opened the door and sat behind the wheel. "Come on, get in!" he said.

Aron protested, "Father told us to stay out of it." “He won't ever know. Get in!”

Aron climbed in timidly and eased back in the seat. Cal turned the wheel from side to side.

"Honk, honk," he said, and then, "Know what I think? I think Uncle Charles was rich." “He was not.” “I bet you anything he was.” “You think our father'd tell a lie.” “I won't say that. I just bet he was rich.” They were silent for a while. Cal steered wildly around imaginary curves. He said, “I bet you I can find out.” “How do you mean?” “What you got to bet?” “Nothing,” said Aron. “How about your deer's-leg whistle? I bet you this-here taw against that deer's-leg whistle that we get sent to bed right after supper. Is it a bet?” “I guess so,” Aron said vaguely. “I don't see why.”

Cal said, "Father will want to talk to Lee. And I'm going to listen."

"You won't dare." “You think I won't.” “'Spose I was to tell.'” Cal's eyes turned cold and his face darkened. He leaned so close that his voice dropped to a whisper. "You won't tell. Because if you do—I'll tell who stole his knife." “Nobody stole his knife. He's got his knife. He opened the letter with it.” 'al smiled bleakly. "I mean tomorrow," he said. And Aron saw what he meant and he knew he couldn't tell. He couldn't do anything about it. Cal was perfectly safe.

Cal saw the confusion and helplessness on Aron's face and felt his power, and it made him glad.

He could outthink and outplan his brother. He was beginning to think he could do the same thing to his father. With Lee, Cal's tricks did not work, for Lee's bland mind moved effortlessly ahead of him and was always there waiting, understanding, and at the last moment caution-ing quietly, “Don't do it.” Cal had respect for Lee and a little fear of him. But Aron here, looking helplessly npulse to protect him in his weakness. He put his arm around Aron.

In did not flinch or respond. He drew back a little to see Cal's face.

Cal said, "See any green grass growing out of my head?"

Aron said, "I don't know why you go for to do it." “How do you mean? Do what?” “All the tricky, sneaky things,” said Aron. “What do you mean, sneaky?” “Well, about the rabbit, and sneaking here in the car. And you did something to Abra. I don't know what, but it was you made her throw the box away." “Ho,” said Cal. “Wouldn't you like to know!” But he was uneasy.

Aron said slowly. "I wouldn't want to know that. I'd like to know why you do it. You're always at some-thing. I just wonder why you do it. I wonder what's it good for."

A pain pierced Cal's heart. His planning suddenly seemed mean and dirty to him. He knew that his brother had found him out. And he felt a longing for Aron to love him. He felt lost and hungry and he didn't know what to do.

Aron opened the door of the Ford and climbed down and walked out of the wagon shed. For a few moments Cal twisted the steering wheel and tried to imagine he was racing down the road. But it wasn't any good, and soon he followed Aron back toward the house.

When supper was finished and Lee had washed the dishes Adam said, "I think you boys had better go to bed. It's been a big day."

Aron looked quickly at Cal and slowly took his deer's-leg whistle out of his pocket.

Cal said, "I don't want it."

Aron said, "It's yours now." “Well, I don't want it. I won't have it.”

Aron laid the bone whistle on the table. "It'll be here for you," he said.

Adam broke in, "Say, what is this argument? I said you boys should go to bed."

Cal put on his "little boy" face. "Why?" he asked. "It's too early to go to bed."

Adam said, “That wasn't quite the truth I told you. I want to talk privately to Lee. And it's getting dark so you can't go outside, so I want you boys to go to bed—at least to your room. Do you understand?”

Both boys said, "Yes, sir," and they followed Lee down the hall to their bedroom at the back of the house. In their nightgowns they returned to say good night to their father.

Lee came back to the living room and closed the door to the hall. He picked up the deer's-leg whistle and inspected it and laid it down. “I wonder what went on there,” he said. “How do you mean, Lee?”

"Well, some bet was made before supper, and just after supper Aron lost the bet and paid off."

What were we talking about?" “All I can remember is telling them to go to bed.” “Well, maybe it will come out later,” said Lee. “Seems to me you put too much stock in the affairs of children. It probably didn't mean anything.”

"Yes, it meant something." Then he said, "Mr. Trask, do you think the thoughts of people suddenly become important at a given age? Do you have sharper feelings or clearer thoughts now than when you were ten? Do you see as well, hear as well, taste as vitally?" “Maybe you're right,” said Adam. “It's one of the great fallacies, it seems to me,” said Lee, “that time gives much of anything but years and sadness to a man.” “And memory.” “Yes, memory. Without that, time would be unarmed against us. What did you want to talk to me about?”

Adam took the letter from his pocket and put it on the table. "I want you to read this, to read it carefully, and then—I want to talk about it." Lee took out his half-glasses and put them on. He opened the letter under the lamp and read it.

Adam asked, "Well?" an opening here for a lawyer?" “How do you mean? Oh, I see. Are you making a joke?” “No, said Lee, “I was not making a joke. In my obscure but courteous Oriental manner I was indicating to you that I would prefer to know your opinion before I offered mine.” “Are you speaking sharply to me?” “Yes, I am,” said Lee. “I'll lay aside my Oriental manner. I'm getting old and cantankerous. I am growing impatient. Haven't you heard of all Chinese servants that when they get old they remain loyal but they turn mean?” “I don't want to hurt your feelings.” “They aren't hurt. You want to talk about this letter. Then talk, and I will know from your talk whether I can offer an honest opinion or whether it is better to reassure you in your own.” “I don't understand it,” said Adam helplessly. “Well, you knew your brother. If you don't understand it, how can I, who never saw him?”

Adam got up and opened the hall door and did not see the shadow that slipped behind it. He went is my brother Charles," he said, and he went back to the hall door and closed it.

Lee studied the shiny metal under the lamp, shifting the picture this way and that to overcome the highlights. "It's a long time ago," Adam said. "Before I went into the army."

Lee leaned close to the picture. "It's hard to make out. But from his expression I wouldn't say your broth-er had much humor." “He hadn't any,” said Adam. “He never laughed.” “Well, that wasn't exactly what I meant. When I read the terms of your brother's will it struck me that he might have been a man with a particularly brutal sense of play. Did he like you?” “I don't know,” said Adam. “Sometimes I thought he loved me. He tried to kill me once.”

Lee said, "Yes, that's in his face—both the love and the murder. And the two made a miser of him, and a miser is a frightened man hiding in a fortress of money. Did he know your wife?" “Yes.” “Did he love her?” “He hated her.”

Lee sighed. "It doesn't really matter. That's not your problem, is it?" “No. It isn't.” “Would you like to bring the problem out and look at it?” “That's what I want.” “Go ahead then.” “I can't seem to get my mind to work clearly.” “Would you like me to lay out the cards for you? The uninvolved can sometimes do that.” “That's what I want.”

"Very well then." Suddenly Lee grunted and a look of astonishment came over his face. He held his round chin in his thin small hand. "Holy horns!" he said. "I didn't think of that."

Adam stirred uneasily. "I wish you'd get off the tack you're sitting on," he said irritably. "You make me feel like a column of figures on a blackboard."

Lee took a pipe from his pocket, a long slender ebony stem with a little cuplike brass bowl. He filled the thimble bowl with tobacco so fine-cut it looked like hair, then lighted the pipe, took four long puffs, and let the pipe go out. “Is that opium?” Adam demanded. “No,” said Lee. “It's a cheap brand of Chinese tobacco, and it has an unpleasant taste.” “Why do you smoke it then?” “I don't know,” said Lee. “I guess it reminds me of something—something I associate with clarity. Not very complicated.” Lee's eyelids half closed. “All right then—I'm going to try to pull out your thoughts like egg noodles and let them dry in the sun. The woman is still your wife and she is still alive. Under the letter of the will she inherits something over fifty thousand dol-lars. That is a great deal of money. A sizable chunk of good or of evil could be done with it. Would your brother, if he knew where she is and what she is doing, want her to have the money? Courts always try to follow the wishes of the testator.” “My brother would not want that,” said Adam. And then he remembered the girls upstairs in the tavern and Charles' periodic visits. “Maybe you'll have to think for your brother,” said Lee. “What your wife is doing is neither good nor bad. Saints can spring from any soil. Maybe with this money she would do some “fine thing. There's no springboard to philanthropy like a bad conscience.”

Adam shivered. "She told me what she would do if she had money. It was closer to murder than to charity." “You don't think she should have the money then?” “She said she would destroy many reputable men in Salinas. She can do it too.” “I see,” said Lee. “I'm glad I can take a detached view of this. The pants of their reputations must have some thin places. Morally, then, you would be against giving her the money?” “Yes.” “Well, consider this. She has no name, no back-ground. A whore springs full blown from the earth. She couldn't very well claim the money, if she knew about it, without your help.” “I guess that's so. Yes, I can see that she might not be able to claim it without my help.”

Lee took up the pipe and picked out the ash with a little brass pin and filled the bowl again. While he drew in the four slow puffs his heavy lids raised and he watched Adam. “It's a very delicate moral problem,” he said. “With your permission I shall offer it for the consideration of my honorable relatives—using no names of course. They will go over it as a boy goes over a dog for ticks. I'm sure they will get some interesting results.” He laid his pipe on the table. “But you don't have any choice, do you?” “What do you mean by that?” Adam demanded. “Well, do you? Do you know yourself so much less than I do?” “I don't know what to do,” said Adam. “I'll have to give it a lot of thought.”

Lee said angrily, "I guess I've been wasting my time. Are you lying to yourself or only to me?" "Don't speak to me like that!" Adam said. “Why not? I have always disliked deception. Your course is drawn. What you will do is written—written in every breath you've ever taken. I'll speak any way I want to. I'm crotchety. I feel sand under my skin. I'm looking forward to the ugly smell of old books and the sweet smell of good thinking. Faced with two sets of morals, you'll follow your training. What you call think-ing won't change it. The fact that your wife is a whore in Salinas won't change a thing.”

Adam got to his feet. His face was angry. "You are insolent now that you've decided to go away," he cried. "I tell you I haven't made up my mind what to do about the money."

Lee sighed deeply. He pushed his small body erect with his hands against his knees. He walked wearily to the front door and opened it. He turned back and smiled at Adam. "Bull shit!" he said amiably, and he went out and closed the door behind him.

3

Cal crept quietly down the dark hall and edged into the room where he and his brother slept. He saw the out-line of his brother's head against the pillow in the double bed, but he could not see whether Aron slept. Very gently he eased himself in on his side and turned slowly and laced his fingers behind his head and stared at the myriads of tiny colored dots that make up dark-ness. The window shade bellied slowly in and then the night wind fell and the worn shade flapped quietly against the window.

A gray, quilted melancholy descended on him. He wished with all his heart that Aron had not walked away from him out of the wagon shed. He wished with all his heart that he had not crouched listening at the hall door. He moved his lips in the darkness and made the words silently in his head and yet he could hear them. “Dear Lord,” he said, “let me be like Aron. Don't make me mean. I don't want to be. If you will let everybody like me, why, I'll give you anything in the world, and if I haven't got it, why, I'll go for to get it. I don't want to be mean. I don't want to be lonely. For Jesus' sake, Amen.” Slow warm tears were running down his cheeks. His muscles were tight and he fought against making any crying sound or sniffle.

Aron whispered from his pillow in the dark, “You're cold. You've got a chill.” He stretched out his hand to Cal's arm and felt the goose bumps there. He asked softly, “Did Uncle Charles have any money?” “No,” said Cal. “Well, you were out there long enough. What did Father want to talk about?”

Cal lay still, trying to control his breathing. “Don't you want to tell me?” Aron asked. “I don't care if you don't tell me.” “I'll tell,” Cal whispered. He turned on his side so that his back was toward his brother. “Father is going to send a wreath to our mother. A great big goddam wreath of carnations.”

Aron half sat up in bed and asked excitedly, "He is? How's he going to get it clear there?" “On the train. Don't talk so loud.”

Aron dropped back to a whisper. "But how's it going to keep fresh?" “With ice,” said Cal. “They're going to pack ice all around it.”

Aron asked, "Won't it take a lot of ice?" “A whole hell of a lot of ice,” said Cal. “Go to sleep now.”

Aron was silent, and then he said, "I hope it gets there fresh and nice." “It will,” said Cal. And in his mind he cried, “Don't let me be mean.”

Chapter 31

Adam brooded around the house all morning, and at noon he went to find Lee, who was spading the dark composted earth of his vegetable garden and planting his spring vegetables, carrots and beets, turnips, peas, and string beans, rutabaga and kale. The rows were straight planted under a tight-stretched string, and the pegs at the row ends carried the seed package to identi-fy the row. On the edge of the garden in a cold frame the tomato and bell pepper and cabbage sets were nearly ready for transplanting, waiting only for the passing of the frost danger.

Adam said, "I guess I was stupid."

Lee leaned on his spading fork and regarded him quietly. “When are you going?” he asked. “I thought I would catch the two-forty. Then I can get the eight o'clock back.” “You could put it in a letter, you know,” said Lee. “I've thought of that. Would you write a letter?” “No. You're right. I'm the stupid one there. No letters.” “I have to go,” said Adam. “I thought in all direc-tions and always a leash snapped me back.” Lee said, "You can be unhonest in many ways, but not in that way. Well, good luck. I'll be interested to hear what she says and does." “I'll take the rig,” said Adam. “I'll leave it at the stable in King City. I'm nervous about driving the Ford alone.”

It was four-fifteen when Adam climbed the rickety steps and knocked on the weather-beaten door of Kate's place. A new man opened the door, a square-faced Finn, dressed in shirt and trousers; red silk armbands held up his full sleeves. He left Adam standing on the porch and in a moment came back and led him to the dining room.

It was a large undecorated room, the walls and woodwork painted white. A long square table filled the center of the room, and on the white oilcloth cover the places were set—plates, cups and saucers, and the cups upside down in the saucers.

Kate sat at the head of the table with an account book open before her. Her dress was severe. She wore a green eyeshade, and she rolled a yellow pencil restlessly in her fingers. She looked coldly at Adam as he stood in the doorway. “What do you want now?” she asked.

The Finn stood behind Adam.

Adam did not reply. He walked to the table and laid the letter in front of her on top of the account book.

"What's this?" she asked, and without waiting for a reply she read the letter quickly. "Go out and close the door," she told the Finn.

Adam sat at the table beside her. He pushed the dishes aside to make a place for his hat.

When the door was closed Kate said, "Is this a joke? No, you haven't got a joke in you." She considered. "Your brother might be joking. You sure he's dead?" “All I have is the letter,” said Adam. “What do you want me to do about it?”

Adam shrugged his shoulders.

Kate said, "If you want me to sign anything, you're wasting your time. What do you want?"

Adam drew his finger slowly around his black ribbon hatband. “Why don't you write down the name of the firm and get in touch with them yourself?” “What have you told them about me?”

"Nothing," said Adam. "I wrote to Charles and said you were living in another town, nothing more. He was dead when the letter got there. The letter went to the lawyers. It tells about it." “The one who wrote the postscript seems to be a friend of yours. What have you written him?” “I haven't answered the letter yet.” “What do you intend to say when you answer it?” “The same thing—that you live in another town.”

"You can't say we've been divorced. We haven't been." “I don't intend to.” “Do you want to know how much it will take to buy me off? I'll take forty-five thousand in cash.” “No.” “What do you mean—no? You can't bargain.” “I'm not bargaining. You have the letter, you know as much as I do. Do what you want.” “What makes you so cocky?” “I feel safe.”

She peered at him from under the green transparent eyeshade. Little curls of her hair lay on the bill like vines on a green roof. "Adam, you're a fool. If you had kept your mouth shut nobody would ever have known I was alive." “I know that.” “You know it? Did you think I might be afraid to claim the money? You're a damn fool if you thought that.”

Adam said patiently, "I don't care what you do."

She smiled cynically at him. "You don't, huh? Sup-pose I should tell you that there's a permanent order in the sheriffs office, left there by the old sheriff, that if I ever use your name or admit I'm your wife I'll get a floater out of the county and out of the state. Does that tempt you?” “Tempt me to do what?” “To get me floated and take all the money.” “I brought you the letter,” Adam said patiently. “I want to know why.”

Adam said, "I'm not interested in what you think or in what you think of me. Charles left you the money in his will. He didn't put any strings on it. I haven't seen the will, but he wanted you to have the money." “You're playing a close game with fifty thousand dollars,” she said, “and you're not going to get away with it. I don't know what the trick is, but I'm going to find out.” And then she said, “What am I thinking about? You're not smart. Who's advising you?” “No one.” “How about that Chinaman? He's smart.” “He gave me no advice.” Adam was interested in his own complete lack of emotion. He didn't really feel that he was here at all. When he glanced at her he surprised an emotion on her face he had never seen before. Kate was afraid—she was afraid of him. But why?

She controlled her face and whipped the fear from it. "You're just doing it because you're honest, is that it? You're just too sugar sweet to live." “I hadn't thought of it,” Adam said. “It's your mon-ey and I'm not a thief. It doesn't matter to me what you think about it.”

Kate pushed the eyeshade back on her head. "You want me to think you're just dropping this money in my lap. Well, I'll find out what you're up to. Don't think I won't take care of myself.

Did you think I'd take such a stupid bait?" “Where do you get your mail?” he asked patiently. “What's that to you?”

"I'll write the lawyers where to get in touch wi “Don't you do it!” she said. She put the letter in the account book and closed the cover. “I'll keep this. I'll get legal advice. Don't think I won't. You can drop the innocence now.” “You do that,” Adam said. “I want you to have what is yours. Charles willed you the money. It isn't mine.” “I'll find the trick. I'll find it.”

Adam said, "I guess you can't understand it. I don't much care. There are so many things I don't understand. I don't understand how you could shoot me and desert your sons. I don't understand how you or anyone could live like this." He waved his hand to indicate the house. “Who asked you to understand?”

Adam stood up and took his hat from the table. "I guess that's all," he said. "Good-by." He walked toward the door.

She called after him, "You're changed, Mr. Mouse. Have you got a woman at last?" Adam stopped and slowly turned and his eyes were thoughtful. "I hadn't considered before," he said, and he moved toward her until he towered over her and she had to tilt back her head to look into his face. "I said I didn't understand about you," he said slowly. "Just now it came to me what you don't understand." “What don't I understand, Mr. Mouse?” “You know about the ugliness in people. You showed me the pictures. You use all the sad, weak parts of a man, and God knows he has them.” “Everybody—” Adam went on, astonished at his own thoughts. "But you—yes, that's right—you don't know about the rest. You don't believe I brought you the letter because I don't want your money. You don't believe I loved you. And the men who come to you here with their ugliness, the men in the pictures—you don't believe those men could have goodness and beauty in them. You see only one side, and you think—more than that, you're sure—that's all there is.”

She cackled at him derisively. "In sticks and stones. What a sweet dreamer is Mr. Mouse! Give me a ser-mon, Mr. Mouse." “No. I won't because I seem to know that there's a part of you missing. Some men can't see the color green, but they may never know they can't. I think you are only a part of a human. I can't do anything about that. But I wonder whether you ever feel that some-thing invisible is all around you. It would be horrible if you knew it was there and couldn't see it or feel it. That would be horrible.”

Kate pushed back her chair and stood up. Her fists were clenched at her sides and hiding in the folds of her skirt. She tried to prevent the shrillness that crept into her voice.

"Our Mouse is a philosopher," she said. "But our Mouse is no better at that than he is at other things. Did you ever hear of hallucinations? If there are things I can't see, don't you think it's possible that they are dreams manufactured in your own sick mind?" “No, I don't,” said Adam. “No, I don't. And I don't think you do either.” He turned and went out and closed the door behind him.

Kate sat down and stared at the closed door. She was not aware that her fists beat softly on the White oilcloth. But she did know that the square white door was distorted by tears and that her body shook with something that felt like rage and also felt like sorrow.

2

When Adam left Kate's place he had over two hours to wait for the train back to King City. On an impulse he turned off Main Street and walked up Central Avenue to number 130, the high white house of Ernest Stein-beck. It was an immaculate and friendly house, grand enough but not pretentious, and it sat inside its white fence, surrounded by its clipped lawn, and roses and catoneasters lapped against its white walls.

Adam walked up the wide veranda steps and rang the bell. Olive came to the door and opened it a little, while Mary and John peeked around the edges of her.

Adam took off his hat. "You don't know me. I'm Adam Trask. Your father was a friend of mine. I thought I'd like to pay my respects to Mrs. Hamilton. She helped me with the twins." “Why, of course,” Olive said and swung the wide doors open. “We've heard about you. Just a moment. You see, we've made a kind of retreat for Mother.”

She knocked on a door off the wide front hall and called, "Mother! There's a friend to see you." She opened the door and showed Adam into the pleasant room where Liza lived. "You'll have to excuse me," she said to Adam. "Catrina's frying chicken and I have to watch her. John! Mary! Come along. Come along."

Liza seemed smaller than ever. She sat in a wicker rocking chair and she was old and old. Her dress was a full wide-skirted black alpaca, and at her throat she wore a pin which spelled "Mother" in golden script.

The pleasant little bed-sitting room was crowded with photographs, bottles of toilet water, lace pincush-ions, brushes and combs, and the china and silver bureau-knacks of many birthdays and Christmases.

On the wall hung a huge tinted photograph of Samuel, which had captured a cold and aloof dignity, a scrubbed and dressed remoteness, which did not belong to him living. There was no twinkle in the picture of him, nor any of his inspective joyousness. The picture hung in a heavy gold frame, and to the consternation of all children its eyes followed a child about the room.

On a wicker table beside Liza was the cage of Polly parrot. Tom had bought the parrot from a sailor. He was an old bird, reputed to be fifty years old, and he had lived a ribald life and acquired the vigorous speech of a ship's fo'c'sle. Try as she would, Liza could not make him substitute psalms for the picturesque vocabu-lary of his youth.

Polly cocked his head sideways, inspecting Adam, and scratched the feathers at the base of his beak with a careful foreclaw. "Come off it, you bastard," said Polly unemotionally.

Liza frowned at him. "Polly," she said sternly, "that's not polite." “Bloody bastard!” Polly observed.

Liza ignored the vulgarity. She held out her tiny hand. "Mr. Trask," she said, "I'm glad to see you. Sit down, won't you?" “I was passing by, and I wanted to offer my condo-lences.” “We got your flowers.” And she remembered, too, every bouquet after all this time. Adam had sent a fine pillow of everlastings. “It must be hard to rearrange your life.”

Liza's eyes brimmed over and she snapped her little mouth shut on her weakness.

Adam said, "Maybe I shouldn't bring up your hurt, but I miss him."

Liza turned her head away. "How is everything down your way?" she asked. “Good this year. Lots of rainfall. The feed's deep already.” “Tom wrote me,” she said. “Button up,” said the parrot, and Liza scowled at him as she had at her growing children when they were mutinous. “What brings you up to Salinas, Mr. Trask?” she asked. “Why, some business.” He sat down in a wicker chair and it cricked under his weight. “I'm thinking of moving up here. Thought it might be better for my boys. They get lonely on the ranch.” “We never got lonely on the ranch,” she said harshly. “I thought maybe the schools would be better here. My twins could have the advantages.”

"My daughter Olive taught at Peachtree and Pleyto and the Big Sur." Her tone made it clear that there were no better schools than those. Adam began to feel a warm admiration for her iron lantry. “Well, I was just thinking about it,” he said. “Children raised in the country do better.” It was the law, and she could prove it by her own boys.

Then she centered closely on him. "Are you looking for a house in Salinas?"

"Well, yes, I guess I am." “Go see my daughter Dessie,” she said. “Dessie wants to move back to the ranch with Tom. She's got a nice little house up the street next to Reynaud's Bak-ery.”

"I'll certainly do that," said Adam. "I'll go now. I'm glad to see you doing so well." “Thank you,” she said. “I'm comfortable.” Adam was moving toward the door when she said, “Mr. Trask, do you ever see my son Tom?” “Well, no, I don't. You see, I haven't been off the ranch.” “I wish you would go and see him,” she said quickly. “I think he's lonely.” She stopped as though hor-rified at this breaking over. “I will. I surely will. Good-by, ma'am.”

As he closed the door he heard the parrot say, "Button up, you bloody bastard!" And Liza, "Polly, if you don't watch your language, I'll thrash you."

Adam let himself out of the house and walked up the evening street toward Main. Next to Reynaud's French Bakery he saw Dessie's house set back in its little garden. The yard was so massed with tall privets that he couldn't see much of the house. A neatly painted sign was screwed to the front gate. It read: Dessie Hamilton, Dressmaker.

The San Francisco Chop House was on the corner of Main and Central and its windows were on both streets. Adam went in to get some dinner. Will Hamil-ton sat at the corner table, devouring a rib steak. "Come and sit with me," he called to Adam. "Up on business?" “Yes,” said Adam. “I went to pay a call on your mother.”

Will laid down his fork. “I'm just up here for an hour. I didn't go to see her because it gets her excited. And my sister Olive would tear the house down getting a special dinner for me. I just didn't want to disturb them. Besides, I have to go right back. Order a rib steak. They've got good ones. How is Mother?” “She's got great courage,” said Adam. “I find I ad-mire her more all the time.”

"That she has. How she kept her good sense with all of us and with my father, I don't know." “Rib steak, medium,” said Adam to the waiter. “Potatoes?” “No—yes, french fried. Your mother is worried about Tom. Is he all right?”

Will cut off the edging of fat from his steak and pushed it to the side of his plate. "She's got reason to worry," he said. "Something's the matter with Tom. He's moping around like a monument." “I guess he depended on Samuel.” “Too much,” said Will. “Far too much. He can't seem to come out of it. In some ways Tom is a great big baby.” “I'll go and see him. Your mother says Dessie is going to move back to the ranch.”

Will laid his knife and fork down on the tablecloth and stared at Adam. "She can't do it," he said. "I won't let her do it."

Will covered up. "Well," he said, "she's got a nice business here. Makes a good living. It would be a shame to throw it away." He picked up his knife and fork, cut off a piece of the fat, and put it in his mouth. “So am I,” said Will. He didn't want to talk any more.

Chapter 32

Dessie was the beloved of the family. Mollie the pretty kitten, Olive the strong-headed, Una with clouds on her head, all were loved, but Dessie was the warm-beloved. Hers was the twinkle and the laughter infectious as chickenpox, and hers the gaiety that colored a day and spread to people so that they carried it away with them.

I can put it this way. Mrs. Clarence Morrison of 122 Church Street, Salinas, had three children and a hus-band who ran a dry goods store. On certain mornings, at breakfast, Agnes Morrison would say, “I'm going to Dessie Hamilton's for a fitting after dinner.”

The children would be glad and would kick their copper toes against the table legs until cautioned. And Mr. Morrison would rub his palms together and go to his store, hoping some drummer would come by that day. And any drummer who did come by was likely to get a good order. Maybe the children and Mr. Morrison would forget why it was a good day with a promise on its tail.

Mrs. Morrison would go to the house next to Reynaud's Bakery at two o'clock and she would stay until four. When she came out her eyes would be wet with tears and her nose red and streaming. Walking home, she would dab her nose and wipe her eyes and laugh all over again. Maybe all Dessie had done was to put several black pins in a cushion to make it look like the Baptist minister, and then had the pincushion deliver a short dry sermon. Maybe she had recounted a meeting with Old Man Taylor, who bought old houses and moved them to a big vacant lot he owned until he had so many it looked like a dry-land Sargasso Sea. Maybe she had read a poem from Chatterbox with gestures. It didn't matter. It was warm-funny, it was catching funny.

The Morrison children, coming home from school, would find no aches, no carping, no headache. Their noise was not a scandal nor their dirty faces a care. And when the giggles overcame them, why, their moth-er was giggling too.

Mr. Morrison, coming home, would tell of the day and get listened to, and he would try to retell the drummer's stories—some of them at least. The supper would be delicious—omelets never fell and cakes rose to balloons of lightness, biscuits fluffed up, and no one could season a stew like Agnes Morrison. After supper, when the children had laughed themselves to sleep, like as not Mr. Morrison would touch Agnes on the shoulder in their old, old signal and they would go to bed and make love and be very happy.

The visit to Dessie might carry its charge into two days more before it petered out and the little headaches came back and business was not so good as last year. That's how Dessie was and that's what she could do. She carried excitement in her arms just as Samuel had. She was the darling, she was the beloved of the family.

Dessie was not beautiful. Perhaps she wasn't even pretty, but she had the glow that makes men follow a woman in the hope of reflecting a little of it. You would have thought that in time she would have got over her first love affair and found another love, but she did not. Come to think of it, none of the Hamiltons, with all their versatility, had any versatility in love. None of them seemed capable of light or changeable love.

Dessie did not simply throw up her hands and give up. It was much worse than that. She went right on doing and being what she was—without the glow. The people who loved her ached for her, seeing her try, and they got to trying for her.

Dessie's friends were good and loyal but they were human, and humans love to feel good and they hate to feel bad. In time the Mrs. Morrisons found unassailable reasons for not going to the little house by the bakery. They weren't disloyal. They didn't want to be sad as much as they wanted to be happy. It is easy to find a logical and virtuous reason for not doing what you don't want to do.

Dessie's business began to fall off. And the women who had thought they wanted dresses never realized that what they had wanted was happiness. Times were changing and the ready-made dress was becoming pop-ular. It was no longer a disgrace to wear one. If Mr. Morrison was stocking ready-mades, it was only rea-sonable that Agnes Morrison should be seen in them. The family was worried about Dessie, but what could you do when she would not admit there was anything wrong with her? She did admit to pains in her side, quite fierce, but they lasted only a little while and came only at intervals.

Then Samuel died and the world shattered like a dish. His sons and daughters and friends groped about among the pieces, trying to put some kind of world together again.

Dessie decided to sell her business and go back to the ranch to live with Tom. She hadn't much of any busi-ness to sell out. Liza knew about it, and Olive, and Dessie had written to Tom. But Will, sitting scowling at the table in the San Francisco Chop House, had not been told. Will frothed inwardly and finally he balled up his napkin and got up. "I forgot something," he said to Adam. "I'll see you on the train."

He walked the half-block to Dessie's house and went through the high grown garden and rang Dessie's bell.

She was having her dinner alone, and she came to the door with her napkin in her hand. "Why, hello, Will," she said and put up her pink cheek for him to kiss. "When did you get in town?" "Business," he said. "Just here between trains. I want to talk to you."

She led him back to her kitchen and dining-room combined, a warm little room papered with flowers. Automatically she poured a cup of coffee and placed it for him and put the sugar bowl and the cream pitcher in front of it. “Have you seen Mother?” she asked. “I'm just here over trains,” he said gruffly. “Dessie, is it true you want to go back to the ranch?” “I was thinking of it.” “I don't want you to go.”

She smiled uncertainly. "Why not? What's wrong with that? Tom's lonely down there." “You've got a nice business here,” he said. “I haven't any business here,” she replied. “I thought you knew that.” “I don't want you to go,” he repeated sullenly.

Her smile was wistful and she tried her best to put a little mockery in her manner. "My big brother is mas-terful. Tell Dessie why not." “It's too lonely down there.” “It won't be as lonely with the two of us.”

Will pulled at his lips angrily. He blurted, “Tom's not himself. You shouldn't be alone with him.” “Isn't he well? Does he need help?”

Will said, "I didn't want to tell you—I don't think Tom's ever got over—the death. He's strange." She smiled affectionately. "Will, you've always thought he was strange. You thought he was strange when he didn't like business." “That was different. But now he's broody. He doesn't talk. He goes walking alone in the hills at night. I went out to see him and—he's been writing poetry—pages of it all over the table.” “Didn't you ever write poetry, Will?” “I did not.” “I have,” said Dessie. “Pages and pages of it all over the table.” “I don't want you to go.” “Let me decide,” she said softly. “I've lost some-thing. I want to try to find it again.” “You're talking foolish.”

She came around the table and put her arms around his neck. "Dear brother," she said, "please let me de-cide."

He went angrily out of the house and barely caught his train.

2

Tom met Dessie at the King City station. She saw him out of the train window, scanning every coach for her. He was burnished, his face shaved so close that its darkness had a shine like polished wood. His red mustache was clipped. He wore a new Stetson hat with a flat crown, a tan Norfolk jacket with a belt buckle of mother-of-pearl. His shoes glinted in the noonday light so that it was sure he had gone over them with his handkerchief just before the train arrived. His hard collar stood up against his strong red neck, and he wore a pale blue knitted tie with a horseshoe tie pin. He tried to conceal his excitement by clasping his rough brown hands in front of him.

Dessie waved wildly out the window, crying, "Here I am, Tom, here I am!" though she knew he couldn't hear her over the grinding wheels of the train as the coach slid past him. She climbed down the steps and saw him looking frantically about in the wrong direc-tion. She smiled and walked up behind him. “I beg your pardon, stranger,” she said quietly. “Is there a Mister Tom Hamilton here?”

He spun around and he squealed with pleasure and picked her up in a bear hug and danced around her. He held her off the ground with one arm and spanked her bottom with his free hand. He nuzzled her cheek with his harsh mustache. Then he held her back by the shoulders and looked at her. Both of them threw back their heads and howled with laughter.

The station agent leaned out his window and rested his elbows, protected with black false sleeves, on the sill. He said over his shoulder to the telegrapher, “Those Hamiltons! Just look at them!”

Tom and Dessie, fingertips touching, were doing a courtly heel-and-toe while he sang Doodle-doodle-doo and Dessie sang Deedle-deedle-dee, and then they em-braced again.

Tom looked down at her. "Aren't you Dessie Hamil-ton? I seem to remember you. But you've changed. Where are your pigtails?"

It took him quite a fumbling time to get her luggage checks, to lose them in his pockets, to find them and pick up the wrong pieces. At last he had her baskets piled in the back of the buckboard. The two bay horses pawed the hard ground and threw up their heads so that the shined pole jumped and the doubletrees squeaked. The harness was polished and the horse brasses glittered like gold. There was a red bow tied halfway up the buggy whip and red ribbons were braided into the horses' manes and tails.

Tom helped Dessie into the seat and pretended to peek coyly at her ankle. Then he snapped up the check reins and unfastened the leather tie reins from the bits. He unwrapped the lines from the whip stock, and the horses turned so sharply that the wheel screamed against the guard.

Tom said, "Would you care to make a tour of King City? It's a lovely town." “No,” she said. “I think I remember it.” He turned left and headed south and lifted the horses to a fine swinging trot.

Dessie said, "Where's Will?" “I don't know,” he answered gruffly. “Did he talk to you?” “Yes. He said you shouldn't come.” “He told me the same thing,” said Dessie. “He got George to write to me too.”

"Why shouldn't you come if you want to?" Tom raged. "What's Will got to do with it?"

She touched his arm. "He thinks you're crazy. Says you're writing poetry."

Tom's face darkened. "He must have gone in the house when I wasn't there. What's he want to be?" he had no right to look at my papers. anyway? He had no right to look at my papers." “Gently, gently,” said Dessie. “Will's your brother. Don't forget that.” “How would he like me to go through his papers?” Tom demanded. “He wouldn't let you,” Dessie said dryly. “They'd be locked in the safe. Now let's not spoil the day with anger.” “All right,” he said. “God knows all right! But he makes me mad. If I don't want to live his kind of life I'm crazy—just crazy.”

Dessie changed the subject, forced the change. "You know, I had quite a time at the last," she said. "Mother wanted to come. Have you ever seen Mother cry, Tom?" “No, not that I can remember. No, she's not a crier.” “Well, she cried. Not much, but a lot for her—a choke and two sniffles and a wiped nose and polished her glasses and snapped shut like a watch.”

Tom said, "Oh, Lord, Dessie, it's good to have you back! It's good. Makes me feel I'm well from a sick-ness."

The horses spanked along the county road. Tom said, “Adam Trask has bought a Ford. Or maybe I should say Will sold him a Ford.” “I didn't know about the Ford,” said Dessie. “He's buying my house. Giving me a very good price for it." She laughed. "I put a very high price on the house. I was going to come down during negotiations. Mr. Trask accepted the first price. It put me in a fix." “What did you do, Dessie?” “Well, I had to tell him about the high price and that I had planned to be argued down. He didn't seem to care either way.”

Tom said, "Let me beg you never to tell that story to Will. He'd have you locked up." “But the house wasn't worth what I asked!” “I repeat what I said about Will. What's Adam want with your house?” “He's going to move there. Wants the twins to go to school in Salinas.” “What'll he do with his ranch?” “I don't know. He didn't say.”

Tom said, “I wonder what would have happened if Father'd got hold of a ranch like that instead of Old Dry and Dusty.” “It isn't such a bad place.” “Fine for everything except making a living.”

Dessie said earnestly, "Have you ever known any family that had more fun?" “No, I don't. But that was the family, not the land.” “Tom, remember when you took Jenny and Belle Williams to the Peachtree dance on the sofa?” “Mother never let me forget it. Say, wouldn't it be good to ask Jenny and Belle down for a visit?” “They'd come too,” Dessie said. “Let's do it.”

When they turned off the county road she said, "Somehow I remember it differently." “Drier?” “I guess that's it. Tom, there's so much grass.” “I'm getting twenty head of stock to eat it.” “You must be rich.” “No, and the good year will break the price of beef. I wonder what Will would do. He's a scarcity man. He told me. He said, 'Always deal in scarcities.' Will's smart.”

The rutty road had not changed except that the ruts were deeper and the round stones stuck up higher.

Dessie said, "What's the card on that mesquite bush?" She picked it off as they drove by, and it said, "Welcome Home." “Tom, you did it!” “I did not. Someone's been here.”

Every fifty yards there was another card sticking on a bush, or hanging from the branches of a madrone, or tacked to the trunk of a buckeye, and all of them said, “Welcome Home.” Dessie squealed with delight over each one.

They topped the rise above the little valley of the old Hamilton place and Tom pulled up to let her enjoy the view. On the hill across the valley, spelled out in white-washed stones, were the huge words, "Welcome Home, Dessie." She put her head against his lapel and laughed and cried at the same time.

Tom looked sternly ahead of him. "Now who could have done that?" he said. "A man can't leave the place any more."

In the dawn Dessie was awakened by the chill of pain that came to her at intervals. It was a rustle and a threat of pain; it scampered up from her side and across her abdomen, a nibbling pinch and then a little grab and then a hard catch and finally a fierce grip as though a huge hand had wrenched her. When that relaxed she felt a soreness like a bruise. It didn't last very long, but while it went on the outside world was blotted out, and she seemed to be listening to the struggle in her body. When only the soreness remained she saw how the dawn had come silver to the windows. She smelled the good morning wind rippling the curtains, bringing in the odor of grass and roots and damp earth. After that sounds joined the parade of perception—sparrows hag-gling among themselves, a bawling cow monotonously beratine a punching hungry calf, a blue jay's squawk of false excitement, the sharp warning of a cock quail on guard and the answering whisper of the hen quail somewhere near in the tall grass. The chickenyard boiled with excitement over an egg, and a big lady Rhode Island Red, who weighed four pounds, hypocritically protested the horror of being lustfully pinned to the ground by a scrawny wreck of a rooster she could have blasted with one blow of her wing.

The cooing of pigeons brought memory into the procession. Dessie remembered how her father had said, sitting at the head of the table, “I told Rabbit I was going to raise some pigeons and—do you know?—he said, 'No white pigeons.' 'Why not white?' I asked him, and he said, 'They're the rare worst of bad luck. You take a flight of white pigeons and they'll bring sadness and death. Get gray ones.' 'I like white ones.' 'Get gray ones,' he told me. And as the sky covers me, I'll get white ones.”

And Liza said patiently, "Why do you be forever testing, Samuel? Gray ones taste just as good and they're bigger." “I'll let no flimsy fairy tale push me,” Samuel said.

And Liza said with her dreadful simplicity, “You're already pushed by your own contentiousness. You're a mule of contention, a very mule!” “Someone's got to do these things,” he said sullenly. “Else Fate would not ever get nose-thumbed and man-kind would still be clinging to the top branches of a tree.”

And of course he got white pigeons and waited truc-ulently for sadness and death until he'd proved his point. And here were the great-great-grand squabs cooing in the morning and rising to fly like a whirling white scarf around the wagon shed.

As Dessie remembered, she heard the words and the house around her grew peopled. Sadness and death, she thought, and death and sadness, and it wrenched in her stomach against the soreness.

You just have to wait around long enough and it will come.

She heard the air whooshing into the big bellows in the forge and the practice tap for range of hammer on anvil. She heard Liza open the oven door and the thump of a kneaded loaf on the floury board. Then Joe wandered about, looking in unlikely places for his shoes, and at last found them where he had left them under the bed.

She heard Mollie's sweet high voice in the kitchen, reading a morning text from the Bible, and Una's full cold throaty correction.

And Tom had cut Mollie's tongue with his pocketknife and died in his heart when he realized his courage.

"Oh, dear Tom," she said, and her lips moved.

Tom's cowardice was as huge as his courage, as it must be in great men. His violence balanced his tender-ness, and himself was a pitted battlefield of his own forces. He was confused now, but Dessie could hold his bit and point him, the way a handler points a thorough-bred at the barrier to show his breeding and his form.

Dessie lay part in pain and a part of her dangled still in sleep while the morning brightened against the win-dow. She remembered that Mollie was going to lead the Grand March at the Fourth of July picnic with no less than Harry Forbes, State Senator. And Dessie had not finished putting the braid on Mollie's dress. She strug-gled to get up. There was so much braid, and here she lay drowsing.

She cried, "I'll get it done, Mollie. It will be ready."

She got up from her bed and threw her robe around her and walked barefooted through the house crowded with Hamiltons. In the hall they were gone to the bedrooms. In the bedrooms, with the beds neat-made, they were all in the kitchen, and in the kitchen—they dispersed and were gone.

Sadness and death. The wave receded and left her in dry awakeness.

The house was clean, scrubbed and immaculate, cur-tains washed, windows polished, but all as a man does it—the ironed curtains did not hang quite straight and there were streaks on the windows and a square showed on the table when a book was moved.

The stove was warming, with orange light showing around the lids and the soft thunder of drafty flame leaping past the open damper. The kitchen clock flashed its pendulum behind its glass skirt, and it ticked like a little wooden hammer striking on an empty wood-en box.

From outside came a whistle as wild and raucous as a reed and pitched high and strange. The whistling scat-tered a savage melody. Then Tom's steps sounded on the porch, and he came in with an armload of oakwood so high he could not see over it. He cascaded the wood into the woodbox. “You're up,” he said. “That was to wake you if you were still sleeping.” His face was lighted with joy. “This is a morning light as down and no time to be slugging.” “You sound like your father,” Dessie said, and she laughed with him.

His joy hardened to fierceness. "Yes," he said loud-ly. "And we'll have that time again, right here. I've been dragging myself in misery like a spine-broken snake. No wonder Will thought I was cracked. But now you're back, and I'll show you. I'll breathe life into life again. Do you hear? This house is going to be alive." “I'm glad I came,” she said, and she thought in desolation how brittle he was now and how easy to shatter, and how she would have to protect him. “You must have worked day and night to get the house so clean,” she said. “Nothing,” said Tom. “A little twist with the fingers.” “I know that twist, but it was with bucket and mop and on your knees—unless you've invented some way to do it by chicken power or the harnessed wind.” “Invented—now that's why I have no time. I've invented a little slot that lets a necktie slip around freely in a stiff collar.” “You don't wear stiff collars.” “I did yesterday. That's when I invented it. And chickens—I'm going to raise millions of them—little houses all over the ranch and a ring on the roof to dip them in a whitewash tank. And eggs will come through on a little conveyor belt—here! I'll draw it.” “I want to draw some breakfast,” Dessie said. “What's the shape of a fried egg? How would you color the fat and lean of a strip of bacon?” “You'll have it,” he cried, and he opened the stove lid and assaulted the fire with the stove lifter until the hairs on his hand curled and charred. He pitched wood in and started his high whistling.

Dessie said, "You sound like some goat-foot with a wheat flute on a hill in Greece." “What do you think I am?” he shouted.

Dessie thought miserably, If his is real, why can't my heart be light? Why can't I climb out of my gray ragbag? I will, she screeched inside herself. If he can—I will.

She said, "Tom!" “Yes.” “I want a purple egg.”

Chapter 33

The green lasted on the hills far into June before the grass turned yellow. The heads of the wild oats were so heavy with seed that they hung over on their stalks. The little springs trickled on late in the summer. The range cattle staggered under their fat and their hides shone with health. It was a year when the people of the Salinas Valley forgot the dry years. Farmers bought more land than they could afford and figured their profits on the covers of their checkbooks.

Tom Hamilton labored like a giant, not only with his strong arms and rough hands but also with his heart and spirit. The anvil rang in the forge again. He paint-ed the old house white and whitewashed the sheds. He went to King City and studied a flush toilet and then built one of craftily bent tin and carved wood. Because the water came so slowly from the spring, he put a redwood tank beside the house and pumped the water up to it with a handmade windmill so cleverly made that it turned in the slightest wind. And he made metal and wood models of two ideas to be sent to the patent office in the fall.

That was not all—he labored with humor and good spirits. Dessie had to rise very early to get in her hand at the housework before Tom had it all done. She watched his great red happiness, and it was not light as Samuel's happiness was light. It did not rise out of his roots and come floating up. He was manufacturing happiness as cleverly as he knew how, molding it and shaping it. Dessie, who had more friends than anyone in the whole valley, had no confidants. When her trouble had come upon her she had not talked about it. And the pains were a secret in herself. When Tom found her rigid and tight from the grabbing pain and cried in alarm, "Dessie, what's the mat-ter?" she controlled her face and said, "A little crick, that's all. Just a little crick. I'm all right now." And in a moment they were laughing.

They laughed a great deal, as though to reassure themselves. Only when Dessie went to her bed did her loss fall on her, bleak and unendurable. And Tom lay in the dark of his room, puzzled as a child. He could hear his heart beating and rasping a little in its beat. His mind fell away from thought and clung for safety to little plans, designs, machines.

Sometimes in the summer evenings they walked up the hill to watch the afterglow clinging to the tops of the western mountains and to feel the breeze drawn into the valley by the rising day-heated air. Usually they stood silently for a while and breethd in peacefulness. Since both were shy they never talked about themselves. Neither knew about the other at all.

It was startling to both of them when Dessie said one evening on the hill, “Tom, why don't you get mar-ried?”

He looked quickly at her and away. He said, "Who'd have me?" “Is that a joke or do you really mean it?” “Who'd have me?” he said again. “Who'd want a thing like me?” “It sounds to me as though you really mean it.” Then she violated their unstated code. “Have you been in love with someone?” “No,” he said shortly.

"I wish I knew," she said as though he had not answered.

Tom did not speak again as they walked down the hill. But on the porch he said suddenly, “You're lonely here. You don't want to stay.” He waited for a mo-ment. “Answer me. Isn't that true?” “I want to stay here more than I want to stay any-place else.” She asked, “Do you ever go to women?” “Yes,” he said. “Is it any good to you?” “Not much.”

"What are you going to do?" “I don't know.”

In silence they went back to the house. Tom lighted the lamp in the old living room. The horsehair sofa he had rebuilt raised its gooseneck against the wall, and the green carpet had tracks worn light between the doors.

Tom sat down by the round center table. Dessie sat on the sofa, and she could see that he was still embar-rassed from his last admission. She thought, How pure he is, how unfit for a world that even she knew more about than he did. A dragon killer, he was, a rescuer of damsels, and his small sins seemed so great to him that he felt unfit and unseemly. She wished her father were here. Her father had felt greatness in Tom. Perhaps he would know now how to release it out of its darkness and let it fly free.

She took another tack to see whether she could raise some spark in him. “As long as we're talking about ourselves, have you ever thought that our whole world is the valley and a few trips to San Francisco, and have you ever been farther south than San Luis Obispo? I never have.” “Neither have I,” said Tom. “Well, isn't that silly?” “Lots of people haven't,” he said. “But it's not a law. We could go to Paris and to Rome or to Jerusalem. I would dearly love to see the Colosseum.”

He watched her suspiciously, expecting some kind of joke. "How could we?" he asked. "That takes a lot of money." “I don't think it does,” she said. “We wouldn't have to stay in fancy places. We could take the cheapest boats and the lowest class. That's how our father came here from Ireland. And we could go to Ireland.”

Still he watched her, but a burning was beginning in his eyes.

Dessie went on, “We could take a year for work, save every penny. I can get some sewing to do in King City. Will would help us. And next summer you could sell all the stock and we could go.

There's no law forbids it.”

Tom got up and went outside. He looked up at the summer stars, at blue Venus and red Mars. His hands flexed at his sides, closed to fists and opened. Then he turned and went back into the house. Dessie had not moved. “Do you want to go, Dessie?” “More than anything in the world.” “Then we will go!” “Do you want to go?” “More than anything in the world,” he said, and then, “Egypt—have you given a thought to Egypt?” “Athens,” she said. “Constantinople!” “Bethlehem!” “Yes, Bethlehem,” said he suddenly, “Go to bed. We've got a year of work—a year. Get some rest. I'm going to borrow money from Will to buy a hundred shoats.” “What will you feed them?” “Acorns,” said Tom. “I'll make a machine to gather acorns.”

After he had gone to his room she could hear him knocking around and talking softly to himself.

Dessie looked out her window at the starlit night and she was glad. But she wondered whether she really wanted to go, or whether Tom did. And as she wondered the whisper of pain grew up from her side.

When Dessie got up in the morning Tom was already at his drawing board, beating his forehead with his fist and growling to himself. Dessie looked over his shoul-der. "Is it the acorn machine?" "It should be easy," he said. "But how to get out the sticks and rocks?" “I know you're the inventor, but I invented the greatest acorn picker in the world and it's ready to go.” “What do you mean?”

"Children," she said. "Those restless little hands." “They wouldn't do it, not even for pay.” “They would for prizes. A prize for everyone and a big prize for the winner—maybe a hundred-dollar prize. They'd sweep the valley clean. Will you let me try?”

He scratched his head. "Why not?" he said. "But how would you collect the acorns?" “The children will bring them in,” said Dessie. “Just let me take care of it. I hope you have plenty of storage space.” “It would be exploiting the young, wouldn't it?” “Certainly it would,” Dessie agreed. “When I had my shop I exploited the girls who wanted to learn to sew—and they exploited me. I think I will call this The Great Monterey County Acorn Contest. And I won't let everyone in. Maybe bicycles for prizes—wouldn't you pick up acorns in hope of a bicycle, Tom?” “Sure I would,” he said. “But couldn't we pay them too?” “Not with money,” Dessie said. “That would reduce it to labor, and they will not labor if they can help it, Nor will I.”

Tom leaned back from his board and laughed. "Nor will I," he said. "All right, you are in charge of acorns and I am in charge of pigs."

Dessie said, "Tom, wouldn't it be ridiculous if we made money, we of all people?" “But you made money in Salinas,” he said. “Some—not much. But oh, I was rich in promises. If the bills had ever been paid we wouldn't need pigs. We could go to Paris tomorrow.” “I'm going to drive in and talk to Will,” said Tom. He pushed his chair back from the drawing board. “Want to come with me?” “No, I'll stay and make my plans. Tomorrow I start The Great Acorn Contest.”

2

On the ride back to the ranch in the late afternoon Tom was depressed and sad. As always, Will had man-aged to chew up and spit out his enthusiasm. Will had pulled his lip, rubbed his eyebrows, scratched his nose, cleaned his glasses, and made a major operation of cutting and lighting a cigar. The pig proposition was full of holes, and Will was able to put his fingers in the holes.

The Acorn Contest wouldn't work although he was not explicit about why it wouldn't. The whole thing was shaky, particularly in these times. The very best Will was able to do was to agree to think about it.

At one time during the talk Tom had thought to tell Will about Europe, but a quick instinct stopped him. The idea of traipsing around Europe, unless, of course, you were retired and had your capital out in good secur-ities, would be to Will a craziness that would make the pig plan a marvel of business acumen. Tom did not tell him, and he left Will to “think it over,” knowing that the verdict would be against the pigs and the acorns.

Poor Tom did not know and could not learn that dissembling successfully is one of the creative joys of a businessman. To indicate enthusiasm was to be idiotic. And Will really did mean to think it over. Parts of the plan fascinated him. Tom had stumbled on a very interesting thing. If you could buy shoats on credit, fatten them on food that cost next to nothing, sell them, pay off your loan, and take your profit, you would really have done something. Will would not rob his brother. He would cut him in on the profits, but Tom was a dreamer and could not be trusted with a good sound plan. Tom, for instance, didn't even know the price of pork and its probable trend. If it worked out, Will could be depended on to give Tom a very sub-stantial present—maybe even a Ford. And how about a Ford as first and only prize for acorns? Everybody in the whole valley would pick acorns.

Driving up the Hamilton road, Tom wondered how to break it to Dessie that their plan was no good. The best way would be to have another plan to substitute for it. How could they make enough money in one year to go to Europe? And suddenly he realized that he didn't know how much they'd need. He didn't know the price of a steamship ticket. They might spend the evening figuring.

He half expected Dessie to run out of the house when he drove up. He would put on his best face and tell a joke. But Dessie didn't run out. Maybe taking a nap, he thought. He watered the horses and stabled them and pitched hay into the manger.

Dessie was lying on the gooseneck sofa when Tom came in. "Taking a nap?" he asked, and then he saw the color of her face. "Dessie," he cried, "what's the matter?"

She rallied herself against pain. "Just a stomach ache," she said. "A pretty severe one." “Oh,” said Tom. “You scared me. I can fix up a stomach ache.” He went to the kitchen and brought back a glass of pearly liquid. He handed it to her. “What is it, Tom?” “Good old-fashioned salts. It may gripe you a little but it'll do the job.”

She drank it obediently and made a face. "I remem-ber that taste," she said. "Mother's remedy in green apple season." “Now you lie still,” Tom said. “I'll rustle up some dinner.”

She could hear him knocking about in the kitchen. The pain roared through her body. And on top of the pain there was fear. She could feel the medicine burn down to her stomach. After a while she dragged herself to the new homemade flush toilet and tried to vomit the salts. The perspiration ran from her forehead and blinded her. When she tried to straighten up the mus-cles over her stomach were set, and she could not break free.

Later Tom brought her some scrambled eggs. She shook her head slowly. "I can't," she said, smiling. "I think I'll just go to bed." “The salts should work pretty soon,” Tom assured her. “Then you'll be all right.” He helped her to bed. “What do you suppose you ate to cause it?”

Dessie lay in her bedroom and her will battled the pain. About ten o'clock in the evening her will began to lose its fight. She called, "Tom! Tom!" He opened the door. He had the World Almanac in his hand. "Tom," she said, "I'm sorry. But I'm awfully sick, Tom. I'm terribly sick."

He sat on the edge of her bed in the half-darkness. "Are the grips bad?" “Yes, awful.”

"Can you go to the toilet now?" “No, not now.” “I'll bring a lamp and sit with you,” he said. “Maybe you can get some sleep. It'll be gone in the morning. The salts will do the job.”

Her will took hold again and she lay still while Tom read bits out of the Almanac to soothe her.

He stopped reading when he thought she was sleeping, and he dozed in his chair beside the lamp. A thin scream awakened him. He stepped beside the struggling bedclothes. Dessie's eyes were milky and cra-zy, like those of a maddened horse. Her mouth corners erupted thick bubbles and her face was on fire. Tom put his hand under the cover and felt muscles knotted like iron. And then her struggle stopped and her head fell back and the light glinted on her half-closed eyes.

Tom put only a bridle on the horse and flung himself on bareback. He groped and ripped out his belt to beat the frightened horse to an awkward run over the stony, rutted wheel track.

The Duncans, asleep upstairs in their two-story house on the county road, didn't hear the banging on their door, but they heard the bang and ripping sound as their front door came off, carrying lock and hinges with it. By the time Red Duncan got downstairs with a shotgun Tom was screaming into the wall tele-phone at the King City central. “Dr. Tusón! Get him! I don't care. Get him! Get him, goddam it.” Red Duncan sleepily had the gun on him.

Dr. Tilson said, “Yes! Yes—yes, I hear. You're Tom Hamilton. What's the matter with her? Is her stomach hard? What did you do? Salts! You goddam fool!”

Then the doctor controlled his anger. "Tom," he said, "Tom, boy. Pull yourself together. Go back and lay cold cloths—cold as you can get them. I don't suppose you have any ice. Well, keep changing the cloths. I'll be out as fast as I can. Do you hear me? Tom, do you hear me?" He hung the receiver up and dressed. In angry wea-riness he opened the wall cabinet and collected scalpels and clamps, sponges and tubes and sutures, to put in his bag. He shook his gasoline pressure lantern to make sure it was full and arranged ether can and mask beside it on his bureau. His wife in boudoir cap and nightgown looked in. Dr. Tilson said, "I'm walking over to the garage. Call Will Hamilton. Tell him I want him to drive me to his father's place. If he argues tell him his sister is—dying."

3

Tom came riding back to the ranch a week after Dessie's funeral, riding high and prim, his shoulders straight and chin in, like a guardsman on parade. Tom had done everything slowly, perfectly. His horse was curried and brushed, and his Stetson hat was square on his head. Not even Samuel could have held himself in more dignity than Tom as he rode back to the old house. A hawk driving down on a chicken with dou-bled fists did not make him turn his head.

At the barn he dismounted, watered his horse, held him a moment at the door, haltered him, and put rolled barley in the box beside the manger. He took off the saddle and turned the blanket inside out to dry. Then the barley was finished and he led the bay horse out and turned him free to graze on every unfenced inch of the world.

In the house the furniture, chairs, and stove seemed to shrink back and away from him in distaste. A stool avoided him as he went to the living room. His matches were soft and damp, and with a feeling of apology he went to the kitchen for more. The lamp in the living room was fair and lonely. Tom's first match flame ran quickly around the Rochester wick and then stood up a full inch of yellow flame.

Tom sat down in the evening and looked around. His eyes avoided the horsehair sofa. A slight noise of mice in the kitchen made him turn, and he saw his shadow on the wall and his hat was on. He removed it and laid it on the table beside him.

He thought dawdling, protective thoughts, sitting un-der the lamp, but he knew that pretty soon his name would be called and he would have to go up before the bench with himself as judge and his own crimes as jurors.

And his name was called, shrilly in his ears. His mind walked in to face the accusers: Vanity, which charged him with being ill dressed and dirty and vul-gar; and Lust, slipping him the money for his whoring; Dishonesty, to make him pretend to talent and thought he did not have; Laziness and Gluttony arm in arm. Tom felt comforted by these because they screened the great Gray One in the back seat, waiting—the gray and dreadful crime. He dredged up lesser things, used small sins almost like virtues to save himself. There were Covetousness of Will's money, Treason toward his mother's God, Theft of time and hope, sick Rejection of love.

Samuel spoke softly but his voice filled the room. "Be good, be pure, be great, be Tom Hamilton." Tom ignored his father. He said, "I'm busy greeting my friends," and he nodded to Discourtesy and Ugliness and Unfilial Conduct and Unkempt Finger-nails. Then he started with Vanity again. The Gray One shouldered up in front. It was too late to stall with baby sins. This Gray One was Murder.

Tom's hand felt the chill of the glass and saw the pearly liquid with the dissolving crystals still turning over and lucent bubbles rising, and he repeated aloud in the empty, empty room, “This will do the job. Just wait till morning. You'll feel fine then.” That's how it had sounded, exactly how, and the walls and chairs and the lamp had all heard it and they could prove it. There was no place in the whole world for Tom Hamilton to live. But it wasn't for lack of trying. He shuffled possi-bilities like cards. London? No! Egypt—pyramids in Egypt and the Sphinx. No! Paris? No! Now wait—they do all your sins lots better there. No! Well, stand aside and maybe we'll come back to you. Bethlehem? Dear God, no! It would be lonely there for a stranger.

And here interpolated—it's so hard to remember how you die or when. An eyebrow raised or a whisper—they may be it; or a night mottled with splashed light until powder-driven lead finds your secret and lets out the fluid in you.

Now this is true, Tom Hamilton was dead and he had only to do a few decent things to make it final.

The sofa cricked in criticism, and Tom looked at it and at the smoking lamp to which the sofa referred. "Thank you," Tom said to the sofa. "I hadn't noticed it," and he turned down the wick until the smoking stopped.

His mind dozed. Murder slapped him aware again. Now Red Tom, Gum Tom, was too tired to kill him-self. That takes some doing, with maybe pain and maybe hell.

He remembered that his mother had a strong distaste for suicide, feeling that it combined three things of which she strongly disapproved—bad manners, cow-ardice, and sin. It was almost as bad as adultery or stealing—maybe just as bad. There must be a way to avoid Liza's disapproval. She could make one suffer if she disapproved.

Samuel wouldn't make it hard, but on the other hand you couldn't avoid Samuel because he was in the air every place. Tom had to tell Samuel. He said, "My father, I'm sorry. I can't help it. You overestimated me. You were wrong. I wish I could justify the love and the pride you squandered on me. Maybe you could figure a way out, but I can't. I cannot live. I've killed Dessie and I want to sleep."

And his mind spoke for his father absent, saying, “Why, I can understand how that would be. There are so many patterns to choose from in the arc from birth back to birth again. But let's think how we can make it all right with Mother. Why are you so impatient, dear?” “I can't wait, that's why,” Tom said. “I can't wait any more.” “Why, sure you can, my son, my darling. You're grown great as I knew you would. Open the table drawer and then make use of that turnip you call your head.”

Tom opened the drawer and saw a tablet of Crane's Linen Lawn and a package of envelopes to match and two gnawed and crippled pencils and in the dust corner at the back a few stamps. He laid out the tablet and sharpened the pencils with his pocketknife.

He wrote, “Dear Mother, I hope you keep yourself well. I am going to plan to spend more time with you. Olive asked me for Thanksgiving and you know I'll be there. Our little Olive can cook a turkey nearly to match yours, but I know you will never believe that. I've had a stroke of good luck. Bought a horse for fifteen dollars—a gelding, and he looks like a blood-horse to me. I got him cheap because he has taken a dislike to mankind. His former owner spent more time on his own back than on the gelding's. I must say he's a pretty cute article. He's thrown me twice but I'll get him yet, and if I break him I'll have one of the best horses in the whole county. And you can be sure I'll break him if it takes all winter. I don't know why I go on about him, only the man I bought him from said a funny thing. He said, 'That horse is so mean he'd eat a man right off his back.' Well, remember what Father used to say when we went rabbit hunting? 'Come back with your shield or on it.' I'll see you Thanksgiving. Your son Tom.”

He wondered whether it was good enough, but he was too tired to do it again. He added, "P.S. I notice that Polly has not reformed one bit. That parrot makes me blush."

On another sheet he wrote, "Dear Will, No matter what you yourself may think—please help me now. For Mother's sake—please. I was killed by a horse—thrown and kicked in the head—please! Your brother Tom."

He stamped the letters and put them in his pocket and he asked Samuel, "Is that all right?" In his bedroom he broke open a new box of shells and put one of them in the cylinder of his well-oiled Smith and Wesson 0.38 and he set the loaded chamber one space to the left of the firing pin. His horse standing sleepily near the fence came to his whistle and stood drowsing while he saddled up.

It was three o'clock in the morning when he dropped the letters in the post office at King City and mounted and turned his horse south toward the unproductive hills of the old Hamilton place. He was a gallant gentlemen.

Part Four

Chapter 34

A child may ask, “What is the world's story about?” And a grown man or woman may wonder, “What way will the world go? How does it end and, while we're at it, what's the story about?” I believe that there is one story in the world, and only one, that has frightened and inspired us, so that we live in a Pearl White serial of continuing thought and won-der. Humans are caught—in their lives, in their thoughts, in their hungers and ambitions, in their ava-rice and cruelty, and in their kindness and generosity too—in a net of good and evil. I think this is the only story we have and that it occurs on all levels of feeling and intelligence. Virtue and vice were warp and woof of our first consciousness, and they will be the fabric of our last, and this despite any changes we may impose on field and river and mountain, on economy and man-ners. There is no other story. A man, after he has brushed off the dust and chips of his life, will have left only the hard, clean questions: Was it good or was it evil? Have I done well—or ill?

Herodotus, in the Persian War, tells a story of how Croesus, the richest and most-favored king of his time, asked Solon the Athenian a leading question. He would not have asked it if he had not been worried about the answer. “Who,” he asked, “is the luckiest person in the world?” He must have been eaten with doubt and hungry for reassurance. Solon told him of three lucky people in old times. And Croesus more than likely did not listen, so anxious was he about himself. And when Solon did not mention him, Croesus was forced to say, “Do you not consider me lucky?” Solon did not hesitate in his answer. “How can I tell?” he said. “You aren't dead yet.”

And this answer must have haunted Croesus dismally as his luck disappeared, and his wealth and his kingdom. And as he was being burned on a tall fire, he may have thought of it and perhaps wished he had not asked or not been answered.

And in our time, when a man dies—if he has had wealth and influence and power and all the vestments that arouse envy, and after the living take stock of the dead man's property and his eminence and works and monuments—the question is still there: Was his life good or was it evil?—which is another way of putting Croesus's question. Envies are gone, and the measuring stick is: “Was he loved or was he hated? Is his death felt as a loss or does a kind of joy come of it?” I remember clearly the deaths of three men. One was the richest man of the century, who, having clawed his way to wealth through the souls and bodies of men, spent many years trying to buy back the love he had forfeited and by that process performed great service to the world and, perhaps, had much more than balanced the evils of his rise. I was on a ship when he died. The news was posted on the bulletin board, and nearly everyone received the news with pleasure. Several said, “Thank God that son of a bitch is dead.”

Then there was a man, smart as Satan, who, lacking some perception of human dignity and knowing all too well every aspect of human weakness and wickedness, used his special knowledge to warp men, to buy men, to bribe and threaten and seduce until he found himself in a position of great power. He clothed his motives in the names of virtue, and I have wondered whether he ever knew that no gift will ever buy back a man's love when you have removed his self-love. A bribed man can only hate his briber. When this man died the nation rang with praise and, just beneath, with gladness that he was dead.

There was a third man, who perhaps made many errors in performance but whose effective life was de-voted to making men brave and dignified and good in a time when they were poor and frightened and when ugly forces were loose in the world to utilize their fears. This man was hated by the few. When he died the people burst into tears in the streets and their minds wailed, “What can we do now? How can we go on without him?”

In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved. Indeed, most of their vices are attempted short cuts to love. When a man comes to die, no matter what his talents and influence and genius, if he dies unloved his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold horror. It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world.

We have only one story. All novels, all poetry, are built on the never-ending contest in ourselves of good and evil. And it occurs to me that evil must constantly respawn, while good, while virtue, is immortal. Vice has always a new fresh young face, while virtue is venerable as nothing else in the world is.

Chapter 35

Lee helped Adam and the two boys move to Salinas, which is to say he did it all, packed the things to be taken, saw them on the train, loaded the back seat of the Ford, and, arriving in Salinas, unpacked and saw the family settled in Dessie's little house. When he had done everything he could think of to make them com-fortable, and a number of things unnecessary, and more things for the sake of delay, he waited on Adam formally one evening after the twins had gone to bed. Perhaps Adam caught his intention from Lee's coldness and formality.

Adam said, "All right. I've been expecting it. Tell me."

That broke up Lee's memorized speech, which he had intended to begin, “For a number of years I have served you to the best of my ability and now I feel—” “I've put it off as long as I could,” said Lee. “I have a speech all ready. Do you want to hear it?” “Do you want to say it?” “No,” said Lee. “I don't. And it's a pretty good speech too.” “When do you want to go?” Adam asked. “As soon as possible. I'm afraid I might lose my intention if I don't go soon. Do you want me to wait until you get someone else?” “Better not,” said Adam. “You know how slow I am. It might be some time. I might never get around to it.” “I'll go tomorrow then.” “It will tear the boys to pieces,” Adam said. “I don't know what they'll do. Maybe you'd better sneak off and let me tell them afterward.” “It's my observation that children always surprise us,” said Lee.

And so it was. At breakfast the next morning Adam said, "Boys, Lee is going away." “Is he?” said Cal. “There's a basketball game tonight, costs ten cents. Can we go?” “Yes. But did you hear what I said?” “Sure,” Aron said. “You said Lee's going away.” “But he's not coming back.”

Cal asked, "Where's he going?" “To San Francisco to live.” “Oh!” said Aron. “There's a man on Main Street, right on the street, and he's got a little stove and he cooks sausages and puts them in buns. They cost a nickel. And you can take all the mustard you want.”

Lee stood in the kitchen door, smiling at Adam.

When the twins got their books together Lee said, "Good-by, boys."

They shouted, “Good-by!” and tumbled out of the house.

Adam stared into his coffee cup and said in apology, "What little brutes! I guess that's your reward for over ten years of service." “I like it better that way,” Lee said. “If they pre-tended sorrow they'd be liars. It doesn't mean anything to them. Maybe they'll think of me sometimes—privately. I don't want them to be sad. I hope I'm not so small-souled as to take satisfaction in being missed.” He laid fifty cents on the table in front of Adam. “When they start for the basketball game tonight, give them this from me and tell them to buy the sausage buns. My farewell gift may be ptomaine, for all I know.”

Adam looked at the telescope basket Lee brought into the dining room. "Is that all your stuff, Lee?" “Everything but my books. They're in boxes in the cellar. If you don't mind I'll send for them or come for them after I get settled.” “Why, sure. I'm going to miss you, Lee, whether you want me to or not. Are you really going to get your bookstore?” “That is my intention.” “You'll let us hear from you?” “I don't know. I'll have to think about it. They say a clean cut heals soonest. There's nothing sadder to me than associations held together by nothing but the glue of postage stamps. If you can't see or hear or touch a man, it's best to let him go.”

Adam stood up from the table. "I'll walk to the depot with you." “No!” Lee said sharply. “No. I don't want that. Good-by, Mr. Trask. Good-by, Adam.” He went out of the house so fast that Adam's “Good-by” reached him at the bottom of the front steps and Adam's “Don't for-get to write” sounded over the click of the front gate.

2

That night after the basketball game Cal and Aron each had five sausages on buns, and it was just as well, for Adam had forgotten to provide any supper. Walking home, the twins discussed Lee for the first time. “I wonder why he went away?” Cal asked. “He's talked about going before.” “What do you suppose he'll do without us?” “I don't know. I bet he comes back,” Aron said. “How do you mean? Father said he was going to start a bookstore. That's funny. A Chinese bookstore.”

"He'll come back," said Aron. "He'll get lonesome for us. You'll see." “Bet you ten cents he don't.” “Before when?” “Before forever.” “That's a bet,” said Aron.

Aron was not able to collect his winnings for nearly a month, but he won six days later.

Lee came in on the ten-forty and let himself in with his own key. There was a light in the dining room but Lee found Adam in the kitchen, scraping at a thick black crust in the frying pan with the point of a can opener.

Lee put down his basket. "If you soak it overnight it will come right out." “Will it? I've burned everything I've cooked. There's a saucepan of beets out in the yard.

Smelled so bad I couldn't have them in the house. Burned beets are awful—"Lee!" he cried, and then. "Is anything the matter?"

Lee took the black iron pan from him and put it in the sink and ran water in it. "If we had a new gas stove we could make a cup of coffee in a few minutes," he said. "I might as well build up the fire." “Stove won't burn,” said Adam.

Lee lifted a lid. "Have you ever taken the ashes out?" “Ashes?” “Oh, go in the other room,” said Lee. “I'll make some coffee.”

Adam waited impatiently in the dining room but he obeyed his orders. At last Lee brought in two over his telescope basket and untied the rope that held it shut. He brought out the stone bottle. “Chinese absinthe,” he said. “Ng-ka-py maybe last ten more years. I forgot to ask whether you had replaced me.” “You're beating around the bush,” said Adam. “I know it. And I also know the best way would be just to tell it and get it over with.” “You lost your money in a fan-tan game.” “No. I wish that was it. No, I have my money. This damn cork's broken—I'll have to shove it in the bot-tle.” He poured the black liquor into his coffee. “I never drank it this way,” he said. “Say, it's good.” “Tastes like rotten apples,” said Adam. “Yes, but remember Sam Hamilton said like good rotten apples.”

Adam said, "When do you think you'll get around to telling me what happened to you?" “Nothing happened to me,” said Lee. “I got lonesome. That's all. Isn't that enough?” “How about your bookstore?” “I don't want a bookstore. I think I knew it before I got on the train, but I took all this time to make sure.” “Then there's your last dream gone.” “Good riddance.” Lee seemed on the verge of hyste-ria. “Missy Tlask, Chinee boy sink gung get dlunk.”

Adam was alarmed. "What's the matter with you anyway?"

Lee lifted the bottle to his lips and took a deep hot drink and panted the fumes out of his burning throat. "Adam," he said, "I am incomparably, incredibly, overwhelmingly glad to be home. I've never been so goddam lonesome in my life."

Chapter 36

Salinas had two grammar schools, big yellow structures with tall windows, and the windows were baleful and the doors did not smile. These schools were called the East End and the West End. Since the East End School was way to hell and gone across town and the children who lived east of Main Street attended there, I will not bother with it.

The West End, a huge building of two stories, fronted with gnarled poplars, divided the play yards called girlside and boyside. Behind the school a high board fence separated girlside from boyside, and the back of the play yard was bounded by a slough of standing water in which tall tules and even cattails grew. The West End had grades from third to eighth. The first-and second-graders went to Baby School some distance away.

In the West End there was a room for each grade—third, four, and fifth on the ground floor, six, seventh, and eighth on the second floor. Each room had the usual desks of battered oak, a platform and square teacher's desk, one Seth Thomas clock and one pic-ture. The pictures identified the rooms, and the pre-Raphaelite influence was overwhelming. Galahad standing in full armor pointed the way for third-grad-ers; Atalanta's race urged on the fourth, the Pot of Basil confused the fifth grade, and so on until the denuncia-tion of Cataline sent the eighth-graders on to high school with a sense of high civic virtue.

Cal and Aron were assigned to the seventh grade because of their age, and they learned every shadow of its picture—Laocoön completely wrapped in snakes.

The boys were stunned by the size and grandeur of the West End after their background in a one-room country school. The opulence of having a teacher for each grade made a deep impression on them. It seemed wasteful. But as is true of all humans, they were stunned for one day, admiring on the second, and on the third day could not remember very clearly ever having gone to any other school.

The teacher was dark and pretty, and by a judicious raising or withholding of hands the twins had no wor-ries. Cal worked it out quickly and explained it to Aron. "You take most kids," he said, "if they know the answer, why, they hold up their hands, and if they don't know they just crawl under the desk. Know what we're going to do?" “No. What?” “Well, you notice the teacher don't always call on somebody with his hand up. She lets drive at the others and, sure enough, they don't know.” “That's right,” said Aron. “Now, first week we're going to work like bedamned but we won't stick up our hands. So she'll call on us and we'll know. That'll throw her. So the second week we won't work and we'll stick up our hands and she won't call on us. Third week we'll just sit quiet, and she won't ever know whether we got the answer or not. Pretty soon she'll let us alone. She isn't going to waste her time calling on somebody that knows."

Cal's method worked. In a short time the twins were not only let alone but got themselves a certain reputation for smartness. As a matter of fact, Cal's method was a waste of time. Both boys learned easily enough.

Cal was able to develop his marble game and set about gathering in all the chalkies and immies, glasses and agates, in the schoolyard. He traded them for tops just as marble season ended. At one time he had and used as legal tender at least forty-five tops of various sizes and colors, from the thick clumsy baby tops to the lean and dangerous splitters with their needle points.

Everyone who saw the twins remarked on their dif-ference one from the other and seemed puzzled that this should be so. Cal was growing up dark-skinned, dark-haired. He was quick and sure and secret. Even though he may have tried, he could not conceal his cleverness. Adults were impressed with what seemed to them a precocious maturity, and they were a little frightened at it too. No one liked Cal very much and yet everyone was touched with fear of him and through fear with respect. Although he had no friends he was welcomed by his obsequious classmates and took up a natural and cold position of leadership in the schoolyard.

If he concealed his ingenuity, he concealed his hurts too. He was regarded as thick-skinned and insensitive—even cruel.

Aron drew love from every side. He seemed shy and delicate. His pink-and-white skin, golden hair, and wide-set blue eyes caught attention. In the schoolyard his very prettiness caused some difficulty until it was discovered by his testers that Aron was a dogged, steady, and completely fearless fighter, particularly when he was crying. Word got around, and the natural punishers of new boys learned to let him alone. Aron did not attempt to hide his disposition. It was con-cealed by being the opposite of his appearance. He was unchanging once a course was set. He had few facets and very little versatility. His body was as in-sensitive to pain as was his mind to subtleties. Cal knew his brother and could handle him by keep-ing him off balance, but this only worked up to a certain point. Cal had learned when to sidestep, when to run away. Change of direction confused Aron, but that was the only thing that confused him. He set his path and followed it and he did not see nor was he interested in anything beside his path. His emotions were few and heavy. All of him was hidden by his angelic face, and for this he had no more concern or responsibility than has a fawn for the dapping spots on its young hide.

2

On Aron's first day in school he waited eagerly for the recess. He went over to the girlside to talk to Abra. A mob of squealing girls could not drive him out. It took a full-grown teacher to force him back to the boyside.

At noon he missed her, for her father came by in his high-wheeled buggy and drove her home for her lunch. He waited outside the schoolyard gate for her after school.

She came out surrounded by girls. Her face was composed and gave no sign that she expected him. She was far the prettiest girl in the school, but it is doubtful whether Aron had noticed that. The cloud of girls hung on and hung on. Aron marched along three paces behind them, patient and unembarrassed even when the girls tossed their squeal-ing barbs of insult over their shoulders at him. Gradually some drifted away to their own homes, and only three girls were with Abra when she came to the white gate of her yard and turned in. Her friends stared at him a moment, giggled, and went on their way.

Aron sat down on the edge of the sidewalk. After a moment the latch lifted, the white gate opened, and Abra emerged. She walked across the walk and stood over him. "What do you want?" Aron's wide eyes looked up at her. "You aren't engaged to anybody?" “Silly,” she said.

He struggled up to his feet. "I guess it will be a long time before we can get married," he said. "Who wants to get married?"

Aron didn't answer. Perhaps he didn't hear. He walked along beside her.

Abra moved with firm and deliberate steps and she faced straight ahead. There was wisdom and sweetness in her expression. She seemed deep in thought. And Aron, walking beside her, never took his eyes from her face. His attention seemed tied to her face by a taut string.

They walked silently past the Baby School, and there the pavement ended. Abra turned right and led the way through the stubble of the summer's hayfield. The black 'dobe clods crushed under their feet.

On the edge of the field stood a little pump house, and a willow tree flourished beside it, fed by the over-spill of water. The long skirts of the willow hung down nearly to the ground.

Abra parted the switches like a curtain and went into the house of leaves made against the willow trunk by the sweeping branches. You could see out through the leaves, but inside it was sweetly protected and warm and safe. The afternoon sunlight came yellow through the aging leaves.

Abra sat down on the ground, or rather she seemed to drift down, and her full skirts settled in a billow around her. She folded her hands in her lap almost as though she were praying.

Aron sat down beside her. "I guess it will be a long time before we can get married," he said again. "Not so long," Abra said. "I wish it was now." “It won't be so long,” said Abra. Aron asked, “Do you think your father will let you?”

It was a new thought to her, and she turned and looked at him. "Maybe I won't ask him." "But your mother?" “Let's not disturb them,” she said. “They'd think it was funny or bad. Can't you keep a secret?” “Oh, yes. I can keep secrets better than anybody. And I've got some too.”

Abra said, "Well, you just put this one with the others."

Aron picked up a twig and drew a line on the dark earth. "Abra, do you know how you get babies?" “Yes,” she said. “Who told you?”

"Lee told me. He explained the whole thing. I guess we can't have any babies for a long time."

Abra's mouth turned up at the corners with a con-descending wisdom. "Not so long," she said. “We'll have a house together some time,” Aron said, bemused. “We'll go in and close the door and it will be nice. But that will be a long time."

Abra put out her hand and touched him on the arm. "Don't you worry about long times," she said. "This is a kind of a house. We can play like we live here while we're waiting. And you will be my husband and you can call me wife."

He tried it over under his breath and then aloud. "Wife," he said. "It'll be like practicing," said Abra.

Aron's arm shook under her hand, and she put it, palm up, in her lap.

Aron said suddenly, "While we're practicing, maybe we could do something else." “What?” “Maybe you wouldn't like it.” “What is it?” “Maybe we could pretend like you're my mother.” “That's easy,” she said. “Would you mind?” “No, I'd like it. Do you want to start now?” “Sure,” Aron said. “How do you want to go about it?”

"Oh, I can tell you that," said Abra. She put a cooing tone in her voice and said, "Come, my baby, put your head in Mother's lap. Come, my little son. Mother will hold you." She drew his head down, and without warning Aron began to cry and could not stop. He wept quietly, and Abra stroked his cheek and wiped the flowing tears away with the edge of her skirt.

The sun crept down toward its setting place behind the Salinas River, and a bird began to sing wonderfully from the golden stubble of the field. It was as beautiful under the branches of the willow tree as anything in the world can be.

Very slowly Aron's weeping stopped, and he felt good and he felt warm. “My good little baby,” Abra said. “Here, let Mother brush your hair back.”

Aron sat up and said almost angrily, "I don't hardly ever cry unless I'm mad. I don't know why I cried."

Abra asked, "Do you remember your mother?" “No. She died when I was a little bit of a baby.” “Don't you know what she looked like?” “No.” “Maybe you saw a picture.” “No, I tell you. We don't have any pictures. I asked Lee and he said no pictures—no, I guess it was Cal asked Lee.” “When did she die?” “Right after Cal and I were born.” “What was her name?” “Lee says it was Cathy. Say, what you asking so much for?”

Abra went on calmly, "How was she completed?"

"What?"

The red sun leaned its rim on the rooftree of Tollot's house on the Blanco Road, and Tollot's chimney stuck up like a black thumb against it.

Abra said softly, "Listen, you remember when we came to your place that time?" “Sure!” “Well, in the buggy I went to sleep, and when I woke up my father and mother didn't know I was awake. They said your mother wasn't dead. They said she went away. They said something bad must have happened to her, and she went away.”

Aron said hoarsely, "She's dead." “Wouldn't it be nice if she wasn't?” “My father says she's dead. He's not a liar.” “Maybe he thinks she's dead.”

He said, "I think he'd know." But there was uncertainty in his tone.

Abra said, "Wouldn't it be nice if we could find her? 'Spose she lost her memory or something.

I've read about that. And we could find her and that would make her remember." The glory of the romance caught her like a rip tide and carried her away.

Aron said, "I'll ask my father." “Aron,” she said sternly, “what I told you is a secret.”

"Who says?" “I say. Now you just say after me—'I'll take double poison and cut my throat if I tell.'” For a moment he hesitated and then he repeated, “I'll take double poison and cut my throat if I tell.”

She said, “Now spit in your palm—like this—that's right. Now you give me your hand—see?—squidge the spit all together. Now rub it dry on your hair.” The two followed the formula, and then Abra said solemnly, “Now, I'd just like to see you tell that one. I knew one girl that told a secret after that oath and she burned up in a barn fire.”

The sun was gone behind Toiler's house and the gold light with it. The evening star shimmered over Mount Toro.

Abra said, "They'll skin me alive. Come on. Hurry! I bet my father's got the dog whistle out for me. I'll get whipped."

Aron looked at her in disbelief. "Whipped! They don't whip you?" “That's what you think!”

Aron said passionately, "You just let them try. If they go for to whip you, you tell them I'll kill them." His wide-set blue eyes were slitted and glinting. "No-body's going to whip my wife," he said.

Abra put her arms around his neck in the dusk under the willow tree. She kissed him on his open mouth. "I love you, husband," she said, and then she turned and bolted, holding up her skirts above her knees, her lace-edged white drawers flashing as she ran toward home.

Aron went back to the trunk of the willow tree and sat on the ground and leaned back against the bark. His mind was a grayness and there were churnings of pain in his stomach. He tried to sort out the feeling into thoughts and pictures so the pain would go away. It was hard. His slow deliberate mind could not accept so many thoughts and emotions at once. The door was shut against everything except physical pain. After a while the door opened a little and let in one thing to be scrutinized and then another and another, until all had been absorbed, one at a time. Outside his closed mind a huge thing was clamoring to get in. Aron held it back until last.

First he let Abra in and went over her dress, her face, the feel of her hand on his cheek, the odor that came from her, like milk a little and like cut grass a little. He saw and felt and heard and smelled her all over again. He thought how clean she was, her hands and fingernails, and how straightforward and unlike the gigglers in the schoolyard.

Then, in order, he thought of her holding his head and his baby crying, crying with longing, wanting some-thing and in a way feeling that he was getting it. Per-haps the getting it was what had made him cry.

Next he thought of her trick—her testing of him. He wondered what she would have done if he had told her a secret. What secret could he have told her if he had wished? Right now-he didn't recall any secret except the one that was beating on the door to get into his mind.

The sharpest question she had asked, "How does it feel not to have a mother?" slipped into his mind. And how did it feel? It didn't feel like anything. Ah, but in the schoolroom, at Christmas and graduation, when the mothers of other children came to the parties—then was the silent cry and the wordless longing. That's what it was like.

Salinas was surrounded and penetrated with swamps, with tule-filled ponds, and every pond spawned thou-sands of frogs. With the evening the air was so full of their song that it was a kind of roaring silence. It was a veil, a background, and its sudden disappearance, as after a clap of thunder, was a shocking thing. It is possible that if in the night the frog sound should have stopped, everyone in Salinas would have awakened, feeling that there was a great noise. In their millions the frog songs seemed to have a beat and a cadence, and perhaps it is the ears' function to do this just as it is the eyes' business to make stars twinkle.

It was quite dark under the willow tree now. Aron wondered whether he was ready for the big thing, and while he wondered it slipped through and was in.

His mother was alive. Often he had pictured her lying underground, still and cool and unrotted. But this was not so. Somewhere she moved about and spoke, and her hands moved and her eyes were open. And in the midst of his flood of pleasure a sorrow came down on him and a sense of loss, of dreadful loss. Aron was puzzled. He inspected the cloud of sadness. If his mother was alive, his father was a liar. If one was alive, the other was dead. Aron said aloud under the tree, "My mother is dead. She's buried some place in the East."

In the darkness he saw Lee's face and heard Lee's soft speech. Lee had built very well. Having a respect that amounted to reverence for the truth, he had also its natural opposite, a loathing of a lie. He had made it very clear to the boys exactly what he meant. If something was untrue and you didn't know it, that was error. But if you knew a true thing and changed it to a false thing, both you and it were loathsome.

Lee's voice said, “I know that sometimes a lie is used in kindness. I don't believe it ever works kindly. The quick pain of truth can pass away, but the slow, eating agony of a lie is never lost. That's a running sore.” And Lee had worked patiently and slowly and he had suc-ceeded in building Adam as the center, the foundation, the essence of truth.

Aron shook his head in the dark, shook it hard in disbelief. "If my father is a liar, Lee is a liar too." He was lost. He had no one to ask. Cal was a liar, but Lee's conviction had made Cal a clever liar. Aron felt that something had to die—his mother or his world.

His solution lay suddenly before him. Abra had not lied. She had told him only what she had heard, and her parents had only heard it too. He got to his feet and pushed his mother back into death and closed his mind against her.

He was late for supper. "I was with Abra," he explained. After supper, when Adam sat in his new comfortable chair, reading the Salinas Index, he felt a stroking touch on his shoulder and looked up. "What is it, Aron?" he asked. “Good night, Father,” Aron said.

Chapter 37

February in Salinas is likely to be damp and cold and full of miseries. The heaviest rains fall then, and if the river is going to rise, it rises then. February of 1915 was a year heavy with water.

The Trasks were well established in Salinas. Lee, once he had given up his brackish bookish dream, made a new kind of place for himself in the house beside Reynaud's Bakery. On the ranch his possessions had never really been unpacked, for Lee had lived poised to go someplace else. Here, for the first time in his life, he built a home for himself, feathered with comfort and permanence.

The large bedroom nearest the street door fell to him. Lee dipped into his savings. He had never before spent a needless penny, since all money had been ear-marked for his bookstore. But now he bought a little hard bed and a desk. He built bookshelves and un-packed his books, invested in a soft rug and tacked prints on the walls. He placed a deep and comfortable “Morris chair under the best reading lamp he could find. And last he bought a typewriter and set about learning to use it.

Having broken out of his own Spartanism, he re-made the Trask household, and Adam gave him no opposition. A gas stove came into the house and electric wires and a telephone. He spent Adam's money re-morselessly—new furniture, new carpets, a gas water-heater, and a large icebox. In a short time there was hardly a house in Salinas so well equipped. Lee defend-ed himself to Adam, saying, “You have plenty of mon-ey. It would be a shame not to enjoy it.” “I'm not complaining,” Adam protested. “Only I'd like to buy something too. What shall I buy?” “Why don't you go to Logan's music store and listen to one of the new phonographs?” “I think I'll do that,” said Adam. And he bought a Victor victrola, a tall Gothic instrument, and he went regularly to see what new records had come in.

The growing century was shucking Adam out of his shell. He subscribed to the Atlantic Monthly and the National Geographic. He joined the Masons and seri-ously considered the Elks. The new icebox fascinated him. He bought a textbook on refrigeration and began to study it.

The truth was that Adam needed work. He came out of his long sleep needing to do something. “I think I'll go into business,” he said to Lee. “You don't need to. You have enough to live on.” “But I'd like to be doing something.” “That's different,” said Lee. “Know what you want to do? I don't think you'd be very good at business.”

"Why not?" “Just a thought,” said Lee.

"Say, Lee, I want you to read an article. It says they've dug up a mastodon in Siberia. Been in the ice thousands of years. And the meat's still good."

Lee smiled at him. "You've got a bug in your bonnet somewhere," he said. "What have you got in all of those little cups in the icebox?" “Different things.”

"Is that the business? Some of the cups smell bad." “It's an idea,” Adam said. “I can't seem to stay away from it. I just can't seem to get over the idea that you can keep things if you get them cold enough.” “Let's not have any mastodon meat in our icebox,” said Lee.

If Adam had conceived thousands of ideas, the way Sam Hamilton had, they might all have drifted away, but he had only the one. The frozen mastodon stayed in his mind. His little cups of fruit, of pudding, of bits of meat, both cooked and raw, continued in the icebox. He bought every available book on bacteria and began sending for magazines that printed articles of a mildly true of a man of one idea, he became obsessed.

Salinas had a small ice company, not large but enough to supply the few houses with iceboxes and to service the ice-cream parlors. The horse-drawn ice wag-on went its route every day.

Adam began to visit the ice plant, and pretty soon he was taking his little cups to the freezing chambers. He wished with all his heart that Sam Hamilton were alive to discuss cold with him. would have covered the field very quickly, he thought.

Adam was walking back from the ice plant one rainy afternoon, thinking about Sam Hamilton, when he saw Will Hamilton go into the Abbot House Bar. He fol-lowed him and leaned against the bar beside him. "Why don't you come up and have some supper with us?" “I'd like to,” Will said. “I'll tell you what—I've got a deal I'm trying to put through. If I get finished in time I'll walk by. Is there something important?” “Well, I don't know. I've been doing some thinking and I'd like to ask your advice.”

Nearly every business proposition in the county came sooner or later to Will Hamilton's attention. He might have excused himself if he had not remembered that Adam was a rich man.

An idea was one thing, but backed up with cash it was quite another. "You wouldn't entertain a reasonable offer for your ranch, would you?" he asked. “Well, the boys, particularly Cal, they like the place. I think I'll hang on to it.” “I think I can turn it over for you.” “No, it's rented, paying its own taxes. I'll hold on to it.” “If I can't get in for supper I might be able to come in afterward,” said Will.

Will Hamilton was a very substantial businessman. No one knew exactly how many pies his thumb had explored, but it was known that he was a clever and comparatively rich man. His business deal had been non-existent. It was a part of his policy always to be busy and occupied.

He had supper alone in the Abbot House. After a considered time he walked around the corner on Central Avenue and rang the bell of Adam Trask's house.

The boys had gone to bed. Lee sat with a darning basket, mending the long black stockings the twins wore to school. Adam had been reading the Scientific American. He let Will in and placed a chair for him. Lee brought a pot of coffee and went back to his mending.

Will settled himself into a chair, took out a fat black cigar, and lighted up. He waited for Adam to open the game. “Nice weather for a change. And how's your moth-er?” Adam said. “Just fine. Seems younger every day. The boys must be growing up.” “Oh, they are. Cal's going to be in his school play. He's quite an actor. Aron's a real good student. Cal wants to go to farming.” “Nothing wrong with that if you go about it right. Country could use some forward-looking farmers." Will waited uneasily. He wondered if it could be that Adam's money was exaggerated.

Could Adam be getting ready to borrow money? Will quickly work out how much he would lend on the Trask ranch and how much he could borrow on it. The figures were not the same, nor was the interest rate. And still Adam did not come up with his proposition. Will grew restless. "I can't stay very long," he said. "Told a fellow I'd meet him later tonight." “Have another cup of coffee,” Adam suggested. “No, thanks. Keeps me awake. Did you have some-thing you wanted to see me about?”

Adam said, "I was thinking about your father and I thought I'd like to talk to a Hamilton."

Will relaxed a little in his chair. "He was a great old talker." “Somehow he made a man better than he was,” said Adam.

Lee looked up from his darning egg. "Perhaps the best conversationalist in the world is the man who helps others to talk."

Will said, "You know, it sounds funny to hear you use all those two-bit words. I'd swear to God you used to talk pidgin." “I used to,” said Lee. “It was vanity, I guess.” He smiled at Adam and said to Will, “Did you hear that somewhere up in Siberia they dug a mastodon out of the ice? It had been there a hundred thousand years and the meat was still fresh.” “Mastodon?” “Yes, a kind of elephant that hasn't lived on the earth for a long time.” “Meat was still fresh?” “Sweet as a pork chop,” said Lee. He shoved the wooden egg into the shattered-knee of a black stocking. “That's very interesting,” said Will.

Adam laughed. "Lee hasn't wiped my nose yet, but that will come," he said. "I guess I'm pretty round-about. The whole thing comes up because I'm tired of just sitting around. I want to get something to take up my time." “Why don't you farm your place?” “No. That doesn't interest me. You see, Will, I'm not like a man looking for a job. I'm looking for work. I don't need a job.”

Will came out of his cautiousness. "Well, what can I do for you?" “I thought I'd tell you an idea I had, and you might give me an opinion. You're a businessman.” “Of course,” said Will. “Anything I can do.” “I've been looking into refrigeration,” said Adam. “I got an idea and I can't get rid of it. I go to sleep and it comes right back at me. Never had anything give me so much trouble. It's a kind of a big idea. Maybe it's full of holes.”

Will uncrossed his legs and pulled at his pants where they were binding him. "Go ahead—shoot," he said. "Like a cigar?"

Adam didn't hear the offer, nor did he know the implication. “The whole country's changing,” Adam said. “People aren't going to live the way they used to. Do you know where the biggest market for oranges in the winter is?” “No. Where?” “New York City. I read that. Now in the cold parts of the country, don't you think people get to wanting perishable things in the winter—like peas and lettuce and cauliflower? In a big part of the country they don't have those things for months and months. And right here in the Salinas Valley we can raise them all the year around.” “Right here isn't right there,” said Will. “What's your idea?” “Well, Lee made me get a big icebox, and I got kind of interested. I put different kinds of vegetables in there. And I got to arranging them different ways. You know, Will, if you chop ice fine and lay a head of lettuce in it and wrap it in waxed paper, it will keep three weeks and come out fresh and good.” “Go on,” said Will cautiously. “Well, you know the railroads built those fruit cars. I went down and had a look at them. They're pretty good. Do you know we could ship lettuce right to the east coast in the middle of winter?” Will asked, “Where do you come in?” “I was thinking of buying the ice plant here in Salinas and trying to ship some things.” “That would cost a lot of money.” “I have quite a lot of money,” said Adam.

Will Hamilton putted his lip angrily. "I don't know why I got into this," he said. "I know better." "How do you mean?"

"Look here," said Will. "When a man comes to me for advice about an idea, I know he doesn't want advice. He wants me to agree with him. And if I want to keep his friendship I tell him his idea is fine and go ahead. But I like you and you're a friend of my family, so I'm going to stick my neck out."

Lee put down his darning, moved his sewing basket to the floor, and changed his glasses.

Adam remonstrated, "What are you getting upset about?" “I come from a whole goddam family of inventors,” said Will. “We had ideas for breakfast. We had ideas instead of breakfast. We had so many ideas we forgot to make the money for groceries.

When we got a little ahead my father, or Tom, patented something. I'm the only one in the family, except my mother, who didn't have ideas, and I'm the only one who ever made a dime. Tom had ideas about helping people, and some of it was pretty darn near socialism. And if you tell me you don't care about making a profit, I'm going to throw that coffee pot right at your head.”

"Well, I don't care much." “You stop right there, Adam. I've got my neck out. If you want to drop forty or fifty thousand dollars quick, you just go on with your idea. But I'm telling you—let your damned idea die. Kick dust over it.” “What's wrong with it?” “Everything's wrong with it. People in the East aren't used to vegetables in the winter. They wouldn't buy them. You get your cars stuck on a siding and you'll lose the shipment. The market is controlled. Oh, Jesus Christ! It makes me mad when babies try to ride into business on an idea.” Adam sighed. “You make Sam Hamilton sound like a criminal,” he said. “Well, he was my father and I loved him, but I wish to God he had let ideas alone.” Will looked at Adam and saw amazement in his eyes, and suddenly Will was ashamed. He shook his head slowly from side to side. “I didn't mean to run down my people,” he said. “I think they were good people. But my advice to you stands. Let refrigeration alone.”

Adam turned slowly to Lee. "Have we got any more of that lemon pie we had for supper?" he asked. “I don't think so,” said Lee. “I thought I heard mice in the kitchen. I'm afraid there will be white of egg on the boys' pillows. You've got half a quart of whisky.” “Have I? Why don't we have that?” “I got excited,” said Will, and he tried to laugh at himself. “A drink would do me good.” His face was fiery red and his voice was strained in his throat. “I'm getting too fat,” he said.

But he had two drinks and relaxed. Sitting com-fortably, he instructed Adam. "Some things don't ever change their value," he said. "If you want to put money into something, you look around at the world. This war in Europe is going to go on a long time. And when there's war there's going to be hungry people. I won't say it is so, but it wouldn't surprise me if we got into it. I don't trust this Wilson—he's all theory and big words. And if we do get into it, there's going to be fortunes made in imperishable foods. You take rice and corn and wheat and beans, they don't need ice.

They keep, and people can stay alive on them. I'd say if you were to plant your whole damned bottom land to beans and just put them away, why, your boys wouldn't have to worry about the future. Beans are up to three cents now. If we get into the war I wouldn't be surprised if they went to ten cents. And you keep beans dry and they'll be right there, waiting for a market. If you want to turn a profit, you plant beans.”

He went away feeling good. The shame that had come over him was gone and he knew he had given sound advice.

After Will had gone Lee brought out one-third of a lemon pie and cut it in two. “He's getting too fat,” Lee said.

Adam was thinking. "I only said I wanted something to do," he observed. “How about the ice-plant?” “I think I'll buy it.”

"You might plant some beans too," said Lee.

Late in the year Adam made his great try, and it was a sensation in a year of sensations, both local and interna-tional. As he got ready, businessmen spoke of him as farseeing, forward-looking, progress-minded. The de-parture of six carloads of lettuce packed in ice was given a civic overtone. The Chamber of Commerce attended the departure. The cars were decorated with big posters which said, “Salinas Valley Lettuce.” But no one wanted to invest in the project. Adam untapped energy he did not suspect he had. It was a big job to gather, trim, box, ice, and load the lettuce. There was no equipment for such work. Every-thing had to be improvised, a great many hands hired and taught to do the work. Everyone gave advice but no one helped. It was estimated that Adam had spent a fortune on his idea, but how big a fortune no one knew. “…did not know. Only Lee knew.”

The idea looked good. The lettuce was consigned to commission merchants in New York at a fine price. Then the train was gone and everyone went home to wait. If it was a success any number of men were willing to dig down to put money in. Even Will Hamil-ton wondered whether he had not been wrong with his advice.

If the series of events had been planned by an om-nipotent and unforgiving enemy it could not have been more effective. As the train came to Sacramento a snow slide closed the Sierras for two days and the six cars stood on a siding, dripping their ice away. On the third day the freight crossed the mountains, and that was the time for unseasonable warm weather throughout the Middle West. In Chicago there developed a confusion of orders—no one's fault—just one of those things that happen, and Adam's six cars of lettuce stood in the yard for five more days. That was enough, and there is no reason to go into it in detail. What arrived in New York was six carloads of horrible slop with a sizable charge just to get rid of it.

Adam read the telegram from the commission house and he settled back in his chair and a strange enduring smile came on his face and did not go away.

Lee kept away from him to let him get a grip on himself. The boys heard the reaction in Salinas. Adam was a fool. These know-it-all dreamers always got into trouble. Businessmen congratulated themselves on their foresight in keeping out of it. It took experience to be a businessman. People who inherited their money always got into trouble. And if you wanted any proof—just look at how Adam had run his ranch. A fool and his money were soon parted. Maybe that would teach him a lesson. And he had doubled the output of the ice company.

Will Hamilton recalled that he had not only argued against it but had foretold in detail what would happen. He did not feel pleasure, but what could you do when a man wouldn't take advice from a sound businessman? And, God knows, Will had plenty of experience with fly-by-night ideas. In a roundabout way it was recalled that Sam Hamilton had been a fool too. And as for Tom Hamilton—he had been just crazy.

When Lee felt that enough time had passed he did not beat around the bush. He sat directly in front of Adam to get and to keep his attention. “How do you feel?” he asked. “All right.” “You aren't going to crawl back in your hole, are you?” “What makes you think that?” Adam asked. “Well, you have the look on your face you used to wear. And you've got that sleepwalker light in your eyes. Does this hurt your feelings?”

"No," said Adam. "The only thing I was wondering about was whether I'm wiped out."

"Not quite," said Lee. "You have about nine thou-sand dollars left and the ranch." “There's a two-thousand-dollar bill for garbage dis-posal,” said Adam. “That's before the nine thousand.” “I owe quite a bit for the new ice machinery.” “That's paid.” “And the ranch,” said Lee. “Maybe you can sell the ice plant.”

Adam's face tightened up and lost the dazed smile. “I still believe it will work,” he said. “It was a whole lot of accidents. I'm going to keep the ice plant. Cold does preserve things. Besides, the plant makes some money. Maybe I can figure something out.”

"Try not to figure something that costs money," said Lee. "I would hate to leave my gas stove."

3

The twins felt Adam's failure very deeply. They were fifteen years old and they had known so long that they were sons of a wealthy man that the feeling was hard to lose. If only the affair had not been a kind of carnival it would not have been so bad. They remembered the big placards on the freight cars with horror. If the busi-nessmen made fun of Adam, the high-school group was much more cruel. Overnight it became the thing to refer to the boys as “Aron and Cal Lettuce,” or simply as “Lettuce-head.”

Aron discussed his problem with Abra. "It's going to make a big difference," he told her.

Abra had grown to be a beautiful girl. Her breasts were rising with the leaven of her years, and her face had the calm and warmth of beauty. She had gone beyond prettiness. She was strong and sure and femi-nine.

She looked at his worried face and asked, "Why is it going to make a difference?" “Well, one thing, I think we're poor.” “You would have worked anyway.” “You know I want to go to college.” “You still can. I'll help you. Did your father lose all his money?” “I don't know. That's what they say.” “Who is 'they'?” Abra asked.

"Why, everybody. And maybe your father and mother won't want you to marry me." “Then I won't tell them about it,” said Abra, "You're pretty sure of yourself."

"Yes," she said, "I'm pretty sure of myself. Will you kiss me?" “Right here? Right in the street?”

"Everybody'd see." “I want them to,” said Abra.

Aron said, "No. I don't like to make things public like that."

She stepped around in front of him and stopped him. "You look here, mister. You kiss me now." "Why?"

She said slowly, "So everybody will know that I'm Mrs. Lettuce-head."

He gave her a quick embarrassed peck and then forced her beside him again. "Maybe I ought to call it off myself," he said. “What do you mean?” “Well, I'm not good enough for you now. I'm just another poor kid. You think I haven't seen the difference in your father?” “You're just crazy,” Abra said. And she frowned a little because she had seen the difference in her father too.

They went into Bell's candy store and sat at a table. The rage was celery tonic that year. The year before it had been root-beer ice-cream sodas.

Abra stirred bubbles delicately with her straw and thought how her father had changed since the lettuce failure. He had said to her, "Don't you think it would be wise to see someone else for a change?" “But I'm engaged to Aron.” “Engaged!” he snorted at her. “Since when do chil-dren get engaged? You'd better look around a little. There are other fish in the sea.”

And she remembered that recently there had been references to suitability of families and once a hint that some people couldn't keep a scandal hidden forever. This had happened only when Adam was reputed to have lost all of his money."

She leaned across the table. "You know what we could really do is so simple it will make you laugh."

"What?" “We could run your father's ranch. My father says it's beautiful land.” “No,” Aron said quickly.

"Why not?" “I'm not going to be a farmer and you're not going to b? a farmer's wife.” “I'm going to be Aron's wife, no matter what he is.” “I'm not going to give up college,” he said. “I'll help you,” Abra said again. “Where would you get the money?” “Steal it,” she said. “I want to get out of this town,” he said. “Every-body's sneering at me. I can't stand it here.” “They'll forget it pretty soon.” “No, they won't either. I don't want to stay two years more to finish high school.” “Do you want to go away from me, Aron?” “No. Oh, damn it, why did he have to mess with things he doesn't know about?”

Abra reproved him. "Don't you blame your father. If it had worked everybody'd been bowing to him." “Well, it didn't work. He sure fixed me. I can't hold up my head. By God! I hate him.”

Abra said sternly, "Aron! You stop talking like that!" “How do I know he didn't lie about my mother?”

Abra's face reddened with anger. "You ought to be spanked," she said. "If it wasn't in front of everybody I'd spank you myself." She looked at his beautiful face, twisted now with rage and frustration, and suddenly she changed her tactics. "Why don't you ask about your mother? Just come right out and ask him." “I can't, I promised you.” “You only promised not to say what I told you.” “Well, if I asked him he'd want to know where I heard.” “All right,” she cried, “you're a spoiled baby! I let you out of your promise. Go ahead and ask him.” “I don't know if I will or not.” “Sometimes I want to kill you,” she said. “But Aron—I do love you so. I do love you so.” There was gig-gling from the stools in front of the soda fountain. Their voices had risen and they were overheard by their peers. Aron blushed and tears of anger started in his eyes. He ran out of the store and plunged away up the street.

Abra calmly picked up her purse and straightened her skirt and brushed it with her hand. She walked calmly over to Mr. Bell and paid for the celery tonics. On her way to the door she stopped by the giggling group. "You let him alone," she said coldly. She walked on, and a falsetto followed her—"Oh, Aron, I do love you so."

In the street she broke into a run to try to catch up with Aron, but she couldn't find him. She called on the telephone. Lee said that Aron had not come home. But Aron was in his bedroom, lapped in resentments—Lee had seen him creep in and close his door behind him.

Abra walked up and down the streets of Salinas, hoping to catch sight of him. She was angry at him, but she was also bewilderingly lonely, Aron hadn't ever run away from her before. Abra had lost her gift for being alone.

Cal had to learn loneliness. For a very short time he tried to join Abra and Aron, but they didn't want him. He was jealous and tried to attract the girl to himself and failed.

His studies he found easy and not greatly interesting. Aron had to work harder to learn, wherefore Aron had a greater sense of accomplishment when he did learn, and he developed a respect for learning out of all proportion to the quality of the learning. Cal drifted through. He didn't care much for the sports at school or for the activities. His growing restlessness drove him out at night. He grew tall and rangy, and always there was the darkness about him.

Chapter 38

From his first memory Cal had craved warmth and af-fection, just as everyone does. If he had been an only child or if Aron had been a different kind of boy, Cal might have achieved his relationship normally and eas-ily. But from the very first people were won instantly to Aron by his beauty and his simplicity. Cal very natural-ly competed for attention and affection in the only way he knew—by trying to imitate Aron. And what was charming in the blond ingenuousness of Aron became suspicious and unpleasant in the dark-faced, slit-eyed Cal. And since he was pretending, his performance was not convincing. Where Aron was received, Cal was rebuffed for doing or saying exactly the same thing.

And as a few strokes on the nose will make a puppy head shy, so a few rebuffs will make a boy shy all over. But whereas a puppy will cringe away or roll on its back, groveling, a little boy may cover his shyness with nonchalance, with bravado, or with secrecy. And once a boy has suffered rejection, he will find rejection even where it does not exist—or, worse, will draw it forth from people simply by expecting it.

In Cal the process had been so long and so slow that he felt no strangeness. He had built a wall of self-sufficiency around himself, strong enough to defend him against the world. If his wall had any weak places they may have been on the sides nearest Aron and Lee, and particularly nearest Adam. Perhaps in his father's very unawareness Cal had felt safety. Not being noticed at all was better than being noticed adversely.

When he was quite small Cal had discovered a secret. If he moved very quietly to where his father was sitting and if he leaned very lightly against his father's knee, Adam's hand would rise automatically and his fingers would caress Cal's shoulder. It is probable that Adam did not even know he did it, but the caress brought such a raging flood of emotion to the boy that he saved this special joy and used it only when he needed it. It was a magic to be depended upon. It was the ceremonial symbol of a dogged adoration.

Things do not change with a change of scene. In Salinas, Cal had no more friends than he had had in King City. Associates he had, and authority and some admiration, but friends he did not have. He lived alone and walked alone.

If Lee knew that Cal left the house at night and returned very late, he gave no sign, since he couldn't do anything about it. The night constables sometimes saw him walking alone. Chief Heiserman made it a point to speak to the truant officer, who assured him that Cal not only had no record for playing hooky but actually was a very good student. The chief knew Adam of course, and since Cal broke no windows and caused no disturbance he told the constables to keep their eyes open but to let the boy alone unless he got into trouble.

Old Tom Watson caught up with Cal one night and asked, "Why do you walk around so much at night?" “I'm not bothering anybody,” said Cal defensively. “I know you're not. But you ought to be home in bed.” “I'm not sleepy,” said Cal, and this didn't make any sense at all to Old Tom, who couldn't remember any time in his whole life when he wasn't sleepy. The boy looked in on the fan-tan games in Chinatown, but he didn't play. It was a mystery, but then fairly simple things were mysteries to Tom Watson and he preferred to leave them that way.

On his walks Cal often recalled the conversation between Lee and Adam he had heard on the ranch. He wanted to dig out the truth. And his knowledge ac-cumulated slowly, a reference heard in the street, the giving talk in the pool hall. If Aron had heard the fragments he would not have noticed, but Cal collected them. He knew that his mother was not dead. He knew also, both from the first conversation and from the talk he heard, that Aron was not likely to be pleased at discovering her.

One night Cal ran into Rabbit Holman, who was up from San Ardo on his semi-annual drunk. Rabbit greeted Cal effusively, as a country man always greets an acquaintance in a strange place. Rabbit, drinking from a pint flask in the alley behind the Abbot House, told Cal all the news he could think of. He had sold a piece of his land at a fine price and he was in Salinas to celebrate, and celebration meant the whole shebang. He was going down the Line and show the whores what a real man could do.

Cal sat quietly beside him, listening. When the whisky got low in Rabbit's pint Cal slipped away and got Louis Schneider to buy him another one. And Rabbit put down his empty pint and reached for it again and came up with a full pint.

"Funny," he said, "thought I only had one. Well, it's a good mistake."

Halfway down the second pint Rabbit had not only forgotten who Cal was but how old he was. He remem-bered, however, that his companion was his very dear old friend.

"Tell you what, George," he said. "You let me get a little more of this here lead in my pencil and you and me will go down the Line. Now don't say you can't afford it. The whole shebang's on me. Did I tell you I sold forty acres? Wasn't no good neither."

And he said, “Harry, tell you what let's do. Let's keep away from them two-bit whores. We'll go to Kate's place. Costs high, ten bucks, but what the hell! They got a circus down there. Ever seen a circus, Harry? Well, it's a lulu. Kate sure knows her stuff. You remember who Kate is, don't you, George? She's Adam Trask's wife, mother of them damn twins. Jesus! I never forget the time she shot him and ran away. Plugged him in the shoulder and just runoff. Well, she wasn't no good as a wife but she's sure as hell a good whore. Funny too—you know how they say a whore makes a good wife? Ain't nothing new for them to experiment with. Help me up a little, will you, Harry? What was I saying?” “Circus,” said Cal softly. “Oh, yeah. Well, this circus of Kate's will pop your eyes out. Know what they do?”

Cal walked a little behind so that Rabbit would not notice him. Rabbit told what they did. And what they did wasn't what made Cal sick. That just seemed to him silly. It was the men who watched. Seeing Rabbit's face under the streetlights, Cal knew what the watchers at the circus would be like.

They went through the overgrown yard and up on the unpainted porch. Although Cal was tall for his age he walked high on his toes. The guardian of the door didn't look at him very closely. The dim room with its low secret lamps and the nervous waiting men con-cealed his presence.

3

Always before, Cal wanted to build a dark accumula-tion of things seen and things heard—a kind of a warehouse of materials that, like obscure tools, might come in handy, but after the visit to Kate's he felt a desperate need for help.

One night Lee, tapping away at his typewriter, heard a quiet knock on his door and let Cal in. The boy sat down on the edge of the bed, and Lee let his thin body down in the Morris chair. He was amused that a chair could give him so much pleasure. Lee folded his hands over his stomach as though he wore Chinese sleeves and waited patiently. Cal was looking at a spot in the air right over Lee's head.

Cal spoke softly and rapidly. "I know where my mother is and what she's doing. I saw her."

Lee's mind said a convulsive prayer for guidance. “What do you want to know?” he asked softly. “I haven't thought yet. I'm trying to think. Would you tell me the truth?” “Of course.”

The questions whirling in Cal's head were so bewildering he had trouble picking one out. "Does my father know?" “Yes.”

"Why did he say she was dead?" “To save you from pain.”

Cal considered. "What did my father do to make her leave?" “He loved her with his whole mind and body. He gave her everything he could imagine.” “Did she shoot him?” “Yes.”

"Why?" “Because he didn't want her to go away.” “Did he ever hurt her?” “Not that I know of. It wasn't in him to hurt her.” “Lee, why did she do it?” “I don't know.” “Don't know or won't say?”

"Don't know."

Cal was silent for so long that Lee's fingers began to creep a little, holding to his wrists. He was relieved when Cal spoke again. The boy's tone was different. There was a pleading in it.

"Lee, you knew her. What was she like?"

Lee sighed and his hands relaxed. "I can only say what I think. I may be wrong." “Well, what did you think?” “Cal,” he said, “I've thought about it for a great many hours and I still don't know. She is a mystery. It seems to me that she is not like other people. There is something she lacks. Kindness maybe, or conscience. You can only understand people if you feel them in yourself. And I can't feel her. The moment I think about her my feeling goes into darkness. I don't know what she wanted or what she was after. She was full of hatred, but why or toward what I don't know. It's a mystery. And her hatred wasn't healthy. It wasn't angry. It was heartless. I don't know that it is good to talk to you like this.” “I need to know.” “Why? Didn't you feel better before you knew?” “Yes. But I can't stop now.” “You're right,” said Lee. “When the first innocence goes, you can't stop—unless you're a hypocrite or a fool. But I can't tell you any more because I don't know any more.

Cal said, "Tell me about my father then." “That I can do,” said Lee. He paused. “I wonder if anyone can hear us talking? Speak softly.” “Tell me about him,” said Cal. “I think your father has in him, magnified, the things his wife lacks. I think in him kindness and conscience are so large that they are almost faults. They trip him up and hinder him.” “What did he do when she left?” “He died,” said Lee. “He walked around but he was dead. And only recently has he come half to life again.” Lee saw a strange new expression on Cal's face. The eyes were open wider, and the mouth, ordinarily tight and muscular, was relaxed. In his face, now for the first time, Lee could see Aron's face in spite of the different coloring. Cal's shoulders were shaking a little, like a muscle too long held under a strain. “What is it, Cal?” Lee asked. “I love him,” Cal said. “I love him too,” said Lee. “I guess I couldn't have stayed around so long if I hadn't. He is not smart in a worldly sense but he's a good man. Maybe the best man I have ever known.”

Cal stood up suddenly. "Good night, Lee," he said. “Now you wait just a moment. Have you told any-one?” “No.” “Not Aron—no, of course you wouldn't.” “Suppose he finds out?” “Then you'd have to stand by to help him. Don't go yet. When you leave this room we may not be able to talk again. You may dislike me for knowing you know the truth. Tell me this—do you hate your mother?” “Yes,” said Cal. “I wondered,” said Lee. “I don't think your father ever hated her. He had only sorrow.”

Cal drifted toward the door, slowly, softly. He shoved his fists deep in his pockets. "It's like you said about knowing people. I hate her because I know why she went away. I know—because I've got her in me." His head was down and his voice was heartbroken.

Lee jumped up. "You stop that!" he said sharply. "You hear me? Don't let me catch you doing that. Of course you may have that in you. Everybody has. But you've got the other too. Here—look up! Look at me!"

Cal raised his head and said wearily, "What do you want?"

"You've got the other too. Listen to me! You wouldn't even be wondering if you didn't have it. Don't you dare take the lazy way. It's too easy to excuse yourself because of your ancestry. Don't let me catch you doing it! Now—look close at me so you will remember. Whatever you do, it will be you who do it—not your mother." “Do you believe that, Lee?” “Yes, I believe it, and you'd better believe it or I'll break every bone in your body.”

After Cal had gone Lee went back to his chair. He thought ruefully, I wonder what happened to my Orien-tal repose?

4

Cal's discovery of his mother was more a verification than a new thing to him. For a long time he had known without details that the cloud was there. And his reac-tion was twofold. He had an almost pleasant sense of power in knowing, and he could evaluate actions and expressions, could interpret vague references, could even dip up and reorganize the past. But these did not compensate for the pain in his knowledge.

His body was rearranging itself toward manhood, and he was shaken by the veering winds of adoles-cence. One moment he was dedicated and pure and devoted; the next he wallowed in filth; and the next he groveled in shame and emerged rededicated.

His discovery sharpened all of his emotions. It seemed to him that he was unique, having such a heritage. He could not quite believe Lee's words or conceive that other boys were going through the same thing.

The circus at Kate's remained with him. At one moment the memory inflamed his mind and body with pubescent fire, and the next moment nauseated him with revulsion and loathing.

He looked at his father more closely and saw per-haps more sadness and frustration in Adam than may have been there. And in Cal there grew up a passionate love for his father and a wish to protect him and to make it up to him for the things he had suffered. In Cal's own sensitized mind that suffering was unbear-able. He blundered into the bathroom while Adam was bathing and saw the ugly bullet scar and heard himself ask against his will, “Father, what's that scar?”

Adam's fingers went up as though to conceal the scar. He said, “It's an old wound, Cal. I was in the Indian campaigns. I'll tell you about it some time.”

Cal, watching Adam's face, had seen his mind leap into the past for a lie. Cal didn't hate the lie but the necessity for telling it. Cal lied for reasons of profit of one kind or another. To be driven to a lie seemed shameful to him. He wanted to shout, “I know how you got it and it's all right.”

But, of course, he did not. "I'd like to hear about it," he said.

Aron was caught in the roil of change too, but his impulses were more sluggish than Cal's. His body did not scream at him so shrilly. His passions took a reli-gious direction. He decided on the ministry for his future. He attended all services in the Episcopal church, helped with the flowers and leaves at feast times, and spent many hours with the young and curly-haired clergyman, Mr. Rolf. Aron's training in worldliness was gained from a young man of no experience, which gave him the agility for generalization only the inexperienced can have.

Aron was confirmed in the Episcopal church and took his place in the choir on Sundays. Abra followed him. Her feminine mind knew that such things were necessary but unimportant.

It was natural that the convert Aron should work on Cal. First Aron prayed silently for Cal, but finally he approached him. He denounced Cal's godlessness, de-manded his reformation.

Cal might have tried to go along if his brother had been more clever. But Aron had reached a point of passionate purity that made everyone else foul. After a few lectures Cal found him unbearably smug and told him so. It was a relief to both of them when Aron abandoned his brother to eternal damnation.

Aron's religion inevitably took a sexual turn. He spoke to Abra of the necessity for abstinence and de-cided that he would live a life of celibacy. Abra in her wisdom agreed with him, feeling and hoping that this phase would pass. Celibacy was the only state she had known. She wanted to marry Aron and bear any number of his children, but for the time being she did not speak of it.

She had never been jealous before, but now she began to find in herself an instinctive and perhaps justified hatred of the Reverend Mr. Rolf.

Cal watched his brother triumph over sins he had never committed. He thought sardonically of telling him about his mother, to see how he would handle it, but he withdrew the thought quickly. He didn't think Aron could handle it at all.

Chapter 39

At intervals Salinas suffered from a mild eructation of morality. The process never varied much. One burst was like another. Sometimes it started in the pulpit and sometimes with a new ambitious president of the Wom-en's Civic Club. Gambling was invariably the sin to be eradicated. There were certain advantages in attacking gambling. One could discuss it, which was not true of prostitution. It was an obvious evil and most of the games were operated by Chinese. There was little chance of treading on the toes of a relative.

From church and club the town's two newspapers caught fire. Editorials demanded a clean-up. The police agreed but pleaded short-handedness and tried for in-creased budget and sometimes succeeded.

When it got to the editorial stage everyone knew the cards were down. What followed was as carefully pro-duced as a ballet. The police got ready, the gambling houses got ready, and the papers set up congratulatory editorials in advance. Then came the raid, deliberate and sure.

Twenty or more Chinese, imported from Pajaro, a few bums, six or eight drummers, who, being strangers, were not warned, fell into the police net, were booked, jailed, and in the morning fined and released. The town relaxed in its new spotlessness and the houses lost only one night of business plus the fines. It is one of the triumphs of the human that he can know a thing and still not believe it.

In the fall of 1916 Cal was watching the fan-tan game at Shorty Lim's one night when the raid scooped him up. In the dark no one noticed him, and the chief was embarrassed to find him in the tank in the morn-ing. The chief telephoned Adam, got him up from his breakfast. Adam walked the two blocks to the City Hall, picked up Cal, crossed the street to the post office for his mail, and then the two walked home.

Lee had kept Adam's eggs warm and had fried two for Cal.

Aron walked through the dining room on his way to school. "Want me to wait for you?" he asked Cal. “No,” said Cal. He kept his eyes down and ate his eggs.

Adam had not spoken except to say, “Come along!” at the City Hall after he had thanked the Chief.

Cal gulped down a breakfast he did not want, dart-ing glances up through his eyelashes at his father's face. He could make nothing of Adam's expression. It seemed at once puzzled and angry and thoughtful and sad.

Adam stared down into his coffee cup. The silence grew until it had the weight of age so hard to lift aside.

Lee looked in. "Coffee?" he asked.

Adam shook his head slowly. Lee withdrew and this time closed the kitchen door.

In the clock-ticking silence Cal began to be afraid. He felt a strength flowing out of his father he had never known was there. Itching prickles of agony ran up his legs, and he was afraid to move to restore the circula-tion. He knocked his fork against his plate to make a noise and the clatter was swallowed up. The clock struck nine deliberate strokes and they were swallowed up.

As the fear began to chill, resentment took its place. So might a trapped fox feel anger at the paw which held him to the trap.

Suddenly Cal jumped up. He hadn't known he was going to move. He shouted and he hadn't known he was going to speak. He cried, “Do what you're going to do to me! Go ahead! Get it over!”

And his shout was sucked into the silence.

Adam slowly raised his head. It is true that Cal had never looked into his father's eyes before, and it is true that many people never look into their father's eyes. Adam's irises were light blue with dark radial lines lead-ing into the vortices of his pupils. And deep down in each pupil Cal saw his own face reflected, as though two Cals looked out at him.

Adam said slowly, “I've failed you, haven't I?”

It was worse than an attack. Cal faltered, "What do you mean?"

"You were picked up in a gambling house. I don't know how you got there, what you were doing there, why you went there."

Cal sat limply down and looked at his plate.

"Do you gamble, son?" “No, sir. I was just watching.” “Had you been there before?” “Yes, sir. Many times.”

"Why do you go?" “I don't know. I get restless at night—like an alley cat, I guess.” The thought of Kate and his weak joke seemed horrible to him. “When I can't sleep I walk around,” he said, “to try to blot it out.”

Adam considered his words, inspected each one. "Does your brother walk around too?" “Oh, no, sir. He wouldn't think of it. He's—he's not restless.” “You see, I don't know,” said Adam. “I don't know anything about you.”

Cal wanted to throw his arms about his father, to hug him and to be hugged by him. He wanted some wild demonstration of sympathy and love. He picked up his wooden napkin ring and thrust his forefinger through it. "I'd tell you if you asked," he said softly. “I didn't ask. I didn't ask! I'm as bad a father as my father was.”

Cal had never heard this tone in Adam's voice. It was hoarse and breaking with warmth and he fumbled among his words, feeling for them in the dark. “My father made a mold and forced me into it,” Adam said. “I was a bad casting but I couldn't be remelted. Nobody can be remelted. And so I remained a bad casting.”

Cal said, "Sir, don't be sorry. You've had too much of that." “Have I? Maybe—but maybe the wrong kind. I don't know my sons. I wonder whether I could learn.” “I'll tell you anything you want to know. Just ask me.” “Where would I start? Right at the beginning?” “Are you sad or mad because I was in jail?”

To Cal's surprise Adam laughed. "You were just there, weren't you? You didn't do anything wrong." “Maybe being there was wrong.” Cal wanted a blame for himself.

"One time I was just there," said Adam. "I was a prisoner for nearly a year for just being there."

Cal tried to absorb this heresy. "I don't believe it," he said. “Sometimes I don't either, but I know that when I escaped I robbed a store and stole some clothes.” “I don't believe it,” Cal said weakly, but the warmth, the closeness, was so delicious that he clung to it. He breethd shallowly so that the warmth might not be disturbed.

Adam said, “Do you remember Samuel Hamilton?—sure you do. When you were a baby he told me I was a bad father. He hit me, knocked me down, to impress it on me.” “That old man?” “He was a tough old man. And now I know what he meant. I'm the same as my father was. He didn't allow me to be a person, and I haven't seen my sons as people. That's what Samuel meant." He looked right into Cal's eyes and smiled, and Cal ached with affection for him.

Cal said, "We don't think you're a bad father." “Poor things,” said Adam. “How would you know? You've never had any other kind.” “I'm glad I was in jail,” said Cal. “So am I. So am I.” He laughed. “We've both been in jail—we can talk together.” A gaiety grew in him. “Maybe you can tell me what kind of a boy you are—can you?” “Yes sir.”

"Will you?"

"Yes, sir." “Well, tell me. You see, there's a responsibility in being a person. It's more than just taking up space where air would be. What are you like?” “No joke?” Cal asked shyly. “No joke—oh, surely, no joke. Tell me about your-self—that is, if you want to.”

Cal began, "Well—I'm—" He stopped. "It's not so easy when you try," he said. “I guess it would be—maybe impossible. Tell me about your brother.” “What do you want to know about him?” “What you think of him, I guess. That's all you could tell me.”

Cal said, "He's good. He doesn't do bad things. He doesn't think bad things." “Now you're telling about yourself.” “Sir?”

"You're saying you do and think bad things."

Cal's cheeks reddened. "Well, I do." “Very bad things?” “Yes, sir. Do you want me to tell?” “No, Cal. You've told. Your voice tells and your eyes tell you're at war with yourself. But you shouldn't be ashamed. It's awful to be ashamed. Is Aron ever ashamed?” “He doesn't do anything to be ashamed of.”

Adam leaned forward. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"Tell me, Cal—do you protect him?" “How do you mean, sir?” “I mean like this—if you heard something bad or cruel or ugly, would you keep it from him?” “I—I think so.” “You think he's too weak to bear things you can bear?” “It's not that, sir. He's good. He's really good. He never does anyone harm. He never says bad things about anyone. He's not mean and he never complains and he's brave. He doesn't like to fight but he will.”

"You love your brother, don't you?" “Yes, sir. And I do bad things to him. I cheat him and I fool him. Sometimes I hurt him for no reason at all.” “And then you're miserable?” “Yes, sir.” “Is Aron ever miserable?” “I don't know. When I didn't want to join the Church he felt bad. And once when Abra got angry and said she hated him he felt awful bad. He was sick. He had a fever. Don't you remember? Lee sent for the doctor.”

Adam said with wonder, "I could live with you and not know any of these things! Why was Abra mad?"

Cal said, "I don't know if I ought to tell." “I don't want you to then.” “It's nothing bad. I guess it's all right. You see, sir, Aron wants to be a minister. Mr. Rolf—well, he likes high church, and Aron liked that, and he thought maybe he would never get married and maybe go to a retreat.” “Like a monk, you mean?” “Yes, sir.” “And Abra didn't like that?” “Like it? She got spitting mad. She can get mad sometimes. She took Aron's fountain pen and threw it on the sidewalk and tramped on it. She said she'd wasted half her life on Aron.”

Adam laughed. "How old is Abra?" “Nearly fifteen. But she's—well, more than that some ways.” “I should say she is. What did Aron do?” “He just got quiet but he felt awful bad.”

Adam said, "I guess you could have taken her away from him then." “Abra is Aron's girl,” said Cal.

Adam looked deeply into Cal's eyes. Then he called, “Lee!” There was no answer. “Lee!” he called again. He said, “'I didn't hear him go out. I want some fresh coffee.'” Cal jumped up. "I'll make it." “Say,” said Adam, “you should be in school.” “I don't want to go.” “You ought to go. Aron went.” “I'm happy,” Cal said. “I want to be with you.”

Adam looked down at his hands. "Make the coffee," he said softly and his voice was shy.

When Cal was in the kitchen Adam looked inward at himself with wonder. His nerves and muscles throbbed with an excited hunger. His fingers yearned to grasp, his legs to run. His eyes avidly brought the room into focus. He saw the chairs, the pictures, the red roses on the carpet, and new sharp things—almost people things but friendly things. And in his brain was born sharp appetite for the future—a pleased warm antici-pation, as though the coming minutes and weeks must bring delight. He felt a dawn emotion, with a lovely day to slip golden and quiet over him. gers behind his head and stretched his legs out stiff.

In the kitchen Cal urged on the water heating in the coffeepot, and yet he was pleased to be waiting. A miracle once it is familiar is no longer a miracle; Cal had lost his wonder at the golden relationship with his father but the pleasure remained. The poison of lone-liness and the gnawing envy of the unlonely had gone out of him, and his person was clean and sweet, and he knew it was. He dredged up an old hatred to test him-self, and he found the hatred gone. He wanted to serve his father, to give him some great gift, to perform some huge good task in honor of his father.

The coffee boiled over and Cal spent minutes cleaning up the stove. He said to himself, "I wouldn't have done this yesterday."

Adam smiled at him when he carried in the steaming pot. Adam sniffed and said, "That's a smell could raise me out of a concrete grave." “It boiled over,” said Cal. “It has to boil over to taste good,” Adam said. “I wonder where Lee went.” “Maybe in his room. Shall I look?” “No. He'd have answered.” “Sir, when I finish school, will you let me run the ranch?” “You're planning early. How about Aron?”

"He wants to go to college. Don't tell him I told you. Let him tell you, and you be surprised." " " said Adam. "But don't you want to go to college " “I bet I could make money on the ranch—enough to pay Aron's way through college.”

Adam sipped his coffee. "That's a generous thing," he said. "I don't know whether I ought to tell you this but—well, when I asked you earlier what kind of boy Aron was, you defended him so badly I thought you might dislike him or even hate him.” “I have hated him,” Cal said vehemently. “And I've hurt him too. But, sir, can I tell you something? I don't hate him now. I won't ever hate him again. I don't think I will hate anyone, not even my mother—” He stopped, astonished at his slip, and his mind froze up tight and helpless.

Adam looked straight ahead. He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. Finally he said quietly, "You know about your mother." It was not a question. “Yes—yes, sir.” “All about her?”

"Yes, sir."

Adam leaned back in his chair. "Does Aron know?" “Oh, no! No—no, sir. He doesn't know.”

"Why do you say it that way?" “I wouldn't dare to tell him.”

"Why not?"

Cal said brokenly, "I don't think he could stand it. He hasn't enough badness in him to stand it."

He wanted to continue, "—any more than you could, sir," but he left the last unsaid.

Adam's face looked weary. He moved his head from side to side. “Cal, listen to me. Do you think there's any chance of keeping Aron from knowing? Think carefully.”

Cal said, "He doesn't go near places like that. He's not like me." “Suppose someone told him?” “I don't think he would believe it, sir. I think he would lick whoever told him and think it was a lie.” “You've been there?” “Yes, sir. I had to know.” And Cal went on excitedly, “If he went away to college and never lived in this town again—” Adam nodded. "Yes. That might be. But he has two more years here." “Maybe I could make him hurry it up and finish in one year. He's smart.” “But you're smarter?” “A different kind of smart,” said Cal.

Adam seemed to grow until he filled one side of the room. His face was stern and his blue eyes sharp and penetrating. "Cal!" he said harshly. “Sir?” “I trust you, son,” said Adam.

Adam's recognition brought a ferment of happiness to Cal. He walked on the balls of his feet. He smiled more often than he frowned, and the secret darkness was seldom on him. Lee, noticing the change in him, asked quietly, “You haven't found a girl, have you?”

"Girl? No. Who wants a girl?" “Everybody,” said Lee.

And Lee asked Adam, “Do you know what's got into Cal?”

Adam said, “He knows about her.” “Does he?” Lee stayed out of trouble. “Well, you remember I thought you should have told them.” “I didn't tell him. He knew.” “What do you think of that!” said Lee. “But that's not information to make a boy hum when he studies and play catch with his cap when he walks. How about Aron?” “I'm afraid of that,” said Adam. “I don't think I want him to know.” “It might be too late.” “I might have a talk with Aron. Kind of feel around.”

Lee considered. "Something's happened to you too." “Has it? I guess it has,” said Adam.

But humming and sailing his cap, driving quickly through his schoolwork, were only the smallest of Cal's activities. In his new joy he appointed himself guardian of his father's content. It was true what he had said about not feeling hatred for his mother. But that did not change the fact that she had been the instrument of Adam's hurt and shame. Cal reasoned that what she could do before, she could do again. He set himself to learn all he could about her. A known enemy is less dangerous, less able to surprise.

At night he was drawn to the house across the tracks. Sometimes in the afternoon he lay hidden in the tall weeds across the street, watching the place. He saw the girls come out, dressed somberly, even severely. They left the house always in pairs, and Cal followed them with his eyes to the corner of Castroville Street, where they turned left toward Main Street. He discov-ered that if you didn't know where they had come from you couldn't tell what they were. But he was not wait-ing for the girls to come out. He wanted to see his mother in the light of day. He found that Kate emerged every Monday at one-thirty.

Cal made arrangements in school, by doing extra and excellent work, to make up for his absences on Monday afternoons. To Aron's questions he replied that he was working on a surprise and was duty bound to tell no one. Aron was not much interested anyway. In his self-immersion Aron soon forgot the whole thing.

Cal, after he had followed Kate several times, knew her route. She always went to the same places—first to the Monterey County Bank where she was admitted behind the shining bars that defended the safe-deposit vault. She spent fifteen or twenty minutes there. Then she moved slowly along Main Street, looking in the store windows. She stepped into Porter and Irvine's and looked at dresses and sometimes made a purchase—elastic, safety pins, a veil, a pair of gloves. About two-fifteen she entered Minnie Franken's beauty parlor, stayed an hour, and came out with her hair pinned up in tight curls and a silk scarf around her head and tied under her chin. At three-thirty she climbed the stairs to the offices over the Farmers' Mercantile and went into the consult-ing room of Dr. Rosen. When she came down from the doctor's office she stopped for a moment at Bell's candy store and bought a two-pound box of mixed chocolates. She never varied the route. From Bell's she went direct-ly back to Castroville Street and thence to her house.

There was nothing strange about her clothing. She dressed exactly like any well-to-do Salinas woman out shopping on a Monday afternoon—except that she al-ways wore gloves, which was unusual for Salinas.

The gloves made her hands seem puffed and pudgy. She moved as though she were surrounded by a glass shell. She spoke to no one and seemed to see no one. Occasionally a man turned and looked after her and then nervously went about his business. But for the most part she slipped past like an invisible woman.

For a number of weeks Cal followed Kate. He tried not to attract her attention. And since Kate walked always looking straight ahead, he was convinced that she did not notice him.

When Kate entered her own yard Cal strolled casual-ly by and went home by another route. He could not have said exactly why he followed her, except that he wanted to know all about her.

The eighth week he took the route she completed her journey and went into her overgrown yard as usual.

Cal waited a moment, then strolled past the rickety gate.

Kate was standing behind a tall ragged privet. She said to him coldly, "What do you want?" Cal froze in his steps. He was suspended in time, barely breathing. Then he began a practice he had learned when he was very young. He observed and catalogued details outside his main object. He noticed how the wind from the south bent over the new little leaves of the tall privet bush. He saw the muddy path beaten to black mush by many feet, and Kate's feet standing far to the side out of the mud. He heard a switch engine in the Southern Pacific yards discharging steam in shrill dry spurts. He felt the chill air on the growing fuzz on his cheeks. And all the time he was staring at Kate and she was staring back at him. And he saw in the set and color of her eyes and hair, even in the way she held her shoulders—high in a kind of semi-shrug—that Aron looked very like her. He did not know his own face well enough to recognize her mouth and little teeth and wide cheekbones as his own. They stood thus for the moment, between two gusts of the southern wind.

Kate said, "This isn't the first time you've followed me. What do you want?"

He dipped his head. "Nothing," he said. “Who told you to do it?” she demanded. “Nobody—ma'am.”

"You won't tell me, will you?"

Cal heard his own next speech with amazement. It was out before he could stop it. "You're my mother and I wanted to see what you're like." It was the exact truth and it had leaped out like the stroke of a snake. “What? What is this? Who are you?” “I'm Cal Trask,” he said. He felt the delicate change of balance as when a seesaw moves. His was the upper seat now. Although her expression had not changed Cal knew she was on the defensive. She looked at him closely, observed every feature. A dim remembered picture of Charles leaped into her mind. Suddenly she said, “Come with me!” She turned and walked up the path, keeping well to the side, out of the mud.

Cal hesitated only for a moment before following her up the steps. He remembered the big dim room, but the rest was strange to him. Kate preceded him down a hall and into her room. As she went past the kitchen en-trance she called, "Tea. Two cups!"

In her room she seemed to have forgotten him!. She removed her coat, tugging at the sleeves with reluctant fat gloved fingers. Then she went to a new door cut in the wall in the end of the room where her bed stood. She opened the door and went into a new little lean-to. “Come in here!” she said. “Bring that chair with you.”

He followed her into a box of a room. It had no windows, no decorations of any kind. Its walls were painted a dark gray. A solid gray carpet covered the floor. The only furniture in the room was a huge chair puffed with gray silk cushions, a tilted reading table, and a floor lamp deeply hooded. Kate pulled the light chain with her gloved hand, holding it deep in the crotch between her thumb and forefinger as though her hand were artificial. “Close the door!” Kate said.

The light threw a circle on the reading table and only diffused dimly through the gray room.

Indeed the gray walls seemed to suck up the light and destroy it.

Kate settled herself gingerly among the thick down cushions and slowly removed her gloves. The fingers of both hands were bandaged.

Kate said angrily, "Don't stare. It's arthritis. Oh—so you want to see, do you?" She unwrapped the oily-looking bandage from her right forefinger and stuck the crooked finger under the light. "There—look at it," she said. "It's arthritis." She whined in pain as she tenderly wrapped the bandage loosely. "God, those gloves hurt!" she said. "Sit down."

Cal crouched on the edge of his chair. “You'll probably get it,” Kate said. “My great-aunt had it and my mother was just beginning to get it—” She stopped. The room was very silent.

There was a soft knock on the door. Kate called, "Is that you, Joe? Set the tray down out there. Joe, are you there?"

A mutter came through the door.

Kate said tonelessly, "There's a litter in the parlor. Clean it up. Anne hasn't cleaned her room.

Give her one more warning. Tell her it's the last. Eva got smart last night. I'll take care of her.

And, Joe, tell the cook if he serves carrots again this week he can pack up. Hear me?"

The mutter came through the door. “That's all,” said Kate. “The dirty pigs!” she mut-tered. “They'd rot if I didn't watch them. Go out and bring in the tea tray.”

The bedroom was empty when Cal opened the door. He carried the tray into the lean-to and set it gingerly on the tilted reading table. It was a large silver tray, and on it were a pewter teapot, two paper-thin white teacups, sugar, cream, and an open box of chocolates. “Pour the tea,” said Kate. “It hurts my hands.” She put a chocolate in her mouth. “I saw you looking at this room,” she went on when she had swallowed her candy. “The light hurts my eyes. I come in here to rest.” She saw Cal's quick glance at her eyes and said with finality, “The light hurts my eyes." She said harshly, "What's the matter? Don't you want tea?" “No, ma'am,” said Cal, “I don't like tea.”

She held the thin cup with her bandaged fingers. "All right. What do you want?"

"Nothing, ma'am." “Just wanted to look at me?”

"Yes, ma'am." “Are you satisfied?”

"Yes, ma'am." “How do I look?” She smiled crookedly at him and showed her sharp white little teeth. “All right.” “I might have known you'd cover up. Where's your brother?” “In school, I guess, or home.” “What's he like?” “He looks more like you.”

"Oh, he does? Well, is he like me?" “He wants to be a minister,” said Cal. “I guess that's the way it should be—looks like me and wants to go into the church. A man can do a lot of damage in the church. When someone comes here, he's got his guard up. But in church a man's wide open." “He means it,” said Cal.

She leaned toward him, and her face was alive with interest. "Fill my cup. Is your brother dull?" “He's nice,” said Cal. “I asked you if he's dull.” “No, ma'am,” said Cal.

She settled back and lifted her cup. "How's your father?" “I don't want to talk about him,” Cal said. “Oh, no! You like him then?” “I love him,” said Cal.

Kate peered closely at him, and a curious spasm shook her—an aching twist rose in her chest.

And then she closed up and her control came back. “Don't you want some candy?” she asked.

"Yes, ma'am. Why did you do it?" “Why did I do what?” “Why did you shoot my father and run away from us.” “Did he tell you that?” “No. He didn't tell us.”

She touched one hand with the other and her hands leaped apart as though the contact burned them. She asked, "Does your father ever have any—girls or young women come to your house?" “No,” said Cal. “Why did you shoot him and go away?”

Her cheeks tightened and her mouth straightened, as though a net of muscles took control. She raised her head, and her eyes were cold and shallow. “You talk older than your age,” she said. “But you don't talk old enough. Maybe you'd better run along and play—and wipe your nose.”

"Sometimes I work my brother over," he said. "I make him squirm, I've made him cry. He doesn't know how I do it. I'm smarter than he is. I don't want to do it. It makes me sick." Kate picked it up as though it were her own conversation. "They thought they were so smart," she said. "They looked at me and thought they knew about me. And I fooled them. I fooled every one of them. And when they thought they could tell me what to do—oh! that's when I fooled them best. Charles, I really fooled them then." “My name is Caleb,” Cal said. “Caleb got to the Promised Land. That's what Lee says, and it's in the Bible.” “That's the Chinaman,” Kate said, and she went on eagerly, “Adam thought he had me. When I was hurt, all broken up, he took me in and he waited on me, cooked for me. He tried to tie me down that way. Most people get tied down that way. They're grateful, they're in debt, and that's the worst kind of handcuffs. But nobody can hold me. I waited and waited until I was strong, and then I broke out. Nobody can trap me,” she said. “I knew what he was doing. I waited.”

The gray room was silent except for her excited wheezing breath.

Cal said, "Why did you shoot him?" “Because he tried to stop me. I could have killed him but I didn't. I just wanted him to let me go.” “Did you ever wish you'd stayed?” “Christ, no! Even when I was a little girl I could do anything I wanted. They never knew how I did it. Never. They were always so sure they were right. And they never knew—no one ever knew.” A kind of real-ization came to her. “Sure, you're my kind. Maybe you're the same. Why wouldn't you be?”

Cal stood up and clasped his hands behind his back. He said, "When you were little, did you"—he paused to get the thought straight—"did you ever have the feeling like you were missing something? Like as if the others knew something you didn't—like a secret they wouldn't tell you? Did you ever feel that way?"

While he spoke her face began to close against him, and by the time he paused she was cut off and the open way between them was blocked.

She said, "What am I doing, talking to kids!"

Cal unclasped his hands from behind him and shoved them in his pockets. “Talking to snot-nosed kids,” she said. “I must be crazy.”

Cal's face was alight with excitement, and his eyes were wide with vision.

Kate said, "What's the matter with you?"

He stood still, his forehead glistening with sweat, his hands clenched into fists.

Kate, as she had always, drove in the smart but senseless knife of her cruelty. She laughed softly. “I may have given you some interesting things, like this—” She held up her crooked hands. “But if it's epilepsy—fits—you didn't get it from me.” She glanced brightly up at him, anticipating the shock and beginning worry in him. “What did Lee say?” “You have,” said Kate.

Cal wrenched open the door and slammed it behind him. “Me too,” said the girl. “Did I tell you Clara's got bugs under her skin?” “I guess she seen-the shadow of the needle,” said Joe. “Well, the way I figure, the less you know, the better off you are.” “That's the truth you said there,” the girl agreed.

Chapter 40

Kate sat back in her chair against the deep down cushions. Waves of nerves cruised over her body, rais-ing the little hairs and making ridges of icy burn as they went.

She spoke softly to herself. "Steady now," she said. "Quiet down. Don't let it hit you. Don't think for a while. The goddam snot-nose!"

She thought suddenly of the only person who had ever made her feel this panic hatred. It was Samuel Hamilton, with his white beard and his pink cheeks and the laughing eyes that lifted her skin and looked under-neath.

With her bandaged forefinger she dug out a slender chain which hung around her neck and pulled the chain's burden up from her bodice. On the chain were strung two safe-deposit keys, a gold watch with a fleur-de-lis pin, and a little steel tube with a ring on its top. Very carefully she unscrewed the top from the tube and, spreading her knees, shook out a gelatine capsule. She held the capsule under the light and saw the white crystals inside—six grains of morphine, a good, sure margin. Very gently she eased the capsule into its tube, screwed on the cap, and dropped the chain inside her dress.

Cal's last words had been repeating themselves over and over in her head. "I'm glad you're afraid." She said the words aloud to herself to kill the sound. The rhythm stopped, but a strong picture formed in her mind and she let it form so that she could inspect it again.

2

It was before the lean-to was built. Kate had collected the money Charles had left. The check was converted to large bills, and the bills in their bales were in the safe-deposit box at the Monterey County Bank.

It was about the time the first pains began to twist her hands. There was enough money now to go away. It was just a matter of getting the most she could out of the house. But also it was better to wait until she felt quite well again.

She never felt quite well again. New York seemed cold and very far away.

A letter came to her signed "Ethel." Who in hell was Ethel? Whoever she was, she must be crazy to ask for money. Ethel—there were hundreds of Ethels. Ethels grew on every bush. And this one scrawled illegibly on a lined pad.

Not very long afterward Ethel came to see Kate, and Kate hardly recognized her.

Kate sat at her desk, watchful, suspicious, and con-fident. "It's been a long time," she said.

Ethel responded like a soldier who comes in his cushion age upon the sergeant who trained him. "I've been poorly," she said. Her flesh had thickened and grown heavy all over her. Her clothes had the strained cleanliness that means poverty. “Where are you—staying now?” Kate asked, and she wondered how soon the old bag would be able to come to the point. “Southern Pacific Hotel. I got a room.” “Oh, then you don't work in a house now?” “I couldn't never get started again,” said Ethel. “You shouldn't of run me off.” She wiped big tears from the corners of her eyes with the tip of a cotton glove. “Things are bad,” she said. “First I had trouble when we got that new judge. Ninety days, and I didn't have no record—not here anyways. I come out of that and I got the old Joe. I didn't know I had it. Give it to a regular—nice fella, worked on the section gang. He got sore an' busted me up, hurt my nose, lost four teeth, an' that new judge he give me a hundred and eighty. Hell, Kate, you lose all your contacts in a hundred and eighty days. They forget you're alive. I just never could get started.”

Kate nodded her head in cold and shallow sympathy. She knew that Ethel was working up to the bite. Just before it came Kate made a move. She opened her desk drawer and took out some money and held it out to Ethel. "I never let a friend down," she said. "Why don't you go to a new town, start fresh? It might change your luck."

Ethel tried to keep her fingers from grabbing at the money. She fanned the bills like a poker hand—four tens. Her mouth began to work with emotion.

Ethel said, "I kind of hoped you'd see your way to let me take more than forty bucks." “What do you mean?” “Didn't you get my letter?” “What letter?”

"Oh" said Ethel. "Well, maybe it got lost in the mail. They don't take no care of things.

Anyways, I thought you might look after me. I don't feel good hardly ever. Got a kind of weight dragging my guts down.” She sighed and then she spoke so rapidly that Kate knew it had been rehearsed. “Well, maybe you remember how I've got like sec-ond sight,” Ethel began. “Always predicting things that come true. Always dreaming stuff and it come out. Fella says I should go in the business. Says I'm a natural medium. You remember that?” “No,” said Kate, “I don't.” “Don't? Well, maybe you never noticed. All the others did. I told 'em lots of things and they come true.” “What are you trying to say?” “I had this-here dream. I remember when it was because it was the same night Faye died.” Her eves flicked up at Kate's cold face. She continued doggedly, “It rained that night, and it was raining in my dream—anyways, it was wet. Well, in my dream I seen you come out the kitchen door. It wasn't pitch-dark—moon was coming through a little. And the dream thing was you. You went out to the back of the lot and stooped over. I couldn't see what you done. Then you come creeping back. “Next thing I knew—why, Faye was dead.” She paused and waited for some comment from Kate, but Kate's face was expressionless.

Ethel waited until she was sure Kate would not speak. "Well, like I said, I always believed in my dreams. It's funny, there wasn't nothing out there ex-cept some smashed medicine bottles and a little rubber tit from an eye-dropper."

Kate said lazily, "So you took them to a doctor. What did he say had been in the bottles?" “Oh, I didn't do nothing like that.” “You should have,” said Kate. “I don't want to see nobody get in trouble. I've had enough trouble myself. I put that broke glass in an envelope and stuck it away.”

Kate said softly, "And so you are coming to me for advice?"

"Yes, ma'am." “I'll tell you what I think,” said Kate. “I think you're a worn-out old whore and you've been beaten over the head too many times.” “Don't you start saying I'm nuts—” Ethel began. “No, maybe you're not, but you're tired and you're sick. I told you I never let a friend down. You can come back here. You can't work but you can help around, clean and give the cook a hand.

You'll have a bed and you'll get your meals. How would that be? And a little spending money."

Ethel stirred uneasily. "No, ma'am," she said. "I don't think I want to—sleep here. I don't carry that envelope around. I left it with a friend." “What did you have in mind?” Kate asked. “Well, I thought if you could see your way to let me have a hundred dollars a month, why, I could make out and maybe get my health back.” “You said you lived at the Southern Pacific Hotel?”

"Yes, ma'am—and my room is right up the hall from the desk. The night clerk's a friend of mine. He don't never sleep when he's on duty. Nice fella."

Kate said, “Don't wet your pants, Ethel. All you've got to worry about is how much does the 'nice fella' want. Now wait a minute.” She counted six more ten-dollar bills from the drawer in front of her and held them out. “Will it come the first of the month or do I have to come here for it?” “I'll send it to you,” said Kate. “And, Ethel,” she continued quietly, “I still think you ought to have those bottles analyzed.”

Ethel clutched the money tightly in her hand. She was bubbling over with triumph and good feeling. It was one of the few things that had ever worked out for her. "I wouldn't think of doing that," she said. "Not unless I had to."

After she had gone Kate strolled out to the back of the lot behind the house. And even after years she could see from the unevenness of the earth that it must have been pretty thoroughly dug over.

The next morning the judge heard the usual chronicle of small violence and nocturnal greed. He only half listened to the fourth case and at the end of the terse testimony of the complaining witness he asked, "How much did you lose?"

The dark-haired man said, “Pretty close to a hun-dred dollars.”

The judge turned to the arresting officer. "How much did she have?" “Ninety-six dollars. She got whisky and cigarettes and some magazines from the night clerk at six o'clock this morning.”

Ethel cried, "I never seen this guy in my life."

The judge looked up from his papers. “Twice for prostitution and now robbery. You're costing too much. I want you out of town by noon.” He turned to the officer. “Tell the sheriff to run her over the county line.” And he said to Ethel, “If you come back, I'll give you to the county for the limit, and that's San Quentin. Do you understand?”

Ethel said, "Judge, I want to see you alone."

"Why?" “I got to see you,” said Ethel. “This is a frame.” “Everything's a frame,” said the judge. “Next.”

While a deputy sheriff drove Ethel to the county line on the bridge over the Pajaro River, the complaining witness strolled down Castroville Street toward Kate's, changed his mind and went back to Kenoe's barbershop to get a hair cut.

3

Ethel's visit did not disturb Kate very much when it happened. She knew about what attention would be paid to a whore with a grievance, and that an analysis of the broken bottles would not show anything recognizable as poison. She had nearly forgotten Faye. The forcible recalling was simply an unpleasant memory.

Gradually, however, she found herself thinking about it. One night when she was checking the items on a grocery bill a thought shot into her mind, shining and winking like a meteor. The thought flashed and went out so quickly that she had to stop what she was doing to try to find it. How was the dark face of Charles involved in the thought? And Sam Hamilton's puzzled and merry eyes? And why did she get a shiver of fear from the flashing thought?

She gave it up and went back to her work, but the face of Charles was behind her, looking over her shoul-der. Her fingers began to hurt her. She put the accounts away and made a tour through the house. It was a slow, listless night—a Tuesday night. There weren't even enough customers to put on the circus.

Kate knew how the girls felt about her. They were desperately afraid of her. She kept them that way. It was probable that they hated her, and that didn't mat-ter either. But they trusted her, and that did matter. If they followed the rules she laid down, followed them exactly, Kate would take care of them and protect them. There was no love involved and no respect. She never rewarded them and she punished an offender only twice before she removed her. The girls did have the security of knowing that they would not be pun-ished without cause.

As Kate walked about, the girls became elaborately casual. Kate knew about that too and expected it. But on this night she felt that she was not alone. Charles seemed to walk to the side and behind her.

She went through the dining room and into the kitch-en, opened the icebox and looked in. She lifted the cover of the garbage can and inspected it for waste. She did this every night, but this night she carried some extra charge.

When she had left the parlor the girls looked at each other and raised their shoulders in bewilderment. Eloise, who was talking to the dark-haired Joe, said, "Anything the matter?" “Not that I know of. Why?” “I don't know. She seems nervous.” “Well, there was some kind of rat race.” “What was it?” “Wait a minute!” said Joe. “I don't know and you don't know.” “I get it. Mind my own business.” “You're goddam right,” said Joe. “Let's keep it that way, shall we?” “I don't want to know,” said Eloise. “Now you're talking,” Joe said.

Kate ranged back from her tour. "I'm going to bed," she said to Joe. "Don't call me unless you have to." “Anything I can do?” “Yes, make me a pot of tea. Did you press that dress, Eloise?”

"Yes, ma'am."

"You didn't do it very well."

"Yes, ma'am."

Kate was restless. She put all of her papers neatly in the pigeonholes of her desk, and when Joe brought the tea tray she had him put it beside her bed.

Lying back among her pillows and sipping the tea, she probed for her thought. What about Charles? And then it came to her.

Charles was clever. In his crazy way Sam Hamilton was clever. That was the fear-driven thought —there were clever people. Both Sam and Charles were dead, but maybe there were others. She worked it out very slowly.

Suppose I had been the one to dig up the bottles? What would I think and what would I do? A rim of panic rose in her breast. Why were the bottles broken and buried? So it wasn't a poison! Then why bury them? What had made her do that? She should have dropped them in the gutter on Main Street or tossed them in the garbage can. Dr. Wilde was dead. But what kind of records did he keep? She didn't know. Suppose she had found the glass and learned what had been in them. Wouldn't she have asked someone who knew—"Suppose you gave croton oil to a person. What would happen?" “Well, suppose you gave little doses and kept it up a long time?” She would know. Maybe somebody else would know. “Suppose you heard about a rich madam who willed everything to a new girl and then died.” Kate knew perfectly well what her first thought would be. What insanity had made her get Ethel floated? Now she couldn't be found. Ethel should have been paid and tricked into turning over the glass. Where was the glass now? In an envelope—but where? How could Ethel be found? Ethel would know why and how she had been floated. Ethel wasn't bright, but she might tell some-body who was bright. That chattering voice might tell the story, how Faye was sick, and what she looked like, and about the will.

Kate was breathing quickly and little prickles of fear were beginning to course over her body. She should go to New York or someplace—not bother to sell the house. She didn't need the money. She had plenty. Nobody could find her. Yes, but if she ran out and the clever person heard Ethel tell the story, wouldn't that cinch it?

Kate got up from her bed and took a heavy dose of bromide.

From that time on the crouching fear had always been at her side. She was almost glad when she learned that the pain in her hands was developing arthritis. An evil voice had whispered that it might be a punishment.

She had never gone out in the town very much, but now she developed a reluctance to go out at all. She knew that men stared secretly after her, knowing who she was. Suppose one of those men should have Charles' face or Samuel's eyes. She had to drive herself to go out once a week.

Then she built the lean-to and had it painted gray. She said it was because the light troubled her eyes, and gradually she began to believe the light did trouble her eyes. Her eyes burned after a trip to the town. She spent more and more time in her little room.

It is possible to some people, and it was possible for Kate, to hold two opposing thoughts at the same time. She believed that the light pained her eyes, and also that the gray room was a cave to hide in, a dark burrow in the earth, a place where no eyes could stare at her. Once, sitting in her pillowed chair, she considered having a secret door built so that she would have an avenue of escape. And then a feeling rather than a thought threw out the plan. She would not be protected then. If she could get out, something could get in—that something which had begun to crouch outside the house, to crawl close to the walls at night, and to rise silently, trying to look through the windows. It required more and more will power for Kate to leave the house on Monday afternoons.

When Cal began to follow her she had a terrible leap of fear. And when she waited for him behind the privet she was very near to panic.

But now her head dug deep in her soft pillows and her eyes felt the gentle weight of the bromide.

Chapter 41

The nation slid imperceptibly toward war, frightened and at the same time attracted. People had not felt the shaking emotion of war in nearly sixty years. The Spanish affair was more nearly an expedition than a war. Mr. Wilson was re-elected President in November on his platform promise to keep us out of war, and at the same time he was instructed to take a firm hand, which inevitably meant war. Business picked up and prices began to rise. British purchasing agents roved about the country, buying food and cloth and metals and chemicals. A charge of excitement ran through the country. People didn't really believe in war even while they planned it. The Salinas Valley lived about as it always had.

Cal walked to school with Aron. “You look tired,” Aron said. “Do I?”

2

“I heard you come in last night. Four o'clock. What do you do so late?” “I was walking around—thinking. How would you like to quit school and go back to the ranch?” “What for?” “We could make some money for Father.” “I'm going to college. I wish I could go now. Everybody is laughing at us. I want to get out of town.” “You act mad.” “I'm not mad. But I didn't lose the money. I didn't have a crazy lettuce idea. But people laugh at me just the same. And I don't know if there's enough money for college.” “He didn't mean to lose the money.” “But he lost it.”

Cal said, "You've got this year to finish and next before you can go to college." “Do you think I don't know it?” “If you worked hard, maybe you could take entrance examinations next summer and go in the fall.”

Aron swung around. "I couldn't do it." “I think you could. Why don't you talk to the princi-pal? And I bet the Reverend Rolf would help you.”

Aron said, "I want to get out of this town. I don't ever want to come back. They still call us Lettuce-heads. They laugh at us." “How about Abra?” “Abra will do what's best.”

Cal asked, "Would she want you to go away?" “Abra's going to do what I want her to do.”

Cal thought for a moment. "I'll tell you what. I'm going to try to make some money. If you knuckle down and pass examinations a year early, why, I'll help you through college." “You will?” “Sure I will.”

"Why, I'll go and see the principal right away." He quickened his steps.

Cal called, "Aron, wait! Listen! If he says he thinks you can do it, don't tell Father."

"Why not?" “I was just thinking how nice it would be if you went to him and told him you'd done it.” “I don't see what difference it makes.” “You don't?” “No, I don't,” said Aron. “It sounds silly to me.”

Cal had a violent urge to shout, "I know who our mother is! I can show her to you." That would cut through and get inside of Aron.

Cal met Abra in the hall before the schoolbell rang. “What's the matter with Aron?” he demanded. “I don't know.” “Yes, you do,” he said. “He's just in a cloud. I think it's that minister.” “Does he walk home with you?” “Sure he does. But I can see right through him. He's wearing wings.” “He's still ashamed about the lettuce.” “I know he is,” said Abra. “I try to talk him out of it. Maybe he's enjoying it.” “What do you mean?” “Nothing,” said Abra.

After supper that night Cal said, “Father, would you mind if I went down to the ranch Friday afternoon?”

Adam turned in his chair. “What for?” “Just want to see. Just want to look around.” “Does Aron want to go?” “No. I want to go alone.” “I don't see why you shouldn't. Lee, do you see any reason why he shouldn't go?” “No,” said Lee. He studied Cal. “Thinking seriously of going to farming?” “I might. If you'd let me take it over, I'd farm it, Father.” “The lease has more than a year to run,” Adam said. “After that can I farm it?” “How about school?” “I'll be through school.”

"Well, we'll see," said Adam. "You might want to go to college."

When Cal started for the front door Lee followed and walked out with him. “Can you tell me what it's about?” Lee asked. “I just want to look around.” “All right, I guess I'm left out.” Lee turned to go back into the house. Then he called, “Cal!” The boy stopped. “You worried, Cal?” “No.” “I've got five thousand dollars if you ever need it.” “Why would I need it?” “I don't know,” said Lee.

3

Will Hamilton liked his glass cage of an office in the garage. His business interests were much wider than the automobile agency, but he did not get another office. He loved the movement that went on outside his square glass cage. And he had put in double glass to kill the noise of the garage.

He sat in his big red leather swivel chair, and most of the time he enjoyed his life. When people spoke of his brother Joe making so much money in advertising in the East, Will always said he himself was a big frog in a little puddle. “I'd be afraid to go to a big city,” he said. “I'm just a country boy.” And he liked the laugh that always fol-lowed. It proved to him that his friends knew he was well off.

Cal came in to see him one Saturday morning. Seeing Will's puzzled look, he said, "I'm Cal Trask." “Oh, sure. Lord, you're getting to be a big boy. Is your father down?” “No. I came alone.”

"Well, sit down. I don't suppose you smoke." “Sometimes. Cigarettes.”

Will slid a package of Murads across the desk. Cal opened the box and then closed it. "I don't think I will right now."

Will looked at the dark-faced boy and he liked him. He thought, This boy is sharp. He's nobody's fool. “I guess you'll be going into business pretty soon,” he said. “Yes, sir. I thought I might run the ranch when I get out of high school.” “There's no money in that,” said Will. “Farmers don't make any money. It's the man who buys from him and sells. You'll never make any money farming.” Will knew that Cal was feeling him, testing him, observ-ing him, and he approved of that.

And Cal had made up his mind, but first he asked, "Mr. Hamilton, you haven't any children, have you?" “Well, no. And I'm sorry about that. I guess I'm sorriest about that.” And then, “What makes you ask?”

Cal ignored the question. "Would you give me some advice?"

Will felt a glow of pleasure. "If I can, I'll be glad to. What is it you want to know?"

And then Cal did something Will Hamilton approved even more. He used candor as a weapon.

He said, "I want to make a lot of money. I want you to tell me how."

Will overcame his impulse to laugh. Naïve as the statement was, he didn't think Cal was naïve. “Every-body wants that,” he said. “What do you mean by a lot of money?” “Twenty or thirty thousand dollars.” “Good God!” said Will, and he screeched his chair forward. And now he did laugh, but not in derision. Cal smiled along with Will's laughter.

Will said, "Can you tell me why you want to make so much?" “Yes, sir,” said Cal, “I can.” And Cal opened the box of Murads and took out one of the oval cork-tipped cigarettes and lighted it. “I'll tell you why,” he said.

Will leaned his chair back in enjoyment. “My father lost a lot of money.” “I know,” said Will. “I warned him not to try to ship lettuce across the country.” “You did? Why did you?” “There were no guarantees,” said Will. “A business-man has to protect himself. If anything happened, he was finished. And it happened. Go on." “I want to make enough money to give him back what he lost.”

Will gaped at him. "Why?" he asked. “I want to.”

Will said, "Are you fond of him?"

"Yes."

Will's fleshy face contorted and a memory swept over him like a chilling wind. He did not move slowly over the past, it was all there in one flash, all of the years, a picture, a feeling and a despair, all stopped the way a fast camera stops the world. There was the flashing Samuel, beautiful as dawn with a fancy like a swallow's flight, and the brilliant, brooding Tom who was dark fire, Una who rode the storms, and the lovely Mollie, Dessie of laughter, George handsome and with a sweet-ness that filled a room like the perfume of flowers, and there was Joe, the youngest, the beloved. Each one without effort brought some gift into the family.

Nearly everyone has his box of secret pain, shared with no one. Will had concealed his well, laughed loud, exploited perverse virtues, and never let his jealousy go wandering. He thought of himself as slow, doltish, con-servative, uninspired. No great dream lifted him high and no despair forced self-destruction. He was always on the edge, trying to hold on to the rim of the family with what gifts he had—care, and reason, application. He kept the books, hired the attorneys, called the under-taker, and eventually paid the bills. The others didn't even know they needed him. He had the ability to get money and to keep it. He thought the Hamiltons despised him for his one ability. He had loved them doggedly, had always been at hand with his money to pull them out of their errors. He thought they were ashamed of him, and he fought bitterly for their recog-nition.

All of this was in the frozen wind that blew through him.

His slightly bulging eyes were damp as he stared past Cal, and the boy asked, "What's the matter, Mr. Ham-ilton? Don't you feel well?"

Will had sensed his family but he had not under-stood them. And they had accepted him without knowing there was anything to understand. And now this boy came along. Will understood him, felt him, sensed him, recognized him. This was the son he should have had, or the brother, or the father. And the cold wind of memory changed to a warmth toward Cal which gripped him in the stomach and pushed up against his lungs.

He forced his attention to the glass office. Cal was sitting back in his chair, waiting.

Will did not know how long his silence had lasted. "I was thinking," he said lamely. He made his voice stern. "You asked me something. I'm a businessman. I don't give things away. I sell them." “Yes, sir.” Cal was watchful but he felt that Will Hamilton liked him.

Will said, "I want to know something and I want the truth. Will you tell me the truth?" “I don't know,” said Cal. “I like that. How do you know until you know the question? I like that. That's smart—and honest. Listen—you have a brother. Does your father like him better than you?" “Everybody does,” said Cal calmly. “Everybody loves Aron.” “Do you?”

"Yes, sir. At least—yes, I do." “What's the 'at least'?”

"Sometimes I think he's stupid but I like him." “Now how about your father?” “I love him,” said Cal. “And he loves your brother better.” “I don't know.” “Now, you say you want to give back the money your father lost. Why?”

Ordinarily Cal's eyes were squinted and cautious, but now they were so wide that they seemed to look around and through Will. Cal was as close to his own soul as it is possible to get. “My father is good,” he said. “I want to make it up to him because I am not good.” “If you do that, wouldn't you be good?” “No,” said Cal. “I think bad.”

Will had never met anyone who spoke so nakedly. He was near to embarrassment because of the naked-ness, and he knew how safe Cal was in his stripped honesty. "Only one more," he said, "and I won't mind if you don't answer it. I don't think I would answer it. Here it is. Suppose you should get this money and give it to your father—would it cross your mind that you were trying to buy his love?" “Yes, sir. It would. And it would be true.” “That's all I want to ask. That's all.” Will leaned forward and put his hands against his sweating, pulsing forehead. He could not remember when he had been so shaken. And in Cal there was a cautious leap of triumph. He knew he had won and he closed his face against showing it. Will raised his head and took off his glasses and wiped the moisture from them. “Let's go outside,” he said. “Let's go for a drive.”

Will drove a big Winton now, with a hood as long as a coffin and a powerful, panting mutter in its bowels. He drove south from King City over the county road, through the gathering forces of spring, and the meadowlarks flew ahead, bubbling melody from the fence wires. Pico Blanco stood up against the West with a full head of snow, and in the valley the lines of eucalyptus, which stretched across the valley to break the winds, were gleaming silver with new leaves. When he came to the side road that led into the home draw of the Trask place Will pulled up on the side of the road. He had not spoken since the Winton rolled out of King City. The big motor idled with a deep whisper.

Will, looking straight ahead, said, "Cal—do you want to be partners with me?" “Yes, sir.” “I don't like to take a partner without money. I could lend you the money, but there's only trouble in that.” “I can get money,” said Cal. “How much?” “Five thousand dollars.” “You—I don't believe it.”

Cal didn't answer. “I believe it,” said Will. “Borrowed?” “Yes, sir.” “What interest?”

"None." “That's a good trick. Where will you get it?” “I won't tell you, sir.”

Will shook his head and laughed. He was filled with pleasure. "Maybe I'm being a fool, but I believe you—and I'm not a fool." He gunned his motor and then let it idle again. "I want you to listen. Do you read the papers?" “Yes, sir.” “We're going to be in this war any minute now.” “That's what it looks like.” “Well, a lot of people think so. Now, do you know the present price of beans? I mean, what can you sell a hundred sacks for in Salinas?” “I'm not sure. I think about three to three and a half cents a pound.” “What do you mean you're not sure? How do you know that?” “Well, I was thinking about asking my father to let me run the ranch.” “I see. But you don't want to farm. You're too smart. Your father's tenant is named Rantani. He's a Swiss Italian, a good farmer. He's put nearly five hundred acres under cultivation. If we can guarantee him five cents a pound and give him a seed loan, he'll plant beans. So will every other farmer around here. We could contract five thousand acres of beans.”

Cal said, “What are we going to do with five-cent beans in a three-cent market? Oh, yes! But how can we be sure?”

Will said, "Are we partners?" “Yes, sir.” “Yes, Will!” “Yes, Will.” “How soon can you get five thousand dollars?” “By next Wednesday.” “Shake!” Solemnly the stout man and the lean dark boy shook hands.

Will, still holding Cal's hand, said, "Now we're part-ners. I have a contract with the British Purchasing Agency. And I have a friend in the Quartermaster Corps. I bet we can sell all the dried beans we can find at ten cents a pound or more." “When can you sell?” “I'll sell before we sign anything. Now, would you like to go up to the old place and talk to Rantani?” “Yes sir,” said Cal.

Will double-clutched the Winton and the big green car lumbered into the side road.

Chapter 42

A war comes always to someone else. In Salinas we were aware that the United States was the greatest and most powerful nation in the world. Every American was a rifleman by birth, and one American was worth ten or twenty foreigners in a fight.

Pershing's expedition into Mexico after Villa had exploded one of our myths for a little while. We had truly believed that Mexicans can't shoot straight and besides were lazy and stupid. When our own Troop C came wearily back from the border they said that none of this was true.

Mexicans could shoot straight, goddam it! And Villa's horsemen had outridden and outlasted our town boys. The two evenings a month of training had not toughened them very much. And last, the Mexicans seemed to have outthought and outambushed Black Jack Pershing. When the Mexicans were joined by their ally, dysentery, it was godawful. Some of our boys didn't really feel good again for years.

Somehow we didn't connect Germans with Mex-icans. We went right back to our myths. One American was as good as twenty Germans. This being true, we had only to act in a stern manner to bring the Kaiser to heel. He wouldn't dare interfere with our trade—but he did. He wouldn't stick out his neck and sink our ships—and he did. It was stupid, but he did, and so there was nothing for it but to fight him.

The war, at first anyway, was for other people. We, I, my family and friends, had kind of bleacher seats, and it was pretty exciting. And just as war is always for somebody else, so it is also true that someone else always gets killed. And Mother of God! that wasn't true either. The dreadful telegrams began to sneak sorrow-fully in, and it was everybody's brother. Here we were, over six thousand miles from the anger and the noise, and that didn't save us.

It wasn't much fun then. The Liberty Belles could parade in white caps and uniforms of white sharkskin. Our uncle could rewrite his Fourth of July speech and use it to sell bonds. We in high school could wear olive drab and campaign hats and learn the manual of arms from the physics teacher, but Jesus Christ! Marty Hopps dead, the Berges boy, from across the street, the handsome one our little sister was in love with from the time she was three, blown to bits! And the gangling, shuffling loose-jointed boys carry-ing suitcases were marching awkwardly down Main Street to the Southern Pacific Depot. They were sheep-ish, and the Salinas Band marched ahead of them, playing the “Stars and Stripes Forever,” and the families walking along beside them were crying, and the music sounded like a dirge. The draftees wouldn't look at their mothers. They didn't dare. We'd never thought the war could happen to us.

There were some in Salinas who began to talk softly in the poolrooms and the bars. These had private in-formation from a soldier—we weren't getting the truth. Our men were being sent in without guns. Troopships were sunk and the government wouldn't tell us. The German army was so far superior to ours that we didn't have a chance. That Kaiser was a smart fellow. He was getting ready to invade America. But would Wilson tell us this? He would not. And usually these carrion talkers were the same ones who had said one American was worth twenty Germans in a scrap—the same ones.

Little groups of British in their outlandish uniforms (but they did look smart) moved about the country, buying everything that wasn't nailed down and paying for it and paying big. A good many of the British purchasing men were crippled, but they wore their uniforms just the same. Among other things they bought beans, because beans are easy to transport and they don't spoil and a man can damn well live on them. Beans were twelve and a half cents a pound and hard to find. And farmers wished they hadn't contracted their beans for a lousy two cents a pound above the going price six months ago.

The nation and the Salinas Valley changed its songs. At first we sang of how we would knock the hell out of Helgoland and hang the Kaiser and march over there and clean up the mess them damn foreigners had made. And then suddenly we sang, “In the war's red curse stands the Red Cross nurse. She's the rose of No Man's Land,” and we sang, “Hello, central, give me Heaven, 'cause my Daddy's there,” and we sang, “Just a baby's prayer at twilight, when lights are low. She climbs up-stairs and says her prayers—Oh, God! please tell my daddy thaddy must take care—” I guess we were like a tough but inexperienced little boy who gets punched in the nose in the first flurry and it hurts and we wished it was over.

Chapter 43

Late in the summer Lee came in off the street, carrying his big market basket. Lee had become American con-servative in his clothes since he had lived in Salinas. He regularly wore black broadcloth when he went out of the house. His shirts were white, his collars high and stiff, and he affected narrow black string ties, like those which once were the badge for Southern senators. His hats were black, round of crown and straight of brim, and uncrushed as though he still left room for a coiled queue. He was immaculate.

Once Adam had remarked on the quiet splendor of Lee's clothes, and Lee had grinned at him. “I have to do it,” he said. “One must be very rich to dress as badly as you do. The poor are forced to dress well.” “Poor!” Adam exploded. “You'll be lending us mon-ey before we're through.” “That might be,” said Lee.

This afternoon he set his heavy basket on the floor. "I'm going to try to make a winter melon soup," he said. "Chinese cooking. I have a cousin in Chinatown, and he told me how. My cousin is in the firecracker and fan-tan business." “I thought you didn't have any relatives,” said Adam. “All Chinese are related, and the ones named Lee are closest,” said Lee. “My cousin is a Suey Dong. Recently he went into hiding for his health and he learned to cook. You stand the melon in a pot, cut off the top carefully, put in a whole chicken, mushrooms, water chestnuts, leeks, and just a touch of ginger. Then you put the top back on the melon and cook it as slowly as possible for two days. Ought to be good.”

Adam was lying back in his chair, his palms clasped behind his head, and he was smiling at the ceiling. "Good, Lee, good," he said. “You didn't even listen,” said Lee.

Adam drew himself upright. He said, "You think you know your own children and then you find you don't at all."

Lee smiled. "Has some detail of their lives escaped you?" he asked.

Adam chuckled. "I only found out by accident," he said. "I knew that Aron wasn't around very much this summer, but I thought he was just out playing." “Playing!” said Lee. “He hasn't played for years.” “Well, whatever he does.” Adam continued, “Today I met Mr. Kilkenny—you know, from the high school? He thought I knew all about it. Do you know what that boy is doing?” “No,” said Lee. “He's covered all next year's work. He's going to take examinations for college and save a year.

And Kilkenny is confident that he will pass. Now, what do you think of that?" “Remarkable,” said Lee. “Why is he doing it?” “Why, to save a year!” “What does he want to save it for?” “Goddam it, Lee, he's ambitious. Can't you under-stand that?” “No,” said Lee. “I never could.”

Adam said, "He never spoke of it. I wonder if his brother knows." “I guess Aron wants it to be a surprise. We shouldn't mention it until he does.” “I guess you're right. Do you know, Lee?—I'm proud of him. Terribly proud. This makes me feel good. I wish Cal had some ambition.” “Maybe he has,” said Lee. “Maybe he has some kind of a secret too.” “Maybe. God knows we haven't seen much of him lately either. Do you think it's good for him to be away so much?” “Cal's trying to find himself,” said Lee. “I guess this personal hide-and-seek is not unusual. And some peo-ple are 'it' all their lives—hopelessly 'it'.” “Just think,” said Adam. “A whole year's work ahead. When he tells us we ought to have a present for him.” “A gold watch,” said Lee. “That's right,” said Adam. “I'm going to get one and have it engraved and ready. What should it say?” “The jeweler will tell you,” said Lee. “You take the chicken out after two days and cut it off the bone and put the meat back.” “What chicken?”

"Winter melon soup," said Lee. “Have we got money enough to send him to college, Lee?” “If we're careful and he doesn't develop expensive tastes.” “He wouldn't,” Adam said. “I didn't think I would—but I have.” Lee inspected the sleeve of his coat with admiration.

The rectory of St. Paul's Episcopal Church was large and rambling. It had been built for ministers with large families. Mr. Rolf, unmarried and simple in his tastes, closed up most of the house, but when Aron needed a place to study he gave him a large room and helped him with his studies. Mr. Rolf was fond of Aron. He liked the angelic beauty of his face and his smooth cheeks, his narrow hips, and long straight legs. He liked to sit in the room and watch Aron's face straining with effort to learn. He understood why Aron could not work at home in an atmosphere not conducive to hard clean thought. Mr. Rolf felt that Aron was his product, his spiritual son, his contribution to the church. He saw him through his travail of celibacy and felt that he was guiding him into calm waters.

Their discussions were long and close and personal. "I know I am criticized," Mr. Rolf said. "I happen to believe in a higher church than some people. No one can tell me that confession is not just as important a sacrament as communion. And you mind my word—I am going to bring it back, but cautiously, gradually.” “When I have a church I'll do it too.” “It requires great tact,” said Mr. Rolf.

Aron said, “I wish we had in our church, well—well, I might as well say it. I wish we had something like the Augustines or the Franciscans. Someplace to withdraw. Sometimes I feel dirty. I want to get away from the dirt and be clean.” “I know how you feel,” Mr. Rolf said earnestly. “But there I cannot go along with you. I can't think that our Lord Jesus would want his priesthood with-drawn from service to the world. Think how he insisted that we preach the Gospel, help the sick and poor, even lower ourselves into filth to raise sinners from the slime. We must keep the exactness of His example always before us.” shouldn't tell you this. And I hope you won't find any pride in me in telling it. But there is a kind of glory in it. For the last five weeks a woman has been coming to evening service. I don't think you can see her from the choir. She sits always in the last row on the left-hand side—yes, you can see her too. She is off at an angle. Yes, you can see her. She wears a veil and she always leaves before I can get back after recessional." “Who is she?” Aron asked. “Well, you'll have to learn these things. I made very discreet inquiries and you would never guess. She is the—well—the owner of a house of ill fame.” “Here in Salinas?” “Here in Salinas.” Mr. Rolf leaned forward. “Aron, I can see your revulsion. You must get over that. Don't forget our Lord and Mary Magdalene. Without pride I say I would be glad to raise her up.” “What does she want here?” Aron demanded. “Perhaps what we have to offer—salvation. It will require great tact. I can see how it will be. And mark my words—these people are timid. One day there will come a tap on my door and she will beg to come in. Then, Aron, I pray that I may be wise and patient. You must believe me—when that happens, when a lost soul seeks the light, it is the highest and most beautiful experience a priest can have. That's what we are for, Aron. That's what we are for.”

Mr. Rolf controlled his breathing with difficulty. "I pray God I may not fail," he said.

3

Adam Trask thought of the war in terms of his own now dimly remembered campaign against the Indians. No one knew anything about huge and general war. Lee read European history, trying to discern from the filaments of the past some pattern of the future.

Liza Hamilton died with a pinched little smile on her mouth, and her cheekbones were shockingly high when the red was gone from them.

And Adam waited impatiently for Aron to bring news of his examinations. The massive gold watch lay under his handkerchiefs in the top drawer of his bu-reau, and he kept it wound and set and checked its accuracy against his own watch.

Lee had his instructions. On the evening of the day of the announcement he was to cook a turkey and bake a cake. “We'll want to make a party of it,” Adam said. “What would you think of champagne?” “Very nice,” said Lee. “Did you ever read von Clausewitz?” “Who is he?” “Not very reassuring reading,” said Lee. “One bottle of champagne?” “That's enough. It's just for toasts, you know. Makes a party of it.” It didn't occur to Adam that Aron might fail.

One afternoon Aron came in and asked Lee, “Where's father?” “He's shaving.”

"I won't be in for dinner," said Aron. In the bathroom he stood behind his father and spoke to the soap-faced image in the mirror. "Mr. Rolf asked me to have dinner at the rectory."

Adam wiped his razor on a folded piece of toilet paper. "That's nice," he said. “Can I get a bath?” “I'll be out of here in just a minute,” said Adam.

When Aron walked through the living room and said good night and went out, Cal and Adam looked after him. "He got into my cologne," said Cal. "I can still smell him." “It must be quite a party,” Adam said. “I don't blame him for wanting to celebrate. That was a hard job.” “Celebrate?” “The exams. Didn't he tell you? He passed them.” “Oh, yes—the exams,” said Adam. “Yes, he told me. A fine job. I'm proud of him. I think I'll get him a gold watch.”

Cal said sharply, "He didn't tell you!"

"Oh, yes—yes, he did. He told me this morning." “He didn't know this morning,” said Cal, and he got up and went out. le walked very fast in the gathering darkness, out Central Avenue, past the park and pa newall Jack-son Smart's house clear to the place beyond the street-lights where the street became a county road and angled to avoid Tollot's farm house.

At ten o'clock Lee, going out to mail a letter, found Cal sitting on the lowest step of the front porch. "What happened to you?" he asked. “I went for a walk.” “What's the matter with Aron?” “I don't know.” “He seems to have some kind of grudge. Want to walk to the post office with me?” “No.” “What are you sitting out here for?” “I'm going to beat the hell out of him.” “Don't do it,” said Lee.

"Why not?" “Because I don't think you can. He'd slaughter you.” “I guess you're right,” said Cal. “The son of a bitch!”

"Watch your language."

Cal laughed. "I guess I'll walk along with you." “Did you ever read von Clausewitz?” “I never even heard of him.”

When Aron came home it was Lee who was waiting for him on the lowest step of the front porch. “I saved you from a licking,” Lee said. “Sit down.” “I'm going to bed.” “Sit down! I want to talk to you. Why didn't you tell your father you passed the tests?” “He wouldn't understand.” “You've got a bug up your ass.” “I don't like that kind of language.” “Why do you think I used it? I am not profane by accident. Aron, your father has been living for this.” “How did he know about it?”

"You should have told him yourself." “This is none of your business.” “I want you to go in and wake him up if he's asleep, but I don't think he'll be asleep. I want you to tell him.” “I won't do it.”

Lee said softly, "Aron, did you ever have to fight a little man, a man half your size?" “What do you mean?” “It's one of the most embarrassing things in the world. He won't stop and pretty soon you have to hit him and that's worse. Then you're really in trouble all around.” “What are you talking about?” “If you don't do as I tell you, Aron, I'm going to fight you. Isn't that ridiculous?”

Aron tried to pass. Lee stood up in front of him, his tiny fists doubled ineffectually, his stance and position so silly that he began to laugh. "I don't know how to do it, but I'm going to try," he said.

Aron nervously backed away from him. And when finally he sat down on the steps Lee sighed that's over," he said. "It would have been awful. Look, Aron, can't you tell me what's the matter with you? You always used to tell me.

Suddenly Aron broke down. "I want to go away. It's a dirty town." “No, it isn't. It's just the same as other places.” “I don't belong here. I wish we hadn't ever come here. I don't know what's the matter with me. I want to go away.” His voice rose to a wail.

Lee put his arm around the broad shoulders to com-fort him. "You're growing up. Maybe that's it," he said softly. "Sometimes I think the world tests us most sharply then, and we turn inward and watch ourselves with horror. But that's not the worst. We think every-body is seeing into us. Then dirt is very dirty and purity is shining white. Aron, it will be over. Wait only a little while and it will be over. That's not much relief to you because you don't believe it, but it's the best I can do for you. Try to believe that things are neither so good nor so bad as they seem to you now. Yes, I can help you. Go to bed now, and in the morning get up early and tell your father about the tests. Make it exciting. He's lonelier than you are because he has no lovely future to dream about. Go through the motions. Sam Hamilton said that. Pretend it's true and maybe it will be. Go through the motions. Do that. And go to bed. I've got to bake a cake—for breakfast. And, Aron—your father left a present on your pillow.”

Chapter 44

It was only after Aron went away to college that Abra really got to know his family. Aron and Abra had fenced themselves in with themselves. With Aron gone, she attached herself to the other Trasks. She found that she trusted Adam more, and loved Lee more, than her own father. About Cal she couldn't decide. He disturbed her sometimes with anger, sometimes with pain, and some-times with curiosity. He seemed to be in a perpetual contest with her. She didn't know whether he liked her or not, and so she didn't like him. She was relieved when, calling at the Trask house, Cal was not there, to look secretly at her, judge, appraise, consider, and look away when she caught him at it.

Abra was a straight, strong, fine-breasted woman, developed and ready and waiting to take her sacrament—but waiting. She took to going to the Trask house after school, sitting with Lee, reading him parts of Aron's daily letter.

Aron was lonely at Stanford. His letters were drenched with lonesome longing for his girl. Together they were matter of fact, but from the university, ninety miles away, he made passionate love to her, shut him-self off from the life around him. He studied, ate, slept, and wrote to Abra, and this was his whole life.

In the afternoons she sat in the kitchen with Lee and helped him to string beans or slip peas from their pods. Sometimes she made fudge and very often she stayed to dinner rather than go home to her parents. There was no subject she could not discuss with Lee. And the few things she could talk about to her father and mother were thin and pale and tired and mostly not even true. There Lee was different also. Abra wanted to tell Lee only true things even when she wasn't quite sure what was true.

Lee would sit smiling a little, and his quick fragile hands flew about their work as though they had inde-pendent lives. Abra wasn't aware that she spoke exclu-sively of herself. And sometimes while she talked Lee's mind wandered out and came back and went out again like a ranging dog, and Lee would nod at intervals and make a quiet humming sound.

He liked Abra and he felt strength and goodness in her, and warmth too. Her features had the bold muscu-lar strength which could result finally either in ugliness or in great beauty. Lee, musing through her talk, thought of the round smooth faces of the Cantonese, his own breed. Even thin they were moon-faced. Lee should have liked that kind best since beauty must be somewhat like ourselves, but he didn't. When he thought of Chinese beauty the iron predatory faces of the Manchus came to his mind, arrogant and unyield-ing faces of a people who had authority by unques-tioned inheritance.

She said, "Maybe it was there all along. I don't know. He never talked much about his father. It was after Mr. Trask had the—you know—the lettuce. Aron was angry then." “Why?” Lee asked.

"People were laughing at him."

Lee's whole mind popped back. “Laughing at Aron? Why at him? He didn't have anything to do with it.” “Well, that's the way he felt. Do you want to know what I think?” “Of course,” said Lee. “I figured this out and I'm not quite finished figur-ing. I thought he always felt—well, kind of crippled—maybe unfinished, because he didn't have a mother.”

Lee's eyes opened wide and then drooped again. He nodded. “I see. Do you figure Cal is that way too?” “No.” “Then why Aron?” “Well, I haven't got that yet. Maybe some people need things more than others, or hate things more. My father hates turnips. He always did. Never came from anything. Turnips make him mad, real mad. Well, one time my mother was—well, huffy, and she made a cas-serole of mashed turnips with lots of pepper and cheese on top and got it all brown on top. My father ate half a dish of it before he asked what it was. My mother said turnips, and he threw the dish on the floor and got up and went out. I don't think he ever forgave her.”

Lee chuckled. "He can forgive her because she said turnips. But, Abra, suppose he'd asked and she had said something else and he liked it and had another dish. And then afterward he found out. Why, he might have murdered her." “I guess so. Well, anyway, I figure Aron needed a mother more than Cal did. And I think he always blamed his father.”

"Why?" “I don't know. That's what I think.” “You do get around, don't you?” “Shouldn't I?” “Of course you should.” “Shall I make some fudge?” “Not today. We still have some.” “What can I do?” “You can pound flour into the top round. Will you eat with us?” “No. I'm going to a birthday party, thank you. Do you think he'll be a minister?” “How do I know?” said Lee. “Maybe it's just an idea.”

"I hope he doesn't," said Abra, and she clapped her mouth shut in astonishment at having said it.

Lee got up and pulled out the pastry board and laid out the red meat and a flour sifter beside it. “Use the back side of the knife,” he said. “I know.” She hoped he hadn't heard her.

But Lee asked, “Why don't you want him to be a minister?” “I shouldn't say it.” “You should say anything you want to. You don't have to explain.” He went back to his chair, and Abra sifted flour over the steak and pounded the meat with a big knife. Tap-tap—”I shouldn't talk like this”—tap-tap.

Lee turned his head away to let her take her own pace. “He goes all one way,” she said over the pounding. “If it's church it's got to be high church. He was talking about how priests shouldn't be married.” “That's not the way his last letter sounded,” Lee observed. “I know. That was before.” Her knife stopped its pounding. Her face was young perplexed pain. “Lee, I'm not good enough for him.” “Now, what do you mean by that?” “I'm not being funny. He doesn't think about me. He's made someone up, and it's like he put my skin on her. I'm not like that—not like the made-up one.” “What's she like?” “Pure!” said Abra. “Just absolutely pure. Nothing but pure—never a bad thing. I'm not like that.” “Nobody is,” said Lee. “He doesn't know me. He doesn't even want to know me. He wants that—white—ghost.”

Lee rubbed a piece of cracker. "Don't you like him? You're pretty young, but I don't think that makes any difference." " 'Course I like him. I'm going to be his wife. But I want him to like me too. And how can he, if he doesn't know anything about me? I used to think he knew me. Now I'm not sure he ever did." “Maybe he's going through a hard time that isn't permanent. You're a smart girl—very smart. Is it pretty hard trying to live up to the one—in your skin?” “I'm always afraid he'll see something in me that isn't in the one he made up. I'll get mad or I'll smell bad—or something else. He'll find out.” “Maybe not,” said Lee. “But it must be hard living the Lily Maid, the Goddess-Virgin, and the other all at once. Humans just do smell bad sometimes.”

She moved toward the table. "Lee, I wish—" “Don't spill flour on my floor,” he said. “What do you wish?” “It's from my figuring out. I think Aron, when he didn't have a mother—why, he made her everything good he could think of.” “That might be. And then you think he dumped it all on you.” She stared at him and her fingers wandered delicately up and down the blade of the knife. “And you wish you could find some way to dump it all back.” “Yes.” “Suppose he wouldn't like you then?” “I'd rather take a chance on that,” she said. “I'd rather be myself.”

Lee said, “I never saw anybody get mixed up in other people's business the way I do. And I'm a man who doesn't have a final answer about anything. Are you going to pound that meat or shall I do it?”

She went back to work. "Do you think it's funny to be so serious when I'm not even out of high school?" she asked. “I don't see how it could be any other way,” said Lee. “Laughter comes later, like wisdom teeth, and laughter at yourself comes last of all in a mad race with death, and sometimes it isn't in time.” Her tapping speeded up and its beat became erratic and nervous. Lee moved five dried lima beans in pat-terns on the table—a line, an angle, a circle.

The beating stopped. "Is Mrs. Trask alive?"

Lee's forefinger hung over a bean for a moment and then slowly fell and pushed it to make the O into a Q. He knew she was looking at him. He could even see in his mind how her expression would be one of panic at her question. His thought raced like a rat new caught in a wire trap. He sighed and gave it up. He turned slowly and looked at her, and his picture had been accurate.

Lee said tonelessly, "We've talked a lot and I don't remember that we have ever discussed me—ever." He smiled shyly. "Abra, let me tell you about myself. I'm a servant. I'm old. I'm Chinese. These three you know. I'm tired and I'm cowardly." “You're not—” she began. “Be silent,” he said. “I am so cowardly. I will not put my finger in any human pie.” “What do you mean?” “Abra, is your father mad at anything except tur-nips?”

Her face went stubborn. "I asked you a question." “I did not hear a question,” he said softly and his voice became confident. “You did not ask a question, Abra.” “I guess you think I'm too young—” Abra began.

Lee broke in, “Once I worked for a woman of thirty-five who had successfully resisted experience, learning, and beauty. If she had been six she would have been the despair of her parents. And at thirty-five she was permitted to control money and the lives of people around her.

No, Abra, age has nothing to do with it. If I had anything at all to say—I would say it to you."

The girl smiled at him. "I'm clever," she said. "Shall I be clever?" “God help me—no,” Lee protested. “Then you don't want me to try to figure it out?” “I don't care what you do as long as I don't have anything to do with it. I guess no matter how weak and negative a good man is, he has as many sins on him as he can bear. I have enough sins to trouble me. Maybe they aren't very fine sins compared to some, but, the way I feel, they're all I can take care of. Please forgive me.”

Abra reached across the table and touched the back of his hand with floury fingers. The yellow skin on his hand was tight and glazed. He looked down at the white powdery smudges her fingers left.

Abra said, "My father wanted a boy. I guess he hates turnips and girls. He tells everyone how he gave me my crazy name. 'And though I called another, Abra came.' " Lee smiled at her. "You're such a nice girl," he said. "I'll buy some turnips tomorrow if you'll come to din-ner."

Abra asked softly, "Is she alive?" “Yes,” said Lee.

The front door slammed, and Cal came into the kitchen. "Hello, Abra. Lee, is father home?" “No, not yet. What are you grinning all over for?”

Cal handed him a check. "There. That's for you."

Lee looked at it. "I didn't want interest," he said. “It's better. I might want to borrow it back.” “You won't tell me where you got it?” “No. Not yet. I've got a good idea—” His eyes flicked to Abra. “I have to go home now,” she said.

Cal said, “She might as well be in on it. I decided to do it Thanksgiving, and Abra'll probably be around and Aron will be home.” “Do what?” she asked. “I've got a present for my father.” “What is it?” Abra asked. “I won't tell. You'll find out then.” “Does Lee know?” “Yes, but he won't tell.” “I don't think I ever saw you so—gay,” Abra said. “I don't think I ever saw you gay at all.” She discovered in herself a warmth for him.

After Abra had gone Cal sat down. "I don't know whether to give it to him before Thanksgiving dinner or after," he said. “After,” said Lee. “Have you really got the money?” “Fifteen thousand dollars.” “Honestly?” “You mean, did I steal it?” “Yes.”

"Honestly," said Cal. "Remember how we had champagne for Aron? We'll get champagne. And —well, we'll maybe decorate the dining room. Maybe Abra'll help." “Do you really think your father wants money?”

"Why wouldn't he?" “I hope you're right,” said Lee. “How have you been doing in school?” “Not very well. I'll pick up after Thanksgiving,” said Cal.

After school the next day Abra hurried and caught up with Cal. “Hello, Abra,” he said. “You make good fudge.” “That last was dry. It should be creamy.” “Lee is just crazy about you. What have you done to him?” “I like Lee,” she said and then, “I want to ask you something, Cal.”

"Yes?" “What's the matter with Aron?” “What do you mean?” “He just seems to think only about himself.” “I don't think that's very new. Have you had a fight with him?” “No. When he had all that about going into the church and not getting married, I tried to fight with him, but he wouldn't." “Not get married to you? I can't imagine that.” “Cal, he writes me love letters now—only they aren't to me.” “Then who are they to?” “It's like they were to—himself.”

Cal said, “I know about the willow tree.”

She didn't seem surprised. "Do you?" she asked. “Are you mad at Aron?” “No, not mad. I just can't find him. I don't know him.” “Wait around,” said Cal. “Maybe he's going through something.” “I wonder if I'll be all right. Do you think I could have been wrong all the time?” “How do I know?”

"Cal," she said, "is it true that you go out late at night and even go—to—bad houses?" “Yes,” he said. “That's true. Did Aron tell you?” “No, not Aron. Well, why do you go there?”

He walked beside her and did not answer.

"Tell me," she said. “What's it to you?” “Is it because you're bad?” “What's it sound like to you?” “I'm not good either,” she said. “You're crazy,” said Cal. “Aron will knock that out of you.” “Do you think he will?” “Why, sure,” said Cal. “He's got to.”

Chapter 45

Joe Valery got along by watching and listening and, as he said himself, not sticking his neck out. He had built his hatreds little by little—beginning with a mother who neglected him, a father who alternately whipped and slobbered over him. It had been easy to transfer his de-veloping hatred to the teacher who disciplined him and the policeman who chased him and the priest who lec-tured him. Even before the first magistrate looked down on him, Joe had developed a fine stable of hates toward the whole world he knew.

Hate cannot live alone. It must have love as a trig-ger, a goad, or a stimulant. Joe early developed a gentle protective love for Joe. He comforted and flattered and cherished Joe. He set up walls to save Joe from a hostile world. And gradually Joe became proof against wrong. If Joe got into trouble, it was because the world was in angry conspiracy against him. And if Joe at-tacked the world, it was revenge and they damn well deserved it—the sons of bitches. Joe lavished every care on his love, and he perfected a lonely set of rules which might have gone like this: 1. Don't believe nobody. The bastards are after you. 2. Keep your mouth shut. Don't stick your neck out. 3. Keep your ears open. When they make a slip, grab on to it and wait. 4. Everybody's a son of a bitch and whatever you do they got it coming. 5. Go at everything roundabout. 6. Don't never trust no dame about nothing. 7. Put your faith in dough. Everybody wants it. Everybody will sell out for it.

There were other rules, but they were refinements. His system worked, and since he knew no other, Joe had no basis of comparison with other systems. He knew it was necessary to be smart and he considered himself smart. If he pulled something off, that was smart; if he failed, that was bad luck. Joe was not very successful but he got by and with a minimum of effort. Kate kept him because she knew he would do anything in the world if he were paid to do it or was afraid not to do it. She had no illusions about him. In her business Joes were necessary.

When he first got the job with Kate, Joe looked for the weaknesses on which he lived—vanity, voluptuous-ness, anxiety or conscience, greed, hysteria. He knew they were there because she was a woman. It was a matter of considerable shock to him to learn that, if they were there, he couldn't find them. This dame thought and acted like a man—only tougher, quicker, and more clever. Joe made a few mistakes and Kate rubbed his nose in them. He developed an admiration for her based on fear.

When he found that he couldn't get away with some things, he began to believe he couldn't get away with anything. Kate made a slave of him just as he had always made slaves of women. She fed him, clothed him, gave him orders, punished him.

Once Joe recognized her as more clever than himself, it was a short step to the belief that she was more clever than anybody. He thought that she possessed the two great gifts: she was smart and she got the breaks—and you couldn't want no better than that. He was glad to do her hatchet work—and afraid not to. Kate don't make no mistakes, Joe said. And if you played along with her, Kate took care of you. This went beyond thought and became a habit pattern. When he got Ethel floated over the county line, it was all in the day's work. It was Kate's business and she was smart.

2

Kate did not sleep well when the arthritic pains were bad. She could almost feel her joints thicken and knot. Sometimes she tried to think of other things, even unpleasant ones, to drive the pain and the distorted fingers from her mind. Sometimes she tried to remem-ber every detail in a room she had not seen for a long time. Sometimes she looked at the ceiling and projected columns of figures and added them. Sometimes she used memories. She built Mr. Edwards' face and his clothes and the word that was stamped on the metal clasp of his suspenders. She had never noticed it, but she knew the word was “Excelsior.”

Often in the night she thought of Faye, remembered her eyes and hair and the tone of her voice and how her hands fluttered and the little lump of flesh beside her left thumbnail, a scar from an ancient cut. Kate went into her feeling about Faye. Did she hate or love her? Did she pity her? Was she sorry she had killed her? Kate inched over her own thoughts like a measuring worm.

She found she had no feeling about Faye. She neither liked nor disliked her or her memory. There had been a time during her dying when the noise and the smell of her had made anger rise in Kate so that she considered killing her quickly to get it over.

Kate remembered how Faye had looked the last time she saw her, lying in her purple casket, dressed in white, with the undertaker's smile on her lips and enough powder and rouge to cover her sallow skin.

A voice behind Kate had said, "She looks better than she has in years." And another voice had answered, "Maybe the same thing would do me some good," and there was a double snicker. The first voice would be Ethel, and the second Trixie. Kate remembered her own half-humorous reaction. Why, she had thought, a dead whore looks like anybody else.

Yes, the first voice must have been Ethel. Ethel always got into the night thinking, and Ethel always brought a shrinking fear with her, the stupid, clumsy, nosy bitch—the lousy old bag. And it happened very often that Kate's mind would tell her, “Now wait a moment. Why is she a lousy old bag? Isn't it because you made a mistake? Why did you float her? If you'd used your head and kept her here—” Kate wondered where Ethel was. How about one of those agencies to find Ethel—at least to find where she went? Yes, and then Ethel would tell about that night and show the glass. Then there'd be two noses sniffing instead of one. Yes, but what difference would that make? Every time Ethel got a beer in her she would be telling somebody. Oh, sure, but they would think she was just a buzzed old hustler. Now an agency man—no—no agencies.

Kate spent many hours with Ethel. Did the judge have any idea it was a frame—too simple? It shouldn't have been an even hundred dollars. That was obvious. And how about the sheriff? Joe said they dropped her over the line into Santa Cruz County. What did Ethel tell the deputy who drove her out? Ethel was a lazy old bat. Maybe she had stayed in Watsonville. There was Pajaro, and that was a railroad section, and then the Pajaro River and the bridge into Watsonville. Lots of section hands went back and forth, Mexicans, some Hindus. That puddlehead Ethel might have thought she could turn enough tricks with the track workers. Wouldn't it be funny if she had never left Watsonville, thirty miles away? She could even slip in over the line and see her friends if she wanted to. Maybe she came to Salinas sometimes. She might be in Salinas right now. The cops weren't likely to keep too much on the look for her. Maybe it would be a good idea to send Joe over to Watsonville to see if Ethel was there. She might have gone on to Santa Cruz. Joe could look there too. It wouldn't take him long. Joe could find any hooker in any town in a few hours. If he found her they could get her back somehow. Ethel was a fool. But maybe when he found her it would be better if Kate went to her. Lock the door. Leave a “Do not disturb” sign. She could get to Watsonville, do her business, and get back. No taxis. Take a bus. Nobody saw anybody on the night buses. People sleeping with their shoes off and coats rolled up behind their heads. Suddenly she knew she would be afraid to go to Watsonville. Well, she could make herself go. It would stop all this won-dering. Strange she hadn't thought of sending Joe be-fore. That was perfect. Joe was good at some things, and the dumb bastard thought he was clever. That was the kind easiest to handle. Ethel was stupid. That made her hard to handle.

As her hands and her mind grew more crooked, Kate began to rely more and more on Joe Valery as her assistant in chief, as her go-between, and as her executioner. She had a basic fear of the girls in the house—not that they were more untrustworthy than Joe but that the hysteria which lay very close to the surface might at any time crack through their caution and shatter their sense of self-preservation and tear down not only themselves but their surroundings. Kate had always been able to handle this ever-present danger, but now the slow-depositing calcium and the slow growth of apprehension caused her to need help and to look for it from Joe. Men, she knew, had a little stronger wall against self-destruction than the kind of women she knew.

She felt that she could trust Joe, because she had in her files a notation relating to one Joseph Venuta who had walked away from a San Quentin road gang in the fourth year of a five-year sentence for robbery. Kate had never mentioned this to Joe Valery , but she thought it might have a soothing influence on him if he got out of hand.

Joe brought the breakfast tray every morning—green China tea and cream and toast. When he had set it on her bedside table he made his report and got his orders for the day. He knew that she was depending on him more and more. And Joe was very slowly and quietly exploring the possibility of taking over entirely. If she got sick enough there might be a chance. But very profoundly Joe was afraid of her.

"Morning," he said. “I'm not going to sit up for it, Joe. Just give me the tea. You'll have to hold it.”

"Hands bad?" “Yes. They get better after a flare up.” “Looks like you had a bad night.” “No,” said Kate. “I had a good night. I've got some new medicine.”

Joe held the cup to her lips, and she drank the tea in little sips, breathing in over it to cool it. “That's enough,” she said when the cup was only half empty. “How was the night?”

"I almost came to tell you last night," said Joe. "Hick came in from King City. Just sold his crop.

Bought out the house. Dropped seven hundred not counting what he give the girls." “What was his name?” “I don't know. But I hope he comes in again.” “You should get the name, Joe. I've told you that.” “He was cagey.” “All the more reason to get his name. Didn't any of the girls frisk him?” “I don't know.” “Well, find out.”

Joe sensed a mild geniality in her and it made him feel good. "I'll find out," he assured her. "I got enough to go on."

Her eyes went over him, testing and searching, and he knew something was coming. "You like it here?" she asked softly. “Sure. I got it good here.” “You could have it better—or worse,” she said. “I like it good here,” he said uneasily, and his mind cast about for a fault in himself. “I got it real nice here.”

She moistened her lips with her arrow-shaped tongue. "You and I can work together," she said.

"Any way you want it," he said ingratiatingly, and a surge of pleasant expectation grew in him.

He waited patiently. She took a good long time to begin.

At last she said, "Joe, I don't like to have anything stolen." “I didn't take nothing.” “I didn't say you did.”

"Who?" “I'll get to it, Joe. Do you remember that old buzz-zard we had to move?” “You mean Ethel what's-her-name?”

"Yes. That's the one. She got away with something. I didn't know it then."

"What?"

A coldness crept into her voice. "Not your business, Joe. Listen to me! You're a smart fellow.

Where would you go to look for her?"

Joe's mind worked quickly, not with reason but with experience and instinct. "She was pretty beat up. She wouldn't go far. An old hustler don't go far." “You're smart. You think she might be in Watsonville?” “There or maybe Santa Cruz. Anyways, I'll give odds she ain't farther away than San Jose.”

She caressed her fingers tenderly. "Would you like to make five hundred, Joe?" “You want I should find her?” “Yes. Just find her. When you do, don't let her know. Just bring me the address. Got that? Just tell me where she is.” “Okay,” said Joe. “She must of rolled you good.” “That's not your business, Joe.” “Yes, ma'am,” he said. “You want I should start right off?”

"Yes. Make it quick, Joe." “Might be a little tough,” he said. “It's been a long time.” “That's up to you.” “I'll go to Watsonville this afternoon.” “That's good, Joe.”

She was thoughtful. He knew she was not finished and that she was wondering whether she should go on. She decided. “Joe, did—did she do anything—well, peculiar—that day in court?” “Hell, no. Said she was framed like they always do.”

And then something came back to him that he hadn't noticed at the time. Out of his memory Ethel's voice came, saying, "Judge, I got to see you alone. I got to tell you something." He tried to bury his memory deep so that his face would not speak.

Kate said, "Well, what was it?"

He had been too late. His mind leaped for safety. "There's something," he said to gain time. "I'm trying to think." “Well, think!” Her voice was edged and anxious. “Well—” He had it. “Well, I heard her tell the cops—let's see—she said why couldn't they let her go south. She said she had relatives in San Luis Obispo."

Kate leaned quickly toward him. "Yes?" “And the cops said it was too damn far.” “You're smart, Joe. Where will you go first?”

"Watsonville," he said. "I got a friend in San Luis. He'll look around for me. I'll give him a ring." “Joe,” she said sharply. “I want this quiet.”

"For five hundred you'll get it quiet and quick," said Joe. He felt fine even though her eyes were suited and inspective again. Her next words jarred his stomach loose from his backbone. “Joe, not to change the subject—does the name Venuta mean anything to you?”

He tried to answer before his throat tightened. "Not a thing," he said.

Come back as soon as you can," Kate said. "Tell Helen to come in. She'll take over for you Joe packed his suitcase, went to the depot, and bought a ticket for Watsonville. At Castroville, the first station north, he got off and waited four hours for the Del Monte express from San Francisco to Monterey, which is at the end of a spur line. In Monterey he climbed the stairs of the Central Hotel, registered as John Vicker. He went downstairs and ate a steak at Pop Ernst's, bought a bottle of whisky, and retired to his room.

He took off his shoes and his coat and vest, removed his collar and tie, and lay down on the bed. The whisky and a glass were on the table beside the brass bed. The overhead light shining in his face didn't bother him. He didn't notice it. Methodically he primed his brain with half a tumbler of whisky and then he crossed his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles and he brought out thoughts and impressions and perceptions and in-stincts and began matching them.

It had been a good job and he had thought he had her fooled. Well, he'd underrated her. But how in hell had she got onto it he was wanted? He thought he might go to Reno or maybe to Seattle. Seaport towns—always good. And then—now wait a minute. Think about it.

Ethel didn't steal nothing. She had something. Kate was scared of Ethel. Five hundred was a lot of dough to dig out a beat-up whore. What Ethel wanted to tell the judge was, number one, true; and, number two, Kate was scared of it. Might be able to use that. Hell!—not with her holding that jailbreak over him. Joe wasn't going to serve out the limit with penalties.

But no harm in thinking about it. Suppose he was to gamble four years against—well, let's say ten grand. Was that a bad bet? No need to decide. She knew it before and didn't turn him in. Suppose she thought he was a good dog.

Maybe Ethel might be a hole-card.

Now—wait—just think about it. Maybe it was the breaks. Maybe he ought to draw his hand and see. But she was so goddam smart. Joe wondered if he could play against her. But how, if he just played along?

Joe sat up and filled his glass full. He turned off his light and raised his shade. And as he drank his whisky he watched a skinny little woman in a bathrobe wash-ing her stockings in a basin in a room on the other side of the air shaft. And the whisky muttered in his ears.

It might be the breaks. God knows, Joe had waited long enough. God knows, he hated the bitch with her sharp little teeth. No need to decide right now.

He raised his window quietly and threw the writing pen from the table against the window across the air shaft. He enjoyed the scene of fear and apprehension before the skinny dame yanked her shade down.

With the third glass of whisky the pint was empty. Joe felt a wish to go out in the street and look the town over. But then his discipline took over. He had made a rule, and kept to it, never to leave his room when he was drinking. That way a man never got in trouble. Trouble meant cops, and cops meant a check-up, and that would surely mean a trip across the bay to San Quentin and no road gang for good behavior this time. He put the street out of his mind.

Joe had another pleasure he saved for times when he was alone, and he was not aware it was a pleasure. He indulged it now. He lay on the brass bed and went back in time over his sullen and miserable childhood and his fretful and vicious growing up. No luck—he never got the breaks. The big shots got the breaks. A few snatch jobs he got away with, but the tray of pocketknives? Cops came right in his house and got him. Then he was on the books and they never let him alone. Guy in Daly City couldn't shag a crate of strawberries off a truck without they'd pick up Joe. In school he didn't have no luck neither. Teachers against him, principal against him. Guy couldn't take that crap. Had to get out.

Out of his memory of bad luck a warm sadness grew, and he pushed it with more memories until the tears came to his eyes and his lips quivered with pity for the lonely lost boy he had been. And here he was now—look at him—a rap against him, working in a whorehouse when other men had homes and cars. They were safe and happy and at night their blinds were pulled down against Joe. He wept quietly until he fell asleep.

Joe got up at ten in the morning and ate a monster breakfast at Pop Ernst's. In the early afternoon he took a bus to Watsonville and played three games of snooker with a friend who came to meet him in answer to a phone call. Joe won the last game and racked his cue. He handed his friend two ten-dollar bills. “Hell,” said his friend, “I don't want your money.” “Take it,” said Joe. “It ain't like I give you anything.”

"You give me plenty. You say she ain't here and you're the baby that would know." “Can't tell me what you want her for?” “Wilson, I tol' you right first an' I tell you now, I don't know. I'm jus' doing a job of work.” “Well, that's all I can do. Seems like there was this convention—what was it?—dentists, or maybe Owls. I don't know whether she said she was going or I just figured it myself. I got it stuck in my mind. Give Santa Cruz a whirl. Know anybody?” “I got a few acquaintances,” said Joe. “Look up H. V. Mahler, Hal Mahler. He runs Hal's poolroom. Got a game in back.” “Thanks,” said Joe. “No—look, Joe. I don't want your money.” “It ain't my money—buy a cigar,” said Joe.

The bus dropped him two doors from Hal's place. It was suppertime but the stud game was still going. It was an hour before Hal got up to go to the can and Joe could follow and make a connection. Hal peered at Joe with large pale eyes made huge by thick glasses. He buttoned his fly slowly and adjusted his black alpaca sleeve guards and squared his green eyeshade. "Stick around till the game breaks," he said. "Care to sit in?" “How many playing for you, Hal?” “Only one.” “I'll play for you.” “Five bucks an hour,” said Hal. “An' ten per cent if I win?” “Well, okay. Sandy-haired fella Williams is the house.”

At one o'clock in the morning Hal and Joe went to Barlow's Grill. "Two rib steaks and french fries. You want soup?" Hal asked Joe. “No. And no french fries. They bind me up.” “Me too,” said Hal. “But I eat them just the same. I don't get enough exercise.”

Hal was a silent man until he was eating. He rarely spoke unless his mouth was full. "What's your pitch?" he asked around steak. “Just a job. I make a hundred bucks and you get twenty-five—okay?” “Got to have like proof—like papers?” “No. Be good but I'll get by without them.” “Well, she come in and wants me to steer for her. She wasn't no good. I didn't take twenty a week off her. I probably wouldn't of knew what become of her only Bill Primus seen her in my place and when they found her he come in an' ast me about her. Nice fella, Bill. We got a nice force here.”

Ethel was not a bad woman—lazy, sloppy, but good-hearted. She wanted dignity and importance. She was just not very bright and not very pretty and, because of these two lacks, not very lucky. It would have bothered Ethel if she had known that when they pulled her out of the sand where waves had left her half buried, her skirts were pulled around her ass. She would have liked more dignity.

Hal said, “We got some crazy bohunk bastards in the sardine fleet. Get loaded with ink an' they go nuts. Way I figure, one of them sardine crews took her out an' then jus' pushed her overboard. I don't see how else she'd get in the water.” “Maybe she jumped off the pier?” “Her?” said Hal through potatoes. “Hell, no! She was too blamed lazy to kill herself. You want to check?”

"If you say it's her, it's her," said Joe, and he pushed a twenty and a five across the table.

Hal rolled the bills like a cigarette and put them in his vest pocket. He cut out the triangle of meat from the rib steak and put it in his mouth. "It was her," he said. "Want a piece of pie?"

Joe meant to sleep until noon but he awakened at seven and lay in bed for quite a long time. He planned not to get back to Salinas until after midnight. He needed more time to think.

When he got up he looked in the mirror and inspect-ed the expression he planned to wear. He wanted to look disappointed but not too disappointed. Kate was so goddam clever. Let her lead. Just follow suit. She was about as wide open as a fist. Joe had to admit that he was scared to death of her.

His caution said to him, "Just go in and tell her and get your five hundred."

And he answered his caution savagely, “Breaks. How many breaks did I ever get? Part of the breaks is knowing a break when you get it. Do I want to be a lousy pimp all my life? Just play it close. Let her do the talking. No harm in that. I can always tell her later like I just found out if it don't go good.” “She could have you in a cell block in six hours flat.” “Not if I play 'em close. What I got to lose? What breaks did I ever get?”

Kate was feeling better. The new medicine seemed to be doing her some good. The pain in her hands was abated, and it seemed to her that her fingers were straighter, the knuckles not so swollen. She had had a good night's sleep, the first in a long time, and she felt good, even a little excited. She planned to have a boiled egg for breakfast. She got up and put on a dressing gown and brought a hand mirror back to the bed. Lying high against the pillows, she studied her face. The rest had done wonders. Pain makes you set your jaw, and your eyes grow falsely bright with anxiety, and the muscles over the temples and along the cheeks, even the weak muscles near to the nose, stand out a little, and that is the look of sickness and of resistance to suffering.

The difference in her rested face was amazing. She looked ten years younger. She opened her lips and looked at her teeth. Time to go for a cleaning. She took care of her teeth. The gold bridge where the molars were gone was the only repair in her mouth. It was remark-able how young she looked, Kate thought. Just one night's sleep and she snapped back. That was another thing that fooled them. They thought she would be weak and delicate. She smiled to herself—delicate like a steel trap. But then she always took care of herself—no liquor, no drugs, and recently she had stopped drinking coffee. And it paid off. She had an angelic face. She put the mirror a little higher so that the crepe at her throat did not reflect.

Her thought jumped to that other angelic face so like hers—what was his name?—what the hell was his name—Alec? She could see him, moving slowly past, his white surplice edged with lace, his sweet chin down and his hair glowing under the candlelight. He held the oaken staff and its brass cross angled ahead of him. There was something frigidly beautiful about him, something untouched and untouchable. Well, had any-thing or anybody ever really touched Kate—really got through and soiled her? Certainly not. Only the hard outside had been brushed by contacts. Inside she was intact—as clean and bright as this boy Alec—was that his name?

She chuckled—mother of two sons—and she looked like a child. And if anyone had seen her with the blond one—could they have any doubt? She thought how it would be to stand beside him in a crowd and let people find out for themselves. What would—Aron, that was the name—what would he do if he knew? His brother knew. That smart little son of a bitch—wrong word—must not call him that. Might be too true. Some people believed it. And not smart bastard either—born in holy wedlock. Kate laughed aloud. She felt good. She was having a good time.

The smart one—the dark one—bothered her. He was like Charles. She had respected Charles—and Charles would probably have killed her if he could.

Wonderful medicine—it not only stopped the arthritis-ic pain, it gave her back her courage. Pretty soon she could sell out and go to New York as she had always planned. Kate thought of her fear of Ethel. How sick she must-have been—the poor dumb old bag! How would it be to murder her with kindness? When Joe found her, how about—well, how about taking her on to New York? Keep her close.

A funny notion came to Kate. That would be a comical murder, and a murder no one under any cir-cumstances could solve or even suspect. Chocolates—boxes of chocolates, bowls of fondant, bacon, crisp bacon—fat, port wine, and then butter, everything soaked in butter and whipped cream; no vegetables, no fruit—and no amusement either. Stay in the house, dear. I trust you. Look after things. You're tired. Go to bed. Let me fill your glass. I got these new sweets for you. Would you like to take the box to bed? Well, if you don't feel good why don't you take a physic?

These cashews are nice, don't you think? The old bitch would blow up and burst in six months. Or how about a tapeworm? Did anyone ever use tapeworms? Who was the man who couldn't get water to his mouth in a sieve—Tantalus?

Kate's lips were smiling sweetly and a gaiety was coming over her. Before she went it might be good to give a party for her sons. Just a simple little party with a circus afterward for her darlings—her jewels. And then she thought of Aron's beautiful face so like her own and a strange pain—a little collapsing pain—arose in her chest. He wasn't smart. He couldn't protect himself. The dark brother might be dangerous. She had felt his quality. Cal had beaten her. Before she went away she would teach him a lesson. Maybe—why, sure—maybe a dose of the clap might set that young man back on his heels.

Suddenly she knew that she did not want Aron to know about her. Maybe he could come to her in New York. He would think she had always lived in an elegant little house on the East Side. She would take him to the theater, to the opera, and people would see them together and wonder at their loveliness, and rec-ognize that they were either brother and sister or moth-er and son. No one could fail to know. They could go together to Ethel's funeral. She would need an oversized coffin and six wrestlers to carry it. Kate was so filled with amusement at her thoughts that she did not hear Joe's knocking on the door. He opened it a crack and looked in and saw her gay and smiling face. “Breakfast,” he said and nudged the door open with the edge of the linen-covered tray. He pushed the door closed with his knee. “Want it there?” he asked and gestured toward the gray room with his chin. “No. I'll have it right here. And I want a boiled egg and a piece of cinnamon toast. Four and a half minutes on the egg. Make sure. I don't want it gooey.”

"You must feel better, ma'am." “I do,” she said. “That new medicine is wonderful. You look dragged by dogs, Joe. Don't you feel well?” “I'm all right,” he said and set the tray on the table in front of the big deep chair. “Four and a half min-utes?” “That's right. And if there's a good apple—a crisp apple—bring that too.” “You ain't et like this since I knew you,” he said.

In the kitchen, waiting for the cook to boil the egg, he was apprehensive. Maybe she knew. He'd have to be careful. But hell! she couldn't hate him for something he didn't know. No crime in that.

Back in her room he said, "Didn't have no apples. He said this was a good pear." “I'd like that even better,” said Kate.

He watched her chip off the egg and dip a spoon into the shell. "How is it?" “Perfect!” said Kate. “Just perfect.” “You look good,” he said. “I feel good. You look like hell. What's the matter?”

Joe went into it warily. "Ma'am, there ain't nobody needs five hundred like I do."

She said playfully, "There isn't anyone who needs—" "What?"

"Forget it. What are you trying to say? You couldn't find her—is that it? Well, if you did a good job look-ing, you'll get your five hundred. Tell me about it." She picked up the salt shaker and scattered a few grains into the open eggshell.

Joe put an artificial joy on his face. "Thanks," he said. "I'm in a spot. I need it. Well, I looked in Pajaro and Watsonville. Got a line on her in Watsonville but she'd went to Santa" Cruz. Got a smell of her there but she was gone."

Kate tasted the egg and added more salt. "That all?" “No,” said Joe. “I went it blind there. Dropped down to San Luis an' she had been there too but gone.” “No trace? No idea where she went?”

Joe fiddled with his fingers. His whole pitch, maybe his whole life, depended on his next words, and he was reluctant to say them. “Come on,” she said at last. “You got something—what is it?” “Well, it ain't much. I don't know what to think of it.” “Don't think. Just tell. I'll think,” she said sharply. “Might not even be true.” “For Christ's sake!” she said angrily. “Well, I talked to the last guy that seen her. Guy named Joe, like me—” “Did you get his grandmother's name?” she asked sarcastically.

"This guy Joe says she loaded up on beer one night an' she said how she's going to come back to Salinas an' lay low. Then she dropped out of sight. This guy Joe didn't know nothing more."

"He was startled out of control. Joe read her quick start, the apprehension, and then the almost hopeless fear and weariness. Whatever it was, Joe had some-thing. He had got the breaks at last. She looked up from her lap and her twisted fingers. "We'll forget the old fart," she said. "You'll get your five hundred, Joe."

Joe breethd shallowly, afraid that any sound might drag her out of her self-absorption. She had believed him. More than that, she was believing things he had not told her. He wanted to get out of the room as quickly as possible. He said, "Thank you, ma'am," but very softly, and he moved silently toward the door.

His hand was on the knob when she spoke with elaborate casualness. "Joe, by the way—" "Ma'am?" “If you should hear anything about—her, let me know, will you?” “I sure will. Want me to dig into it?” “No. Don't bother. It isn't that important.”

In his room, with the door latched, Joe sat down and folded his arms. He smiled to himself. And instantly he began to work out the future course. He decided to let her brood on it till, say, next week. Let her relax, and then bring up Ethel again. He did not know what his weapon was or how he was going to use it. But he did know that it was very sharp and he itched to use it. He would have laughed out loud if he had known that Kate had gone to the gray room and locked its door, and that she sat still in the big chair and her eyes were closed.

Part Five

Chapter 46

Sometimes, but not often, a rain comes to the Salinas Valley in November. It is so rare that the Journal or the Index or both carry editorials about it. The hills turn to a soft green overnight and the air smells good. Rain at this time is not particularly good in an agricul-tural sense unless it is going to continue, and this is extremely unusual. More commonly, the dryness comes back and the fuzz of grass withers or a little frost curls it and there's that amount of seed wasted.

The war years were wet years, and there were many people who blamed the strange intransigent weather on the firing of the great guns in France. This was seriously considered in articles and in arguments.

We didn't have many troops in France that first winter, but we had millions in training, getting ready to go—painful as the war was, it was exciting too. The Germans were not stopped. In fact, they had taken the initiative again, driving methodically toward Paris, and God knew when they could be stopped—if they could be stopped at all. General Pershing would save us if we could be saved. His trim, beautifully uniformed soldierly figure made its appearance in every paper every day. His chin was granite and there was no wrinkle on his tunic. He was the epitome of a perfect soldier. No one knew what he really thought.

We knew we couldn't lose and yet we seemed to be going about losing. You couldn't buy flour, white flour, any more without taking four times the quantity of brown flour. Those who could afford it ate bread and biscuits made with white flour and made mash for the chickens with the brown.

In the old Troop C armory the Home Guard drilled, men over fifty and not the best soldier material, but they took setting-up exercises twice a week, wore Home Guard buttons and overseas caps, snapped orders at one another, and wrangled eternally about who should be officers. William C. Burt died right on the armory floor in the middle of a push-up. His heart couldn't take it.

There were Minute Men too, so called because they made one-minute speeches in favor of America in mov-ing-picture theaters and in churches. They had buttons too.

The women rolled bandages and wore Red Cross uniforms and thought of themselves as Angels of Mer-cy. And everybody knitted something for someone. There were wristlets, short tubes of wool to keep the wind from whistling up soldiers' sleeves, and there were knitted helmets with only a hole in front to look out of. These were designed to keep the new tin helmets from freezing to the head.

Every bit of really first-grade leather was taken for officers' boots and for Sam Browne belts.

These belts were handsome and only officers could wear them. They consisted of a wide belt and a strip that crossed the chest and passed under the left epaulet. We copied them from the British, and even the British had forgot-ten their original purpose, which was possibly to sup-port a heavy sword. Swords were not carried except on parade, but an officer would not be caught dead without a Sam Browne belt. A good one cost as much as twenty-five dollars.

We learned a lot from the British—and if they had not been good fighting men we wouldn't have taken it. Men began to wear their handkerchiefs in their sleeves and some foppish lieutenants carried swagger sticks. One thing we resisted for a long time, though. Wrist-watches were just too silly. It didn't seem likely that we would ever copy the Limeys in that.

We had our internal enemies too, and we exercised vigilance. San Jose had a spy scare, and Salinas was not likely to be left behind—not the way Salinas was growing.

For about twenty years Mr. Fenchel had done hand tailoring in Salinas. He was short and round and he had an accent that made you laugh. All day he sat cross-legged on his table in the little shop on Alisal Street, and in the evening he walked home to his small white house far out on Central Avenue. He was forever painting his house and the white picket fence in front of it.

Nobody had given his accent a thought until the war came along, but suddenly we knew. It was Ger-man. We had our own personal German. It didn't do him any good to bankrupt himself buying war bonds. That was too easy a way to cover up.

The Home Guard wouldn't take him in. They didn't want a spy knowing their secret plans for defending Salinas. And who wanted to wear a suit made by an enemy? Mr. Fenchel sat all day on his table and he didn't have anything to do, so he basted and ripped and sewed and ripped on the same piece of cloth over and over.

We used every cruelty we could think of on Mr. Fenchel. He was our German. He passed our house every day, and there had been a time when he spoke to every man and woman and child and dog, and every-one had answered. Now no one spoke to him, and I can see now in my mind his tubby loneliness and his face full of hurt pride.

My little sister and I did our part with Mr. Fenchel, and it is one of those memories of shame that still makes me break into a sweat and tighten up around the throat. We were standing in our front yard on the lawn one evening and we saw him coming with little fat steps. His black homburg was brushed and squarely set on his head. I don't remember that we discussed our plan but we must have, to have carried it out so well.

As he came near, my sister and I moved slowly across the street side by side. Mr. Fenchel looked up and saw us moving toward him. We stopped in the gutter as he came by.

He broke into a smile and said, "Gut efning, Chon. Gut efning, Mary."

We stood stiffly side by side and we said in unison, "Hoch der Kaiser!"

I can see his face now, his startled innocent blue eyes. He tried to say something and then he began to cry. Didn't even try to pretend he wasn't. He just stood there sobbing. And do you know?—Mary and I turned around and walked stiffly across the street and into our front yard. We felt horrible. I still do when I think of it.

We were too young to do a good job on Mr. Fen-chel. That took strong men—about thirty of them. One Saturday night they collected in a bar and marched in a column of fours out Central Avenue, saying, “Hup! Hup!” in unison. They tore down Mr. Fenchel's white picket fence and burned the front out of his house. No Kaiser-loving son of a bitch was going to get away with it with us. And then Salinas could hold up its head with San Jose.

Of course that made Watsonville get busy. They tarred and feathered a Pole they thought was a Ger-man. He had an accent.

We of Salinas did all of the things that are inevitably done in a war, and we thought the inevitable thoughts. We screamed over good rumors and died of panic at bad news. Everybody had a secret that he had to spread obliquely to keep its identity as a secret. Our pattern of life changed in the usual manner. Wages and prices went up. A whisper of shortage caused us to buy and store food. Nice quiet ladies clawed one another over a can of tomatoes.

It wasn't all bad or cheap or hysterical. There was heroism too. Some men who could have avoided the army enlisted, and others objected to the war on moral or religious grounds and took the walk up Golgotha which normally comes with that. There were people who gave everything they had to the war because it was the last war and by winning it we would remove war like a thorn from the flesh of the world and there wouldn't be any more such horrible nonsense.

There is no dignity in death in battle. Mostly that is a splashing about of human meat and fluid, and the result is filthy, but there is a great and almost sweet dignity in the sorrow, the helpless, the hopeless sorrow, that comes down over a family with the telegram. Nothing to say, nothing to do, and only one hope—I hope he didn't suffer—and what a forlorn and last-choice hope that is. And it is true that there were some people who, when their sorrow was beginning to lose its savor, gently edged it toward pride and felt increasingly important because of their loss. Some of these even made a good thing of it after the war was over. That is only natural, just as it is natural for a man whose life function is the making of money to make money out of a war. No one blamed a man for that, but it was expected that he should invest a part of his loot in war bonds. We thought we invented all of it in Salinas, even the sorrow.

Chapter 47

In the Trask house next to Reynaud's Bakery, Lee and Adam put up a map of the western front with lines of colored pins snaking down, and this gave them a feeling of participation. Then Mr. Kelly died and Adam Trask was appointed to take his place on the draft board. He was the logical man for the job. The ice plant did not take up much of his time, and he had a clear service record and an honorable discharge himself.

Adam Trask had seen a war—a little war of maneuver and butchery, but at least he had experienced the reversal of the rules where a man is permitted to kill all the humans he can.

Adam didn't remember his war very well. Certain sharp pictures stood out in his memo-ry, a man's face, the piled and burning bodies, the clang of saber scabbards at fast trot, the uneven, tearing sound of firing carbines, the thin cold voice of a bugle in the night. But Adam's pictures were frozen. There was no motion or emotion in them—illustrations in the pages of a book, and not very well drawn.

Adam worked hard and honestly and sadly. He could not get over the feeling that the young men he passed to the army were under sentence of death. And because he knew he was weak, he grew more and more stern and painstaking and much less likely to accept an excuse or a borderline disability. He took the lists home with him, called on parents, in fact, did much more work than was expected of him. He felt like a hanging judge who hates the gallows.

Henry Stanton watched Adam grow more gaunt and more silent, and Henry was a man who liked fun—needed it. A sour-pussed associate could make him sick. “Relax,” he told Adam. “You're trying to carry the weight of the war. Now, look—it's not your responsi-bility. You got put in here with a set of rules. Just fol-low the rules and relax. You aren't running the war.”

Adam moved the slats of the blind so that the late afternoon sun would not shine in his eyes, and he gazed down at the harsh parallel lines the sun threw on his desk. "I know," he said wearily. “Oh, I know that! But, Henry, it's when there's a choice, and it's my own judgment of the merits, that's when it gets me. I passed Judge Kendal's boy and he was killed in training.” “It's not your business, Adam. Why don't you take a few drinks at night? Go to a movie—sleep on it.” Henry put his thumbs in the armholes of his vest and leaned back in his chair. “While we're talking about it, Adam, it seems to me it don't do a candidate a damn bit of good for you to worry. You pass boys I could be talked into letting off.” “I know,” said Adam. “I wonder how long it will last?”

Henry inspected him shrewdly and took a pencil from his stuffed vest pocket and rubbed the eraser against his big white front teeth. "I see what you mean," he said softly.

Adam looked at him, startled. "What do I mean?" he demanded. “Now don't get huffy. I never thought I was lucky before, just having girls.”

Adam traced one of the slat shadows on his desk with his forefinger. "Yes," he said in a voice as soft as a sigh. “It's a long time before your boys will be called up.” “Yes.” Adam's finger entered a line of light and slid slowly back.

Henry said, "I'd hate to—" “Hate to what?” “I was just wondering how I'd feel if I had to pass on my own sons.” “I'd resign,” said Adam.

"Yes. I can see that. A man would be tempted to reject them—I mean, his own."

"No," said Adam. "I'd resign because I couldn't reject them. A man couldn't let his own go free."

Henry laced his fingers and made one big fist of his two hands and laid the fist on the desk in front of him. His face was querulous. "No," he said, "you're right. A man couldn't." Henry liked fun and avoided when he could any solemn or serious matter, for he confused these with sorrow. “How's Aron doing at Stanford?” “Fine. He writes that it's hard but he thinks he'll make out all right. He'll be home for Thanksgiving.” “I'd like to see him. I saw Cal on the street last night. There's a smart boy.” “Cal didn't take college tests a year ahead,” said Adam. “Well, maybe that's not what he's cut out for. I didn't go to college. Did you?” “No,” said Adam. “I went into the army.” “Well, it's a good experience. I'll bet you wouldn't take a good bit for the experience.”

Adam stood up slowly and picked his hat from the deer horns on the wall. "Good night, Henry," he said.

2

Walking home, Adam pondered his responsibility. As he passed Reynaud's Bakery Lee came out, carrying a golden loaf of French bread. “I have a hunger for some garlic bread,” Lee said. “I like it with steak,” said Adam. “We're having steak. Was there any mail?” “I forgot to look in the box.”

They entered the house and Lee went to the kitchen. In a moment Adam followed him and sat at the kitchen table. “Lee,” he said, “suppose we send a boy to the army and he is killed, are we responsible?” “Go on,” said Lee. “I would rather have the whole thing at once.” “Well, suppose there's a slight doubt that the boy should be in the army and we send him and he gets killed.” “I see. Is it responsibility or blame that bothers you?” “I don't want blame.” “Sometimes responsibility is worse. It doesn't carry any pleasant egotism.” “I was thinking about that time when Sam Hamilton and you and I had a long discussion about a word,” said Adam. “What was that word?” “Now I see. The word was timshel.” “Timshel—and you said—” “I said that word carried a man's greatness if he wanted to take advantage of it.” “I remember Sam Hamilton felt good about it.” “It set him free,” said Lee. “It gave him the right to be a man, separate from every other man.” “That's lonely.” “All great and precious things are lonely.” “What is the word again?” “Timshel—thou mayest.”

3

Adam looked forward to Thanksgiving when Aron would come home from college. Even though Aron had been away such a short time Adam had forgotten him and changed him the way any man changes someone he loves. With Aron gone, the silences were the result of his going, and every little painful event was somehow tied to his absence. Adam found himself talking and boasting about his son, telling people who weren't very interested how smart Aron was and how he had jumped a year in school. He thought it would be a good thing to have a real celebration at Thanksgiving to let the boy know his effort was appreciated.

Aron lived in a furnished room in Palo Alto, and he walked the mile to and from the campus every day. He was miserable. What he had expected to find at the university had been vague and beautiful. His picture—never really inspected—had been of clean-eyed young men and immaculate girls, all in academic robes and converging on a white temple on the crown of a wooded hill in the evening. Their faces were shining and dedi-cated and their voices rose in chorus and it was never any time but evening. He had no idea where he had got his picture of academic life—perhaps from the Doré illustrations of Dante's Inferno with its massed and radiant angels. Leland Stanford University was not like that. A formal square of brown sandstone blocks set down in a hayfield; a church with an Italian mosaic front; classrooms of varnished pine; and the great world of struggle and anger re-enacted in the rise and fall of fraternities. And those bright angels were youths in dirty corduroy trousers, some study-raddled and some learning the small vices of their fathers.

Aron, who had not known he had a home, was nauseatingly homesick. He did not try to learn the life around him or to enter it. He found the natural noise and fuss and horseplay of undergraduates horrifying, after his dream. He left the college dormitory for a dreary furnished room where he could decorate another dream which had only now come into being. In the new and neutral hiding place he cut the university out, went to his classes and left as soon as he could, to live in his new-found memories. The house next to Reynaud's Bakery became warm and dear, Lee the epitome of friend and counselor, his father the cool, dependable figure of godhead, his brother clever and delightful, and Abra—well, of Abra he made his immaculate dream and, having created her, fell in love with her. At night when his studying was over he went to his nightly letter to her as one goes to a scented bath. And as Abra became more radiant, more pure and beautiful, Aron took an increasing joy in a concept of his own wickedness. In a frenzy he poured joyous abjectness on paper to send to her, and he went to bed purified, as a man is after sexual love. He set down every evil thought he had and renounced it. The results were love letters that dripped with longing and by their high tone made Abra very uneasy. She could not know that Aron's sexuality had taken a not unusual channel.

He had made a mistake. He could admit the mistake but as yet he could not reverse himself. He made a compact with himself. At Thanksgiving he would go home, and then he would be sure. He might never come back. He remembered that Abra had once sug-gested that they go to live on the ranch, and that became his dream. He remembered the great oaks and the clear living air, the clean sage-laced wind from the hills and the brown oak leaves scudding. He could see Abra there, standing under a tree, waiting for him to come in from his work. And it was evening. There, after work of course, he could live in purity and peace with the world, cut off by the little draw. He could hide from ugliness—in the evening.

Chapter 48

Late in November the Nigger died and was buried in black austerity, as her will demanded. She lay for a day in Muller's Funeral Chapel in an ebony and silver casket, her lean and severe profile made even more ascetic by the four large candles set at the four corners of the casket.

Her little black husband crouched like a cat by her right shoulder, and for many hours he seemed as still as she. There were no flowers, as ordered, no ceremony, no sermon, and no grief. But a strange and catholic selection of citizens tiptoed to the chapel door and peered in and went away —lawyers and laborers and clerks and bank tellers, most of them past middle age. Her girls came in one at a time and looked at her for decency and for luck and went away.

An institution was gone from Salinas, dark and fatal sex, as hopeless and deeply hurtful as human sacrifice. Jenny's place would still jangle with honky-tonk and rock with belching laughter.

Kate's would rip the nerves to a sinful ecstasy and leave a man shaken and weak and frightened at himself. But the somber mystery of connection that was like a voodoo offering was gone forever.

The funeral was also by order of the will, the hearse and one automobile with the small black man crouched back in a corner. It was a gray day, and when Muller's service had lowered the casket with oiled and silent winches the hearse drove away and the husband filled the grave himself with a new shovel. The caretaker, cutting dry weeds a hundred yards away, heard a whining carried on the wind.

Joe Valery had been drinking a beer with Butch Bea-vers at the Owl, and he went with Butch to have a look at the Nigger. Butch was in a hurry because he had to go out to Natividad to auction a small herd of white-face Herefords for the Tavernettis.

Coming out of the mortuary, Joe found himself in step with Alf Nichelson—crazy Alf Nichelson, who was a survival from an era that was past. Alf was a jack-of-all-trades, carpenter, tinsmith, blacksmith, electrician, plasterer, scissors grinder, and cobbler. Alf could do anything, and as a result he was a financial failure although he worked all the time. He knew everything about everybody back to the beginning of time.

In the past, in the period of his success, two kinds of people had access to all homes and all gossip—the seamstress and the handy man. Alf could tell you about everybody on both sides of Main Street. He was a vicious male gossip, insatiably curious and vindictive without malice.

He looked at Joe and tried to place him. "I know you," he said. "Don't tell me."

Joe edged away. He was wary of people who knew him. “Wait a minute. I got it. Kate's. You work at Kate's.”

Joe sighed with relief. He had thought Alf might have known him earlier. "That's right," he said shortly. “Never forget a face,” said Alf. “Seen you when I built that crazy lean-to for Kate. Now why in hell did she want that for? No window.” “Wanted it dark,” said Joe, “Eyes bother her.”

Alf sniffed. He hardly ever believed anything simple or good about anybody. You could say good morning to Alf and he'd work it around to a password. He was convinced that everyone lived secretly and that only he could see through them.

He jerked his head back at Muller's. “Well, it's a milestone,” he said. “Nearly all the old-timers gone. When Fartin' Jenny goes that'll be the end. And Jen-ny's getting along.”

Joe was restless. He wanted to get away—and Alf knew he did. Alf was an expert in people who wanted to get away from him. Come to think of it, maybe that is why he carried his bag of stories. No one really went away when he could hear some juicy stuff about someone. Everybody is a gossip at heart. Alf was not liked for his gift but he was listened to. And he knew that Joe was on the point of making an excuse and getting out. It occurred to. him that he didn't know much about Kate's place lately. Joe might trade him some new stuff for some old stuff. “The old days was pretty good,” he said. “'Course you're just a kid.” “I got to meet a fella,” said Joe.

Alf pretended not to hear him. "You take Faye," he said. "She was a case," and, parenthetically, "You know Faye run Kate's place. Nobody really knows how Kate come to own it. It was pretty mysterious, and there was some that had their suspicions." He saw with satisfaction that the fella Joe was going to meet would wait a long time. “What was they suspicious about?” Joe asked. “Hell, you know how people talk. Probably nothing in it. But I got to admit it looked kind of funny.” “Like to have a beer?” Joe asked. “Now you got something there,” said Alf. “They say a fella jumps from a funeral to the bedroom. I ain't as young as I was. Funeral makes me thirsty. The Nigger was quite a citizen. I could tell you stuff about her. I've knew her for thirty-five—no, thirty-seven years.” “Who was Faye?” Joe asked.

They went into Mr. Griffin's saloon. Mr. Griffin didn't like anything about liquor, and he hated drinks with a deadly scorn. He owned and operated Griffin's Saloon on Main Street, and on a Saturday night he might refuse to serve twenty men he thought had had enough. The result was that he got the best trade in his cool, orderly, quiet place. It was a saloon in which to make deals and to talk quietly without interruption.

Joe and Alf sat at the round table at the back and had three beers apiece. Joe learned everything true and untrue, founded and unfounded, every ugly conjecture. Out of it he got complete confusion but a few ideas. Something might have been not exactly on the level about the death of Faye. Kate might be the wife of Adam Trask. He hid that quickly—Trask might want to pay off. The Faye thing might be too hot to touch. Joe had to think about that—alone.

At the end of a couple of hours Alf was restive. Joe had not played ball. He had traded nothing, not one single piece of information or guess. Alf found himself thinking, Fella that close-mouthed must have something to hide. Wonder who would have a line on him?

Alf said finally, “Understand, I like Kate. She gives me a job now and then and she's generous and quick to pay. Probably nothing to all the palaver about her. Still, when you think of it, she's a pretty cold piece of woman. She's got a real bad eye. You think?” “I get along fine,” said Joe.

Alf was angry at Joe's perfidy, so he put in a needle. "I had a funny idea," he said. "It was when I built that lean-to without no window. She laid that cold eye on me one day and the idea come to me. If she knew all the things I heard, and she was to offer me a drink or even a cupcake—why, I'd say, 'No thank you, ma'am,' " “Me and her get along just fine,” said Joe. “I got to meet a guy.”

Joe went to his room to think. He was uneasy. He jumped up and looked in his suitcase and opened all the bureau drawers. He thought somebody had been going through his things. Just came to him. There was nothing to find. It made him nervous. He tried to arrange the things he had heard.

There was a tap on the door and Thelma came in, her eyes swollen and her nose red. "What's got into Kate?" “She's been sick.” “I don't mean that. I was in the kitchen shaking up a milkshake in a fruit jar and she came in and worked me over.” “Was you maybe shaking up a little bourbon in it?” “Hell, no. Just vanilla extract. She can't talk like that to me.” “She did, didn't she?” “Well, I won't take it.”

"Oh, yes, you will," said Joe. "Get out, Thelma!"

Thelma looked at him out of her dark, handsome, brooding eyes, and she regained the island of safety a woman depends on. "Joe," she asked, "are you really just pure son of a bitch or do you just pretend to be?" “What do you care?” Joe asked. “I don't,” said Thelma. “You son of a bitch.”

Joe planned to move slowly, cautiously, and only after long consideration. "I got the breaks, I got to use 'em right," he told himself.

He went in to get his evening orders and took them from the back of Kate's head. She was at her desk, green eyeshade low, and she did not look around at him. She finished her terse orders and then went on, "Joe, I wonder if you've been attending to business. I've been sick. But I'm well again or very nearly well." “Something wrong?” “Just a symptom. I'd rather Thelma drank whisky than vanilla extract, and I don't want her to drink whisky. I think you've been slipping."

His mind scurried for a hiding place. "Well, I been busy," he said.

"Busy?" “Sure. Doing that stuff for you.” “What stuff?” “You know—about Ethel.” “Forget Ethel!” “Okay,” said Joe. And then it came without his expecting it. “I met a fella yesterday said he seen her.”

If Joe had not known her he would not have given the little pause, the rigid ten seconds of silence, its due.

At the end of it Kate asked softly, “Where?”

"Here."

She turned her swivel chair slowly around to face him. "I shouldn't have let you work in the dark, Joe. It's hard to confess a fault but I owe it to you. I don't have to remind you I got Ethel floated out of the county. I thought she'd done something to me." A melancholy came into her voice. "I was wrong. I found out later. It's been working on me ever since. She didn't do anything to me. I want to find her and make it up to her. I guess you think it's strange for me to feel that way." "No, ma'am." “Find her for me, Joe. I'll feel better when I've made it up to her—the poor old girl.”

"I'll try, ma'am." “And, Joe—if you need any money, let me know. And if you find her, just tell her what I said. If she doesn't want to come here, find out where I can tele-phone her. Need any money?” “Not right now, ma'am. But I'll have to go out of the house more than I ought.” “You go ahead. That's all, Joe.”

He wanted to hug himself. In the hall he gripped his elbows and let his joy run through him. And he began to believe he had planned the whole thing. He went through the darkened parlor with its low early evening spatter of conversation. He stepped outside and looked up at the stars swimming in schools through the wind-driven clouds.

Joe thought of his bumbling father—because he remembered something the old man had told him. "Look out for a soup carrier," Joe's father had said. "Take one of them dames that's always carrying soup to somebody—she wants something, and don't you forget it."

Joe said under his breath, "A soup carrier. I thought she was smarter than that." He went over her tone and words to make sure he hadn't missed something. No—a soup carrier. And he thought of Alf saying, "If she was to offer a drink or even a cupcake—" Kate sat at her desk. She could hear the wind in the tall privet in the yard, and the wind and the darkness were full of Ethel—fat, sloppy Ethel oozing near like a jellyfish. A dull weariness came over her.

She went into the lean-to, the gray room, and closed the door and sat in the darkness, listening to the pain creep back into her fingers. Her temples beat with pounding blood. She felt for the capsule hanging in its tube on the chain around her neck, she rubbed the metal tube, warm from her breast, against her cheek, and her courage came back. She washed her face and put on makeup, combed and puffed her hair in a loose pompadour. She moved into the hall and at the door of the parlor she paused, as always, listening.

To the right of the door two girls and a man were talking. As soon as Kate stepped inside the talk stopped instantly. Kate said, "Helen, I want to see you if you aren't busy right now."

The girl followed her down the hall and into her room. She was a pale blond with a skin like clean and polished bone. "Is something the matter, Miss Kate?" she asked fearfully. “Sit down. No. Nothing's the matter. You went to the Nigger's funeral.” “Didn't you want me to?” “I don't care about that. You went.”

"Yes, ma'am." “Tell me about it.” “What about it?”

"Tell me what you remember—how it was."

Helen said nervously, "Well, it was kind of awful and—kind of beautiful." “How do you mean?” “I don't know. No flowers, no nothing, but there was—there was a—well, a kind of—dignity.

The Nig-ger was just laying there in a black wood coffin with the biggest goddam silver handles.

Made you feel—I can't say it. I don't know how to say it.” “Maybe you said it. What did she wear?”

"Wear, ma'am?" “Yes—wear. They didn't bury her naked, did they?”

A struggle of effort crossed Helen's face. "I don't know," she said at last. "I don't remember." “Did you go to the cemetery?” “No, ma'am. Nobody did—except him.”

"Who?"

"Her man."

Kate said quickly—almost too quickly, “Have you got any regulars tonight?” “No, ma'am. Day before Thanksgiving. Bound to be slow.” “I'd forgotten,” said Kate. “Get back out.” She watched the girl out of the room and moved restlessly back to her desk. And as she looked at an itemized bill for plumbing her left hand strayed to her neck and touched the chain. It was comfort and reassurance.

Chapter 49

Both Lee and Cal tried to argue Adam out of going to meet the train, the Lark night train from San Francisco to Los Angeles.

Cal said, "Why don't we let Abra go alone? He'll want to see her first." “I think he won't know anybody else is there,” said Lee. “So it doesn't matter whether we go or not.” “I want to see him get off the train,” said Adam. “He'll be changed. I want to see what change there is.”

Lee said, "He's only been gone a couple of months. He can't be very changed, nor much older." "He'll be changed. Experience will do that." “If you go we'll all have to go,” said Cal. “Don't you want to see your brother?” Adam asked sternly. “Sure, but he won't want to see me—not right at first.” “He will too,” said Adam. “Don't you underrate Aron.”

Lee threw up his hands. "I guess we all go," he said.

"Can you imagine?" said Adam. "He'll know so many new things. I wonder if he'll talk different. You know, Lee, in the East a boy takes on the speech of his school. You can tell a Harvard man from a Princeton man. At least that's what they say."

"I'll listen," said Lee. "I wonder what dialect they speak at Stanford." He smiled at Cal.

Adam didn't think it was funny. "Did you put some fruit in his room?" he asked. "He loves fruit." "Pears and apples and muscat grapes," said Lee. “Yes, he loves muscats. I remember he loves mus-cats.”

Under Adam's urging they got to the Southern Pacific Depot half an hour before the train was due. Abra was already there. “I can't come to dinner tomorrow, Lee,” she said. “My father wants me home. I'll come as soon after as I can.” “You're a little breathless,” said Lee. “Aren't you?” “I guess I am,” said Lee. “Look up the track and see if the block's turned green.”

Train schedules are a matter of pride and of appre-hension to nearly everyone. When, far up the track, the block signal snapped from red to green and the long, stabbing probe of the headlight sheered the bend and blared on the station, men looked at their watches and said, “On time.”

There was pride in it, and relief too. The split second has been growing more and more important to us. And as human activities become more and more intermeshed and integrated, the split tenth of a second will emerge, and then a new name must be made for the split hundredth, until one day, although I don't believe it, we'll say, “Oh, the hell with it. What's wrong with an hour?” But it isn't silly, this preoccupation with small time units. One thing late or early can disrupt everything around it, and the disturbance runs outward in bands like the waves from a dropped stone in a quiet pool.

The Lark came rushing in as though it had no intention of stopping. And only when the engine and baggage cars were well past did the air brakes give their screaming hiss and the straining iron protest to a halt.

The train delivered quite a crowd for Salinas, return-ing relatives home for Thanksgiving, their hands entan-gled in cartons and gift-wrapped paper boxes. It was a moment or two before his family could locate Aron. And then they saw him, and he seemed bigger than he had been.

He was wearing a flat-topped, narrow-brimmed hat, very stylish, and when he saw them he broke into a run and yanked off his hat, and they could see that his bright hair was clipped to a short brush of a pompadour that stood straight up. And his eyes shone so that they laughed with pleasure to see him.

Aron dropped his suitcase and lifted Abra from the ground in a great hug. He set her down and gave Adam and Cal his two hands. He put his arms around Lee's shoulders and nearly crushed him.

On the way home they all talked at once. "Well, how are you?" “You look fine.” “Abra, you're so pretty.” “I am not. Why did you cut your hair?” “Oh, everybody wears it that way,” “But you have such nice hair.”

They hurried up to Main Street and one short block and around the corner on Central past Reynaud's with stacked French bread in the window and black-haired Mrs. Reynaud waved her flour-pale hand at them and they were home.

Adam said, “Coffee, Lee?” “I made it before we left. It's on the simmer.” He had the cups laid out too. Suddenly they were together—Aron and Abra on the couch, Adam in his chair un-der the light, Lee passing coffee, and Cal braced in the doorway to the hall. And they were silent, for it was too late to say hello and too early to begin other things.

Adam did say, "I'll want to hear all about it. Will you get good marks?" “Finals aren't until next month, Father.” “Oh, I see. Well, you'll get good marks, all right. I'm sure you will.”

In spite of himself a grimace of impatience crossed Aron's face. “I'll bet you're tired,” said Adam. “Well, we can talk tomorrow.”

Lee said, "I'll bet he's not. I'll bet he'd like to be alone."

Adam looked at Lee and said, "Why, of course—of course. Do you think we should all go to bed?"

Abra solved it for them. "I can't stay out long," she said. "Aron, why don't you walk me home?

We'll be together tomorrow.”

On the way Aron clung to her arm. He shivered. "There's going to a frost," he said. “You're glad to be back.” “Yes, I am. I have a lot to talk about.” “Good things?” “Maybe. I hope you think so.” “You sound serious.” “It is serious.” “When do you have to go back?” “Not until Sunday night.” “We'll have lots of time. I want to tell you some things too. We have tomorrow and Friday and Saturday and all day Sunday. Would you mind not coming in tonight?”

"Why not?" “I'll tell you later.” “I want to know now.” “Well, my father's got one of his streaks.” “Against me?” “Yes. I can't go to dinner with you tomorrow, but I won't eat much at home, so you can tell Lee to save a plate for me.”

He was turning shy. She could feel it in the relaxing grip on her arm and in his silence, and she could see it in his raised face. "I shouldn't have told you that tonight." “Yes, you should,” he said slowly. “Tell me the truth. Do you still—want to be with me?” “Yes, I do.” “Then all right. I'll go away now. We'll talk tomorow.”

He left her on her porch with the feeling of a light-brushed kiss on her lips. She felt hurt that he had agreed so easily, and she laughed sourly at herself that she could ask a thing and be hurt when she got it. She watched his tall quick step through the radiance of the corner streetlight. She thought, I must be crazy. I've been imagining things.

In his bedroom after he had said his good night, Aron sat on the edge of his bed and peered down at his hands cupped between his knees. He felt let down and helpless, packed like a bird's egg in the cotton of his father's ambition for him. He had not known its strength until tonight, and he wondered whether he would have the strength to break free of its soft, persis-tent force. His thoughts would not coagulate. The house seemed cold with a dampness that made him shiver. He got up and softly opened his door. There was a light under Cal's door. He tapped and went in without wait-ing for a reply.

Cal sat at a new desk. He was working with tissue paper and a bolt of red ribbon, and as Aron came in he hastily covered something on his desk with a large blotter.

Aron smiled. "Presents?" “Yes,” said Cal and left it at that. “Can I talk to you?” “Sure! Come on in. Talk low or Father will come in. He hates to miss a moment.”

Aron sat down on the bed. He was silent so long that Cal asked, "What's the matter—you got trouble?" “No, not trouble. I just wanted to talk to you. Cal, I don't want to go on at college.”

Cal's head jerked around. "You don't? Why not?" “I just don't like it.” “You haven't told Father, have you? He'll be disap-pointed. It's bad enough that I don't want to go. What do you want to do?” “I thought I'd like to take over the ranch.” “How about Abra?”

"She told me a long time ago that's what she'd like."

Cal studied him. "The ranch has got a lease to run." “Well, I was just thinking about it.”

Cal said, "There's no money in farming." “I don't want much money. Just to get along.” “That's not good enough for me,” said Cal. “I want a lot of money and I'm going to get it too.”

"How?"

Cal felt older and surer than his brother. He felt protective toward him. "If you'll go on at college, why, I'll get started and lay in a foundation. Then when you finish we can be partners. I'll have one kind of thing and you'll have another. That might be pretty good." “I don't want to go back. Why do I have to go back?” “Because Father wants you to.” “That won't make me go.”

Cal stared fiercely at his brother, at the pale hair and the wide-set eyes, and suddenly he knew why his father loved Aron, knew it beyond doubt. "Sleep on it," he said quickly. "It would be better if you finish out the term at least. Don't do anything now."

Aron got up and moved toward the door. "Who's the present for?" he asked. “It's for Father. You'll see it tomorrow—after din-ner.” “It's not Christmas.” “No,” said Cal, “it's better than Christmas.” bills once more, and they were so crisp they made a sharp, crack-ing sound. The Monterey County Bank had to send to San Francisco to get them, and only did so when the reason for them was told. It was a matter of shock and disbelief to the bank that a seventeen-year-old boy should, first, own them, and, second, carry them about. Bankers do not like money to be lightly handled even if the handling is sentimental. It had taken Will Hamil-ton's word to make the bank believe that the money belonged to Cal, that it was honestly come by, and that he could do what he wanted to with it.

Cal wrapped the bills in tissue and tied it with red ribbon finished in a blob that was faintly recognizable as a bow. The package might have been a handker-chief. He concealed it under the shirts in his bureau and went to bed. But he could not sleep. He was excited and at the same time shy. He wished the day was over and the gift given. He went over what he planned to say. “This is for you.” “What is it?” “A present.”

From then on he didn't know what would happen. He tossed and rolled in bed, and at dawn he got up and dressed and crept out of the house.

On Main Street he saw Old Martin sweeping the street with a stable broom. The city council was dis-cussing the purchase of a mechanical sweeper. Old Martin hoped he would get to drive it, but he was cynical about it. Young men got the cream of every-thing. Bacigalupi's garbage wagon went by, and Martin looked after it spitefully. There was a good business. Those wops were getting rich.

Main Street was empty except for a few dogs sniffing at closed entrances and the sleepy activity around the San Francisco Chop House. Pet Bulene's new taxi was parked in front, for Pet had been alerted the night before to take the Williams girls to the morning train for San Francisco.

Old Martin called to Cal, “Got a cigarette, young fella?”

Cal stopped and took out his cardboard box of Murads. “Oh, fancy ones!” Martin said. “I ain't got a match either.”

Cal lighted the cigarette for him, careful not to set fire to the grizzle around Martin's mouth.

Martin leaned on the handle of his brush and puffed disconsolately. "Young fellas gets the cream," he said. "They won't let me drive it." “What?” Cal asked. “Why, the new sweeper. Ain't you heard? Where you been, boy?” It was incredible to him that any reason-ably informed human did not know about the sweeper. He forgot Cal. Maybe the Bacigalupis would give him a job. They were coining money. Three wagons and a new truck.

Cal turned down Alisal Street, went into the post office, and looked in the glass window of box 632. It was empty. He wandered back home and found Lee up and stuffing a very large turkey. “Up all night?” Lee asked. “No. I just went for a walk.” “Nervous?” “Yes.” “I don't blame you. I would be too. It's hard to give people things—I guess it's harder to be given things, though. Seems silly, doesn't it? Want some coffee?” “I don't mind.”

Lee wiped his hands and poured coffee for himself and for Cal. "How do you think Aron looks?" "All right, I guess." “Did you get to talk to him?” “No,” said Cal. It was easier that way. Lee would want to know what he said. It wasn't Aron's day. It was Cal's day. He had carved this day out for himself and he wanted it. He meant to have it.

Aron came in, his eyes still misty with sleep. "What time do you plan to have dinner, Lee?" "Oh, I don't know—three-thirty or four." “Could you make it about five?” “I guess so, if Adam says it's all right. Why?” “Well, Abra can't get here before then. I've got a plan I want to put to my father and I want her to be here.” “I guess that will be all right,” said Lee.

Cal got up quickly and went to his room. He sat at his desk with the student light turned on and he churned with uneasiness and resentment. Without effort, Aron was taking his day away from him. It would turn out to be Aron's day. Then, suddenly, he was bitterly ashamed. He covered his eyes with his hands and he said, "It's just jealousy. I'm jealous. That's what I am. I'm jealous. I don't want to be jealous." And he repeated over and over, "Jealous—jealous—jealous," as though bringing it into the open might destroy it. And having gone this far, he proceed-ed with his self-punishment. "Why am I giving the money to my father? Is it for his good? No. It's for my good. Will Hamilton said it—I'm trying to buy him. There's not one decent thing about it. There's not one decent thing about me. I sit here wallowing in jealousy of my brother. Why not call things by their names?"

He whispered hoarsely to himself. "Why not be hon-est? I know why my father loves Aron. It's because he looks like her. My father never got over her. He may not know it, but it's true. I wonder if he does know it. That makes me jealous of her too. Why don't I take my money and go away? They wouldn't miss me. In a little while they'd forget I ever existed—all except Lee. And I wonder whether Lee likes me. Maybe not." He dou-bled his fists against his forehead. "Does Aron have to fight himself like this? I don't think so, but how do I know? I could ask him. He wouldn't say."

Cal's mind careened in anger at himself and in pity for himself. And then a new voice came into it, saying coolly and with contempt, “If you're being honest—why not say you are enjoying this beating you're giving yourself? That would be the truth. Why not be just what you are and do just what you do?” Cal sat in shock from this thought. Enjoying?—of course. By whipping himself he protected himself against whipping by someone else. His mind tightened up. Give the money, but give it lightly. Don't depend on anything. Don't foresee anything. Just give it and forget it. And forget it now. Give—give. Give the day to Aron. Why not? He jumped up and hurried out to the kitchen.

Aron was holding open the skin of the turkey while Lee forced stuffing into the cavity. The oven cracked and snapped with growing heat.

Lee said, “Let's see, eighteen pounds, twenty minutes to the pound—that's eighteen times twenty—that's three hundred and sixty minutes, six hours even—eleven to twelve, twelve to one—” He counted on his fingers.

Cal said, "When you get through, Aron, let's take a walk." “Where to?” Aron asked. “Just around town. I want to ask you something.”

Cal led his brother across the street to Berges and Garrisiere, who imported fine wines and liquors. Cal said, "I've got a little money, Aron. I thought you might like to buy some wine for dinner. I'll give you the money." “What kind of wine?” “Let's make a real celebration. Let's get champagne—it can be your present.”

Joe Garrisiere said, “You boys aren't old enough.” “For dinner? Sure we are.”

"Can't sell it to you. I'm sorry."

Cal said, "I know what you can do. We can pay for it and you can send it to our father." “That I can do,” Joe Garrisiere said. “We've got some Oeil de Perdrix—” His lips pursed as though he were tasting it. “What's that?” Cal asked. “Champagne—but very pretty, same color as a par-tridge eye—pink but a little darker than pink, and dry too. Four-fifty a bottle.” “Isn't that high?” Aron asked. “Sure it's high!” Cal laughed. “Send three bottles over, Joe.” To Aron he said, “It's your present.”

3

To Cal the day was endless. He wanted to leave the house and couldn't. At eleven o'clock Adam went to the closed draft-board office to brood over the records of a new batch of boys coming up. Aron seemed perfectly calm. He sat in the living room, looking at cartoons in old numbers of the Review of Reviews. From the kitchen the odor of the bursting juices of roasting turkey began to fill the house.

Cal went into his room and took out his present and laid it on his desk. He tried to write a card to put on it. “To my father from Caleb”—“To Adam Trask from Caleb Trask.” He tore the cards in tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet.

He thought, Why give it to him today? Maybe to-morrow I could go to him quietly and say, This is for you, and then walk away. That would be easier. "No," he said aloud. "I want the others to see." It had to be that way. But his lungs were compressed and the palms of his hands were wet with stage fright. And then he thought of the morning when his father got him out of jail. The warmth and closeness—they were the things to remember—and his father's trust. Why, he had even said it. "I trust you." He felt much better then.

At about three o'clock he heard Adam come in and there was the low sound of voices conversing in the living room. Cal joined his father and Aron.

Adam was saying, "The times are changed. A boy must be a specialist or he will get nowhere. I guess that's why I'm so glad you're going to college."

Aron said, "I've been thinking about that, and I wonder." “Well, don't think any more. Your first choice is right. Look at me. I know a little bit about a great many things and not enough about any one of them to make a living in these times.”

Cal sat down quietly. Adam did not notice him. His face was concentrated on his thought. “It's natural for a man to want his son to succeed,” Adam went on. “And maybe I can see better than you can.”

Lee looked in. "The kitchen scales must be way off," he said. "The turkey's going to be done earlier than the chart says. I'll bet that bird doesn't weigh eighteen pounds."

Adam said, “Well, you can keep it warm,” and he continued, “Old Sam Hamilton saw this coming. He said there couldn't be any more universal philosophers. The weight of knowledge is too great for one mind to absorb. He saw a time when one man would know only one little fragment, but he would know it well.” “Yes,” Lee said from the doorway, “and he deplored it. He hated it.” “Did he now?” Adam asked.

Lee came into the room. He held his big basting spoon in his right hand, and he cupped his left under the bowl for fear it would drip on the carpet. He came into the room and forgot and waved his spoon and drops of turkey fat fell to the floor. "Now you question it, I don't know," he said. "I don't know whether he hated it or I hate it for him." “Don't get so excited,” said Adam. “Seems to me we can't discuss anything any more but you take it as a personal insult.” “Maybe the knowledge is too great and maybe men are growing too small,” said Lee. “Maybe, kneeling down to atoms, they're becoming atom-sized in their souls. Maybe a specialist is only a coward, afraid to look out of his little cage. And think what any special-ist misses—the whole world over his fence.” “We're only talking about making a living.” “A living—or money,” Lee said excitedly. “Money's easy to make if it's money you want. But with a few exceptions people don't want money. They want lux-ury and they want love and they want admiration.” “All right. But do you have any objection to college? That's what we're talking about.” “I'm sorry,” said Lee. “You're right, I do seem to get too excited. No, if college is where a man can go to find his relation to his whole world, I don't object. Is it that? Is it that, Aron?” “I don't know,” said Aron.

A hissing sound came from the kitchen. Lee said, "The goddam giblets are boiling over," and he bolted through the door.

Adam gazed after him affectionately. "What a good man! What a good friend!"

Aron said, "I hope he lives to be a hundred."

His father chuckled. "How do you know he's not a hundred now?"

Cal asked, "How is the ice plant doing, Father?" “Why, all right. Pays for itself and makes a little profit. Why?” “I thought of a couple of things to make it really pay.” “Not today,” said Adam quickly. “Monday, if you remember, but not today. You know,” Adam said, "I don't remember when I've felt so good. I feel—well, you might call it fulfilled. Maybe it's only a good night's sleep and a good trip to the bathroom. And maybe it's because we're all together and at peace." He smiled at Aron. "We didn't know what we felt about you until you went away." “I was homesick,” Aron confessed. “The first few days I thought I'd die of it.”

Abra came in with a little rush. Her cheeks were pink and she was happy. "Did you notice there's snow on Mount Toro?" she asked. “Yes, I saw it,” Adam said. “They say that means a good year to come. And we could use it.” “I just nibbled,” said Abra. “I wanted to be hungry for here.”

Lee apologized for the dinner like an old fool. He blamed the gas oven which didn't heat like a good wood stove. He blamed the new breed of turkeys which lacked a something turkeys used to have. But he laughed with them when they told him he was acting like an old woman fishing for compliments.

With the plum pudding Adam opened the cham-pagne, and they treated it with ceremony. A courtliness settled over the table. They proposed toasts. Each one had his health drunk, and Adam made a little speech to Abra when he drank her health.

Her eyes were shining and under the table Aron held her hand. The wine dulled Cal's nervousness and he was not afraid about his present.

When Adam had finished his plum pudding he said, "I guess we never have had such a good Thanksgiving."

Cal reached in his jacket pocket, took out the red-ribboned package, and pushed it over in front of his father. “What's this?” Adam asked.

"It's a present."

Adam was pleased. "Not even Christmas and we have presents. I wonder what it can be!" "A handkerchief," said Abra.

Adam slipped off the grubby bow and unfolded the tissue paper. He stared down at the money.

Abra said, "What is it?" and stood up to look. Aron leaned forward. Lee, in the doorway, tried to keep the look of worry from his face. He darted a glance at Cal and saw the light of joy and triumph in his eyes.

Very slowly Adam moved his fingers and fanned the gold certificates. His voice seemed to come from far away. "What is it? What—" He stopped.

Cal swallowed. "It's—I made it—to give to you—to make up for losing the lettuce."

Adam raised his head slowly. "You made it? How?" “Mr. Hamilton—we made it—on beans.” He hurried on, “We bought futures at five cents and when the price jumped—It's for you, fifteen thousand dollars. It's for you.”

Adam touched the new bills so that their edges came together, folded the tissue over them and turned the ends up. He looked helplessly at Lee. Cal caught a feeling—a feeling of calamity, of destruction in the air, and a weight of sickness overwhelmed him. He heard his father say, "You'll have to give it back."

Almost as remotely his own voice said, "Give it back? Give it back to who?" “To the people you got it from.” “The British Purchasing Agency? They can't take it back. They're paying twelve and a half cents for beans all over the country.” “Then give it to the farmers you robbed.” “Robbed?” Cal cried. “Why, we paid them two cents a pound over the market. We didn't rob them.” Cal felt suspended in space, and time seemed very slow.

His father took a long time to answer. There seemed to be long spaces between his words. "I send boys out," he said. "I sign my name and they go out. And some will die and some will lie helpless without arms and legs. Not one will come back untorn. Son, do you think I could take a profit on that?" “I did it for you,”. Cal said. “I wanted you to have the money to make up your loss.” “I don't want the money, Cal. And the lettuce—I don't think I did that for a profit. It was a kind of game to see if I could get the lettuce there, and I lost. I don't want the money.”

Cal looked straight ahead. He could feel the eyes of Lee and Aron and Abra crawling on his cheeks. He kept his eyes on his father's lips. “I like the idea of a present,” Adam went on. “I thank you for the thought—” “I'll put it away. I'll keep it for you,” Cal broke in. “No. I won't want it ever. I would have been so happy if you could have given me—well, what your brother has—pride in the thing he's doing, gladness in his progress. Money, even clean money, doesn't stack up with that.” His eyes widened a little and he said, “Have I made you angry, son? Don't be angry. If you want to give me a present—give me a good life. That would be something I could value.”

Cal felt that he was choking. His forehead streamed with perspiration and he tasted salt on his tongue. He stood up suddenly and his chair fell over. He ran from the room, holding his breath. Adam called after him, "Don't be angry, son."

They let him alone. He sat in his room, his elbows on his desk. He thought he would cry but he did not. He tried to let weeping start but tears could not pass the hot iron in his head.

After a time his breathing steadied and he watched his brain go to work slyly, quietly. He fought the quiet hateful brain down and it slipped aside and went about its work. He fought it more weakly, for hate was seep-ing all through his body, poisoning every nerve. He could feel himself losing control.

Then there came a point where the control and the fear were gone and his brain cried out in an aching triumph. His hand went to a pencil and he drew tight little spirals one after another on his blotting pad. When Lee came in an hour later there were hundreds of spirals, and they had become smaller and smaller. He did not look up.

Lee closed the door gently. "I brought you some coffee," he said. “I don't want it—yes, I do. Why, thank you, Lee. It's kind of you to think of it.”

Lee said, "Stop it! Stop it, I tell you!" “Stop what? What do you want me to stop?”

Lee said uneasily, "I told you once when you asked me that it was all in yourself. I told you you could control it—if you wanted." “Control what? I don't know what you're talking about.”

Lee said, "Can't you hear me? Can't I get through to you? Cal, don't you know what I'm saying?" "I hear you, Lee. What are you saying?" “He couldn't help it, Cal. That's his nature. It was the only way he knew. He didn't have any choice. But you have. Don't you hear me? You have a choice.”

The spirals had become so small that the pencil lines ran together and the result was a shiny black dot.

Cal said quietly, “Aren't you making a fuss about nothing? You must be slipping. You'd think from your tone that I'd killed somebody. Come off it, Lee. Come off it.”

It was silent in the room. After a moment Cal turned from his desk and the room was empty. A cup of coffee on the bureau top sent up a plume of vapor. Cal drank the coffee scalding as it was and went into the living room.

His father looked up apologetically at him.

Cal said, "I'm sorry, Father. I didn't know how you felt about it." He took the package of money from where it lay on the mantel and put it in the inside pocket of his coat where it had been before. "I'll see what I can do about this." He said casually, "Where are the others?" “Oh, Abra had to go. Aron walked with her. Lee went out.” “I guess I'll go for a walk,” said Cal.

4

The November night was well fallen. Cal opened the front door a crack and saw Lee's shoulders and head outlined against the white wall of the French Laundry across the street. Lee was sitting on the steps, and he looked lumpy in his heavy coat.

Cal closed the door quietly and went back through the living room. "Champagne makes you thirsty," he said. His father didn't look up.

Cal slipped out the kitchen door and moved through Lee's waning kitchen garden. He climbed the high fence, found the two-by-twelve plank that served as a bridge across the slough of dark water, and came out between Lang's Bakery and the tinsmith's shop on Castroville Street.

He walked to Stone Street where the Catholic church is and turned left, went past the Carriaga house, the Wilson house, the Zabala house, and turned left on Central Avenue at the Steinbeck house. Two blocks out Central he turned left past the West End School.

The poplar trees in front of the schoolyard were nearly bare, but in the evening wind a few yellowed leaves still twisted down.

Cal's mind was numb. He did not even know that the air was cold with frost slipping down from the mountains. Three blocks ahead he saw his brother cross under a streetlight, coming toward him. He knew it was his brother by stride and posture and because he knew it.

Cal slowed his steps, and when Aron was close he said, "Hi. I came looking for you." Aron said, "I'm sorry about this afternoon." “You couldn't help it—forget it.” He turned and the two walked side by side. “I want you to come with me,” Cal said. “I want to show you something.” “What is it?” “Oh, it's a surprise. But it's very interesting. You'll be interested.” “Well, will it take long?” “No, not very long. Not very long at all.”

They walked past Central Avenue toward Castroville Street.

5

Sergeant Axel Dane ordinarily opened the San Jose recruiting office at eight o'clock, but if he was a little late Corporal Kemp opened it, and Kemp was not likely to complain. Axel was not an unusual case. A hitch in the U.S. Army in the time of peace between the Spanish war and the German war had unfitted him for the cold, unordered life of a civilian. One month between hitches convinced him of that. Two hitches in the peacetime army completely unfitted him for war, and he had learned enough method to get out of it. The San Jose recruiting station proved he knew his way about. He was dallying with the youngest Ricci girl and she lived in San Jose. Kemp hadn't the time in, but he was learning the basic rule. Get along with the topkick and avoid all officers when possible. He didn't mind the gentle riding Sergent Dane handed out. At eight-thirty Dane entered the office to find Corpo-ral Kemp asleep at his desk and a tired-looking kid sat waiting. Dane glanced at the boy and then went in back of the rail and put his hand on Kemp's shoulder. “Darling,” he said, “the skylarks are singing and a new dawn is here.”

Kemp raised his head from his arms, wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and sneezed. “That's my sweet,” the sergeant said. “Arise, we have a customer.”

Kemp squinted his crusted eyes. "The war will wait," he said.

Dane looked more closely at the boy. "God! he's beautiful. I hope they take good care of him.

Corporal, you may think that he wants to bear arms against the foe, but I think he's running away from love."

Kemp was relieved that the sergeant wasn't quite sober. “You think some dame hurt him?” He played any game his sergeant wished. “You think it's the For-eign Legion?” “Maybe he's running away from himself.”

Kemp said, "I saw that picture. There's one mean son of a bitch of a sergeant in it." “I don't believe it,” said Dane. “Step up, young man. Eighteen, aren't you?”

"Yes, sir."

Dane turned to his man. "What do you think?" “Hell!” said Kemp. “I say if they're big enough, they're old enough.”

The sergeant said, "Let's say you're eighteen. And we'll stick to it, shall we?" “Yes, sir.” “You just take this form and fill it out. Now you figure out what year you were born, and you put it down right here, and you remember it.”

Chapter 50

Joe didn't like for Kate to sit still and stare straight ahead—hour after hour. That meant she was thinking, and since her face had no expression Joe had no access to her thoughts. It made him uneasy. He didn't want his first real good break to get away from him.

He had only one plan himself—and that was to keep her stirred up until she gave herself away. Then he could jump in any direction. But how about it if she sat looking at the wall? Was she stirred up or wasn't she?

Joe knew she hadn't been to bed, and when he asked whether or not she wanted breakfast she shook her head so slowly that it was hard to know whether she had heard him or not.

He advised, himself cautiously, "Don't do nothing! Just stick around and keep your eyes and ears open." The girls in the house knew something had happened but no two of them had the same story, the goddam chickenheads.

Kate was not thinking. Her mind drifted among impressions the way a bat drifts and swoops in the evening. She saw the face of the blond and beautiful boy, his eyes mad with shock. She heard his ugly words aimed not so much at her as at himself. And she saw his dark brother leaning against the door and laughing.

Kate had laughed too—the quickest and best self-protection. What would her son do? What had he done after he went quietly away?

She thought of Cal's eyes with their look of sluggish and fulfilled cruelty, peering at her as he slowly closed the door.

Why had he brought his brother? What did he want? What was he after? If she knew she could take care of herself. But she didn't know.

The pain was creeping in her hands again and there was a new place. Her right hip ached angrily when she moved. She thought, So the pain will move in toward the center, and sooner or later all the pains will meet in the center and join like rats in a clot.

In spite of his advice to himself, Joe couldn't let it alone. He carried a pot of tea to her door, knocked softly, opened the door, and went in. As far as he could see she hadn't moved.

He said, "I brought you some tea, ma'am." “Put it on the table,” she said, and then as a second thought, “Thank you, Joe.”

"You don't feel good, ma'am?" “The pain's back. The medicine fooled me.” “Anything I can do?”

She raised her hands. "Cut these off—at the wrists." She grimaced with the extra pain lifting her hands had caused. "Makes you feel hopeless," she said plaintively.

Joe had never heard a tone of weakness in her before and his instinct told him it was time to move in. He said, "Maybe you don't want me to bother you but I got some word about that other." He knew by the little interval before she answered that she had tensed. “What other?” she asked softly. “That dame, ma'am.” “Oh! You mean Ethel!”

"Yes, ma'am." “I'm getting tired of Ethel. What is it now?” “Well, I'll tell you like it happened. I can't make nothing out of it. I'm in Kellogg's cigar store and a fella come up to me. 'You're Joe?' he says, an' I tell him, 'Who says?' 'You was lookin' for somebody,” he says. 'Tell me about it,' I says. Never seen the guy before. So he says, 'That party toi' me she wants to talk to you.' An' I told him, 'Well, why don't she?' He gives me the long look an' he says, 'Maybe you forgot what the judge said.' I guess he means about her coming back.” He looked at Kate's face, still and pale, the eyes looking straight ahead.

Kate said, "And then he asked you for some money?"

'No, ma'am. He didn't. He says something don't make no sense. He says, 'Does Faye mean anything to you?' 'Not a thing,' I tol' him. He says, 'Maybe you better talk to her.' 'Maybe,' I says, an' I come away. Don't make no sense to me. I figured I'd ask you.'

Kate asked, "Does the name Faye mean anything to you?" “Not a thing.”

Her voice became very soft. "You mean you never heard that Faye used to own this house?"

Joe felt a sickening jolt in the pit of his stomach. What a goddam fool! Couldn't keep his mouth shut. His mind floundered. "Why—why come to think of it, I believe I did hear that—seemed like the name was like Faith."

The sudden alarm was good for Kate. It took the blond head and the pain from her. It gave her some-thing to do. She responded to the challenge with some-thing like pleasure.

She laughed softly. "Faith," she said under her breath. "Pour me some tea, Joe."

She did not appear to notice that his hand shook and that the teapot spout rattled against the cup. She did not look at him even when he set the cup before her and then stepped back out of range of her eyes. Joe was quaking with apprehension.

Kate said in a pleading voice, "Joe, do you think you could help me? If I gave you ten thousand dollars, do you think you could fix everything up?" She waited just a second, then swung around and looked full in his face.

His eyes were moist. She caught him licking his lips. And at her sudden move he stepped back as though she had struck at him. Her eyes would not let him go. “Did I catch you out, Joe?” “I don't know what you're getting at, ma'am.”

"You go and figure it out—and then you come and tell me. You're good at figuring things out."

And send Therese in, will you?"

He wanted to get out of this room where he was outpointed and outfought. He'd made a mess of things. He wondered if he'd bollixed up the breaks. And then the bitch had the nerve to say, "Thank you for bringing tea. You're a nice boy."

He wanted to slam the door, but he didn't dare.

Kate got up stiffly, trying to avoid the pain of moving her hip. She went to her desk and slipped out a sheet of paper. Holding the pen was difficult.

She wrote, moving her whole arm. "Dear Ralph: Tell the sheriff it wouldn't do any harm to check on Joe Valery's fingerprints. You remember Joe. He works for me. Mrs. Kate." She was folding the paper when Therese came in, looking frightened. “You want me? Did I do something? I tried my best. Ma'am, I ain't been well.” “Come here,” Kate said, and while the girl waited beside the desk Kate slowly addressed the envelope and stamped it. “I want you to run a little errand for me,” she said. “Go to Bell's candy store and get a five-pound box of mixed chocolates and a one-pound box. The big one is for you girls. Stop at Krough's drugstore and get me two medium toothbrushes and a can of tooth powder—you know, that can with a spout?” “Yes, ma'am.” Therese was greatly relieved. “You're a good girl,” Kate went on. “I've had my eye on you. I'm not well, Therese. If I see that you do this well, I'll seriously consider putting you in charge when I go the hospital.” “You will—are—are you going to the hospital?” “I don't know yet, dear. But I'll need your help. Now here's some money for the candy. Medium tooth-brushes—remember.”

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you. Shall I go now?" “Yes, and kind of creep out, will you? Don't let the other girls know what I told you.” “I'll go out the back way.” She hurried toward the door.

Kate said, "I nearly forgot. Will you drop this in a mailbox?" “Sure I will, ma'am. Sure I will. Anything else?” “That's all, dear.”

When the girl was gone Kate rested her arms and hands on the desk so that each crooked finger was supported. Here it was. Maybe she had always known. She must have—but there was no need to think of that now. She would come back to that. They would put Joe away, but there'd be someone else, and there was al-ways Ethel. Sooner or later, sooner or later—but no need to think about that now. She tiptoed her mind around the whole subject and back to an elusive thing that peeped out and then withdrew. It was when she had been thinking of her yellow-haired son that the fragment had first come to her mind. His face—hurt, bewildered, despairing—had brought it. Then she remembered.

She was a very small girl with a face as lovely and fresh as her son's face—a very small girl. Most of the time she knew she was smarter and prettier than anyone else. But now and then a lonely fear would fall upon her so that she seemed surrounded by a tree-tall forest of enemies.

Then every thought and word and look was aimed to hurt her, and she had no place to run and no place to hide. And she would cry in panic because there was no escape and no sanctuary. Then one day she was reading a book. She could read when she was five years old. She remembered the book—brown, with a silver title, and the cloth was broken and the boards thick. It was Alice in Wonderland.

Kate moved her hands slowly and lifted her weight a little from her arms. And she could see the drawings—Alice with long straight hair. But it was the bottle which said, "Drink me" that had changed her life. Alice had taught her that.

When the forest of her enemies surrounded her she was prepared. In her pocket she had a bottle of sugar water and on its red-framed label she had written, "Drink me." She would take a sip from the bottle and she would grow smaller and smaller. Let her enemies look for her then! Cathy would be under a leaf or looking out of an anthole, laughing. They couldn't find her then. No door could close her out and no door could close her in. She could walk upright under a door. And always there was Alice to play with, Alice to love her and trust her. Alice was her friend, always waiting to welcome her to tinyness.

All this so good—so good that it was almost worth while to be miserable. But good as it was, there was one more thing always held in reserve. It was her threat and her safety. She had only to drink the whole bottle and she would dwindle and disappear and cease to exist. And better than all, when she stopped being, she never would have been. This was her darling safety. Some-times in her bed she would drink enough of "Drink me" so that she was a dot as small as the littlest gnat. But she had never gone clear out—never had to. That was her reserve—guarded from everyone.

Kate shook her head sadly, remembering the cut-off little girl. She wondered why she had forgotten that wonderful trick. It had saved her from so many disas-ters. The light filtering down at one through a clover-leaf was glorious. Cathy and Alice walked among towering grass, arms around each other—best friends. And Cathy never had to drink all of "Drink me" be-cause she had Alice.

Kate put her head down on the blotter between her crooked hands. She was cold and desolate, alone and desolate. Whatever she had done, she had been driven to do. She was different—she had something more than other people. She raised her head and made no move to wipe her streaming eyes. That was true. She was smart-er and stronger than other people. She had something they lacked.

And right in the middle of her thought, Cal's dark face hung in the air in front of her and his lips were smiling with cruelty. The weight pressed down on her, forcing her breath out.

They had something she lacked, and she didn't know what it was. Once she knew this, she was ready; and once ready, she knew she had been ready for a long time—perhaps all of her life. Her mind functioned like a wooden mind, her body moved crookedly like a badly operated marionette, but she went steadily about her business.

It was noon—she knew from the chatter of the girls in the dining room. The slugs had only just got up.

Kate had trouble with the doorknob and turned it finally by rolling it between her palms.

The girls choked in the middle of laughter and looked up at her. The cook came in from the kitchen.

Kate was a sick ghost, crooked and in some way horrible. She leaned against the dining-room wall and smiled at her girls, and her smile frightened them even more, for it was like the frame for a scream. “Where's Joe?” Kate asked. “He went out, ma'am.”

"Listen," she said. "I've had no sleep for a long time. I'm going to take some medicine and sleep. I don't want to be disturbed, I don't want any supper. I'll sleep the clock around. Tell Joe I don't want any-body to come near me for anything until tomorrow morning. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," they said. “Good night, then. It's afternoon but I mean good night.” “Good night, ma'am,” they chorused obediently.

Kate turned and walked crabwise back to her room.

She closed her door and stood looking around, trying to form her simple procedure. She went back to her desk. This time she forced her hand, in spite of the pain, to write plainly. "I leave everything I have to my son Aron Trask." She dated the sheet and signed it "Catherine Trask."

Her fingers dwelt on the page, and then she got up and left her will face upward on the desk.

At the center table she poured cold tea into her cup and carried the cup to the gray room in the lean-to and set it on the reading table. Then she went to her dress-ing table and combed her hair, rubbed a little rouge all over her face, covered it lightly with powder, and put on the pale lipstick she always used. Last she filed her nails and cleaned them.

When she closed the door to the gray room the outside light was cut off and only the reading lamp threw its cone on the table. She arranged the pillows, patted them up, and sat down. She leaned her head experimentally against the down pillow. She felt rather gay, as though she were going to a party. Gingerly, she fished the chain out from her bodice, unscrewed the little tube, and shook the capsule into her hand. She smiled at it. “Eat me,” she said and put the capsule in her mouth.

She picked up the tea cup. "Drink me," she said and swallowed the bitter cold tea.

She forced her mind to stay on Alice—so tiny and waiting. Other faces peered in from the sides of her eyes—her father and mother, and Charles, and Adam, and Samuel Hamilton, and then Aron, and she could see Cal smiling at her.

He didn't have to speak. The glint of his eyes said, “You missed something. They had something and you missed it.”

She thrust her mind back to Alice. In the gray wall opposite there was a nail hole. Alice would be in there. And she would put her arm around Cathy's waist, and Cathy would put her arm around Alice's waist, and they would walk away—best friends—and tiny as the head of a pin.

A warm numbness began to creep into her arms and legs. The pain was going from her hands.

Her eyelids felt heavy—very heavy. She yawned.

She thought or said or thought, "Alice doesn't know. I'm going right on past."

Her eyes closed and a dizzy nausea shook her. She opened her eyes and stared about in terror.

The gray room darkened and the cone of light flowed and rippled like water. And then her eyes closed again and her fingers curled as though they held small breasts. And her heart beat solemnly and her breathing slowed as she grew smaller and smaller and then disappeared—and she had never been.

When Kate dismissed him Joe went to the barbershop, as he always did when he was upset. He had his hair cut and an egg shampoo and tonic. He had a facial massage and a mud pack, and around the edges he had his nails manicured, and he had his shoes shined. Ordi-narily this and a new necktie set Joe up, but he was still depressed when he left the barber with a fifty-cent tip. Kate had trapped him like a rat—caught him with his pants down. Her fast thinking left him confused and helpless. The trick she had of leaving it to you whether she meant anything or not was no less confusing.

The night started dully, but then sixteen members and two pledges from Sigma Alpha Epsilon, Stanford chapter, came in hilarious from a pledge hazing in San Juan. They were full of horseplay. Florence, who smoked the cigarette in the circus, had a hard cough. Every time she tried, she coughed and lost it. And the pony stallion had diarrhea.

The college boys shrieked and pounded each other in their amusement. And then they stole everything that wasn't nailed down.

After they had left, two of the girls got into a tired and monotonous quarrel, and Therese turned up with the first symptoms of the old Joe. Oh, Christ, what a night!

And down the hall that brooding dangerous thing was silent behind its closed door. Joe stood by the door before he went to bed and he could hear nothing. He closed the house at two-thirty and was in bed by three—but he couldn't sleep. He sat up in bed and read seven chapters of The Winning of Barbara Worth, and when it was daylight he went down to the silent kitchen and made a pot of coffee.

He rested his elbows on the table and held the coffee mug with both hands. Something had gone wrong and Joe couldn't figure what it was. Maybe she'd found out that Ethel was dead. He'd have to watch his step. And then he made up his mind, and made it up firmly. He would go in to see her at nine and he'd keep his ears open. Maybe he hadn't heard right. Best thing would be to lay it on the line and not be a hog. Just say he'd take a thousand bucks and get the hell out, and if she said no he'd get the hell out anyway. He was sick of working with dames. He could get a job dealing faro in Reno—regular hours and no dames. Maybe get himself an apartment and fix it up —big chairs and a daven-port. No point in beating his brains out in this lousy town. Better if he got out of the state anyway. He considered going right now—just get up from this ta-ble, climb the stairs, two minutes to pack a suitcase, and gone. Three or four minutes at the most. Don't tell nobody nothing. The idea appealed to him. The breaks about Ethel might not be as good as he thought at first, but a thousand bucks was a stake. Better wait.

When the cook came in he was in a bad mood. He had a developing carbuncle on the back of his neck and the skin from the inside of an eggshell stretched over it to draw it to a head. He didn't want anybody in his kitchen feeling the way he did.

Joe went back to his room and read some more and then he packed his suitcase. He was going to get out any way it went.

At nine o'clock he knocked gently on Kate's door and pushed it open. Her bed had not been slept in. He set down the tray and went to the door of the lean-to and knocked and knocked again and then called. Finally he opened the door.

The cone of light fell on the reading stand. Kate's head was deeply cushioned in the pillow.

"You must have slept all night here," Joe said. He walked around in front of her, saw bloodless lips and eyes shining dully between half-closed lids, and he knew she was dead.

He moved his head from side to side and went quickly into the other room to make sure that the door to the hall was closed. With great speed he went through the dresser, drawer by drawer, opened her purses, the little box by her bed—and he stood still. She didn't have a goddam thing—not even a silver-backed hairbrush.

He crept to the lean-to and stood in front of her—not a ring, not a pin. Then he saw the little chain around her neck and lifted it clear and unsnapped the clasp—a small gold watch, a little tube, and two safe-deposit keys, numbers 27 and 29. “So that's where you got it, you bitch,” he said.

He slipped the watch off the thin chain and put it in his pocket. He wanted to punch her in the nose. Then he thought of her desk.

The two-line holograph will attracted him. Somebody might pay for that. He put it in his pocket. He took a handful of papers from a pigeonhole—bills and re-ceipts; next hole, insurance; next, a small book with records of every girl. He put that in his pocket too. He took the rubber band from a packet of brown enve-lopes, opened one, and pulled out a photograph. On the back of the picture, in Kate's neat, sharp handwriting, a name and address and a title.

Joe laughed aloud. This was the real breaks. He tried another envelope and another. A gold mine—guy could live for years on these. Look at that fat-ass councilman! He put the band back. In the top drawer eight ten-dollar bills and a bunch of keys. He pocketed the money too. As he opened the second drawer enough to see that it held writing paper and sealing wax and ink there was a knock on the door. He walked to it and opened it a crack.

The cook said, "Fella out here wants to see ya." “Who is he?” “How the hell do I know?”

Joe looked back at the room and then stepped out, took the key from the inside, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket. He might have overlooked some-thing.

Oscar Noble was standing in the big front room, his gray hat on his head and his red mackinaw buttoned up tight around his throat. His eyes were pale gray—the same color as his stubble whiskers. The room was in semidarkness. No one had raised the shades yet.

Joe came lightly along the hall, and Oscar asked, "You Joe?" “Who's asking?” “The sheriff wants to have a talk with you.”

Joe felt ice creeping into his stomach. "Pinch?" he asked. "Got a warrant?" “Hell, no,” said Oscar. “We got nothing on you. Just checking up. Will you come along?” “Sure,” said Joe. “Why not?”

They went out together. Joe shivered. "I should of got a coat." “Want to go back for one?” “I guess not,” said Joe.

They walked toward Castroville Street. Oscar asked, "Ever been mugged or printed?"

Joe was quiet for a time. "Yes," he said at last. “What for?” “Drunk,” said Joe. “Hit a cop.” “Well, we'll soon find out,” said Oscar and turned the corner.

Joe ran like a rabbit, across the street and over the track toward the stores and alleys of Chinatown.

Oscar had to take a glove off and unbutton his mackinaw to get his gun out. He tried a snap shot and missed.

Joe began to zigzag. He was fifty yards away by now and nearing an opening between two buildings.

Oscar stepped to a telephone pole at the curb, braced his left elbow against it, gripped his right wrist with his left hand, and drew a bead on the entrance to the little alley. He fired just as Joe touched the front sight.

Joe splashed forward on his face and skidded a foot.

Oscar went into a Filipino poolroom to phone, and when he came out there was quite a crowd around the body.

Chapter 51

In 1903 Horace Quinn beat Mr. R. Keef for the office of sheriff. He had been well trained as the chief deputy sheriff. Most of the voters figured that since Quinn was doing most of the work he might as well have the title. Sheriff Quinn held the office until 1919. He was sheriff so long that we growing up in Monterey County thought the words “Sheriff” and “Quinn” went together naturally. We could not imagine anyone else being sheriff. Quinn grew old in his office. He limped from an early injury. We knew he was intrepid, for he had held his own in various gunfights; besides, he looked like a sheriff—the only kind we knew about. His face was broad and pink, his white mustache shaped like the horns of a longhorn steer. He was broad of shoulder, and in his age he developed a portliness which only gave him more authority. He wore a fine Stetson hat, a Norfolk jacket, and in his later years carried his gun in a shoulder holster. His old belt holster tugged at his stomach too much. He had known his county in 1903 and he knew it and controlled it even better in 1917. He was an institution, as much a part of the Salinas Valley as its mountains.

In all the years since Adam's shooting Sheriff Quinn had kept track of Kate. When Faye died, he knew instinctively that Kate was probably responsible, but he also knew he hadn't much of any chance of convicting her, and a wise sheriff doesn't butt his head against the impossible. They were only a couple of whores, after all.

In the years that followed, Kate played fair with him and he gradually achieved a certain respect for her. Since there were going to be houses anyway, they had better be run by responsible people. Every so often Kate spotted a wanted man and turned him in. She ran a house which did not get into trouble. Sheriff Quinn and Kate got along together.

The Saturday after Thanksgiving, about noon, Sher-iff Quinn looked through the papers from Joe Valery's pockets. The 0.38 slug had splashed off one side of Joe's heart and had flattened against the ribs and torn out a section as big as a fist. The manila envelopes were glued together with blackened blood. The sheriff damp-ened the papers with a wet handkerchief to get them apart. He read the will, which had been folded, so that the blood was on the outside. He laid it aside and inspected the photographs in the envelopes. He sighed deeply.

Every envelope contained a man's honor and peace of mind. Effectively used, these pictures could cause half a dozen suicides. Already Kate was on the table at Muller's with the formalin running into her veins, and her stomach was in a jar in the corner's office.

When he had seen all of the pictures he called a number. He said into the phone, "Can you drop over to my office? Well, put your lunch off, will you? Yes, I think you'll see it's important. I'll wait for you."

A few minutes later when the nameless man stood beside his desk in the front office of the old red county jail behind the courthouse, Sheriff Quinn stuck the will out in front of him. "As a lawyer, would you say this is any good?"

His visitor read the two lines and breethd deep through his nose. "Is this who I think it is?" "Yes." “Well, if her name was Catherine Trask and this is her handwriting, and if Aron Trask is her son, this is as good as gold.”

Quinn lifted the ends of his fine wide mustache with the back of his forefinger. "You knew her, didn't you?"

"Well, not to say know. I knew who she was."

Quinn put his elbows on his desk and leaned for-ward. "Sit down, I want to talk to you."

His visitor drew up a chair. His fingers picked at a coat button.

The sheriff asked, “Was Kate blackmailing you?” “Certainly not. Why should she?”

"I'm asking you as a friend. You know she's dead. You can tell me." “I don't know what you're getting at—nobody's blackmailing me.”

Quinn slipped a photograph from its envelope, turned it like a playing card, and skidded it across the desk.

His visitor adjusted his glasses and the breath whis-tled in his nose. "Jesus Christ," he said softly. "You didn't know she had it?" “Oh, I knew it all right. She let me know. For Christ's sake, Horace—what are you going to do with this?”

Quinn took the picture from his hand.

"Horace, what are you going to do with it?" “Burn it.” The sheriff ruffled the edges of the enve-lopes with his thumb. “Here's a deck of hell,” he said. “These could tear the county to pieces.”

Quinn wrote a list of names on a sheet of paper. Then he hoisted himself up on his game leg and went to the iron stove against the north wall of his office. He crunched up the Salinas Morning Journal and lighted it and dropped it in the stove, and when it flared up he dropped the manila envelopes on the flame, set the damper, and closed the stove. The fire roared and the flames winked yellow behind the little isinglass win-dows in the front of the stove. Quinn brushed his hands together as though they were dirty. "The negatives were in there," he said. "I've been through her desk. There weren't any other prints."

His visitor tried to speak but his voice was a husky whisper. "Thank you, Horace."

The sheriff gimped to his desk and picked up his list. "I want you to do something for me. Here's a list. Tell everyone on this list I've burned the pictures. You know them all, God knows. And they could take it from you. Nobody's holy. Get each man alone and tell him exactly what happened. Look here!" He opened the stove door and poked the black sheets until they were reduced to powder. "Tell them that," he said.

His visitor looked at the sheriff, and Quinn knew that there was no power on earth that could keep this man from hating him. For the rest of their lives there would be a barrier between them, and neither one could ever admit it.

"Horace, I don't know how to thank you."

And the sheriff said in sorrow, "That's all right. It's what I'd want my friends to do for me." “The goddam bitch,” his visitor said softly, and Horace Quinn knew that part of the curse was for him.

And he knew he wouldn't be sheriff much longer. These guilt-feeling men could get him out, and they would have to. He sighed and sat down. "Go to your lunch now," he said. "I've got work to do."

At quarter of one Sheriff Quinn turned off Main Street on Central Avenue. At Reynaud's Bakery he bought a loaf of French bread, still warm and giving off its wonderful smell of fermented dough.

He used the hand rail to help himself up the steps of the Trask porch.

Lee answered the door, a dish towel tied around his middle. "He's not home," he said. “Well, he's on his way. I called the draft board. I'll wait for him.”

Lee moved aside and let him in and seated him in the living room. "You like a nice cup of hot coffee?" he asked. “I don't mind if I do.” “Fresh made,” said Lee and went into the kitchen.

Quinn looked around the comfortable sitting room. He felt that he didn't want his office much longer. He remembered hearing a doctor say, “I love to deliver a baby, because if I do my work well, there's joy at the end of it.” The sheriff had thought often of that re-mark. It seemed to him that if he did his work well there was sorrow at the end of it for somebody. The fact that it was necessary was losing its weight with him. He would be retiring soon whether he wanted to or not. Every man has a retirement picture in which he does those things he never had time to do—makes the jour-neys, reads the neglected books he always pretended to have read. For many years the sheriff dreamed of spending the shining time hunting and fishing—wandering in the Santa Lucia range, camping by half-remembered streams. And now that it was almost time he knew he didn't want to do it. Sleeping on the ground would make his leg ache. He remembered how heavy a deer is and how hard it is to carry the dangling limp body from the place of the kill. And, frankly, he didn't care for venison anyway. Madame Reynaud could soak it in wine and lace it old shoe would taste good with that treatment.

Lee had bought a percolator. Quinn could hear the water spluttering against the glass dome, and his long-trained mind made the suggestion that Lee hadn't told the truth about having fresh-made coffee.

It was a good mind the old man had—sharpened in its work. He could bring up whole faces in his mind and inspect them, and also scenes and conversations. He could play them over like a record or a film. Thinking of venison, his mind had gone about cata-loguing the sitting room and his mind nudged him, say-ing, "Hey, there's something wrong here—something strange."

The sheriff heeded the voice and looked at the room—flowered chintz, lace curtains, white drawn- work table cover, cushions on the couch covered with a bright and impudent print. It was a feminine room in a house where only men lived.

He thought of his own sitting room. Mrs. Quinn had chosen, bought, cleaned, every single thing in it except a pipestand. Come to think of it, she had bought the pipestand for him. There was a woman's room too. But this was a fake. It was too feminine—a woman's room designed by a man—and overdone, too feminine. That would be Lee. Adam wouldn't even see it, let alone put it together—no—Lee trying to make a home, and Adam not even seeing it.

Horace Quinn remembered questioning Adam so very long ago, remembered him as a man in agony. He could still see Adam's haunted and horrified eyes. He had thought then of Adam as a man of such honesty that he couldn't conceive anything else. And in the years he had seen much of Adam. They both belonged to the Masonic Order. They went through the chairs together.

Horace followed Adam as Master of the Lodge and both of them wore their Past Master's pins.

And Adam had been set apart—an invisible wall cut him off from the world. You couldn't get into him—he couldn't get out to you. But in that old agony there had been no wall.

In his wife Adam had touched the living world. Horace thought of her now, gray and washed, the needles in her throat and the rubber formalin tubes hanging down from the ceiling.

Adam could do no dishonesty. He didn't want any-thing. You had to crave something to be dishonest. The sheriff wondered what went on behind the wall, what pressures, what pleasures and achings.

He shifted his behind to ease the pressure on his leg. The house was still except for the bouncing coffee. Adam was long coming from the draft board. The amused thought came to the sheriff, I'm getting old, and I kind of like it.

Then he heard Adam at the front door. Lee heard him too and darted into the hall. "The sheriff's here," said Lee, to warn him perhaps.

Adam came in smiling and held out his hand. "Hel-lo, Horace—have you got a warrant?" It was a damn good try at a joke.

"Howdy," Quinn said. "Your man is going to give me a cup of coffee."

Lee went to the kitchen and rattled dishes.

Adam said, “Anything wrong, Horace?” “Everything's always wrong in my business. I'll wait till the coffee comes.” “Don't mind Lee. He listens anyway. He can hear through a closed door. I don't keep anything from him because I can't.”

Lee came in with a tray. He was smiling remotely to himself, and when he had poured the coffee and gone out Adam asked again, "Is there anything wrong, Horace?" “No, I don't think so. Adam, was that woman still married to you?”

Adam became rigid. "Yes," he said. "What's the matter?" “She killed herself last night.”

Adam's face contorted and his eyes swelled and glis-tened with tears. He fought his mouth and then he gave up and put his face down in his hands and wept. “Oh, my poor darling!” he said.

Quinn sat quietly and let him have it out, and after a time Adam's control came back and he raised his head. "Excuse me, Horace," he said.

Lee came in from the kitchen and put a damp towel in his hands, and Adam sponged his eyes and handed it back. “I didn't expect that,” Adam said, and his face was ashamed. “What shall I do? I'll claim her. I'll bury her.”

"I wouldn't," said Horace. "That is, unless you feel you have to. That's not what I came about."

He took the folded will from his pocket and held it out.

Adam shrank from it. "Is—is that her blood?" “No, it's not. It's not her blood at all. Read it.”

Adam read the two lines and went right on staring at the paper and beyond it. "He doesn't know—she is his mother." “You never told him?” “No.” “Jesus Christ!” said the sheriff.

Adam said earnestly, "I'm sure he wouldn't want anything of hers. Let's just tear it up and forget it. If he knew, I don't think Aron would want anything of hers." “'Fraid you can't,” Quinn said. “We do quite a few illegal things. She had a safe-deposit box. I don't have to tell you where I got the will or the key. I went to the bank. Didn't wait for a court order. Thought it might have a bearing.” He didn't tell Adam he thought there might be more pictures. “Well, Old Bob let me open the box. We can always deny it. There's over a hundred thousand dollars in gold certificates. There's money in there in bales—and there isn't one goddam thing in there but money.”

"Nothing?" “One other thing—a marriage certificate.”

Adam leaned back in his chair. The remoteness was coming down again, the soft protective folds between himself and the world. He saw his coffee and took a sip of it. "What do you think I ought to do?" he asked steadily and quietly. “I can only tell you what I'd do,” Sheriff Quinn said. “You don't have to take my advice. I'd have the boy in right now. I'd tell him everything—every single thing. I'd even tell him why you didn't tell him before. He's—how old?” “Seventeen.” “He's a man. He's got to take it some time. Better if he gets the whole thing at once.” “Cal knows,” said Adam. “I wonder why she made the will to Aron?” “God knows. Well, what do you think?” “I don't know, and so I'm going to do what you say. Will you stay with me?” “Sure I will.” “Lee,” Adam called, “tell Aron I want him. He has come home, hasn't he?”

Lee came to the doorway. His heavy lids closed for a moment and then opened. "Not yet. Maybe he went back to school." “He would have told me. You know, Horace, we drank a lot of champagne on Thanksgiving.”

Where's Cal?" “In his room,” said Lee. “Well, call him. Get him in. Cal will know.”

Cal's face was tired and his shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but his face was pinched and closed and crafty and mean.

Adam asked, "Do you know where your brother is?" “No, I don't,” said Cal. “Weren't you with him at all?” “No.” “He hasn't been home for two nights. Where is he?” “How do I know?” said Cal. “Am I supposed to look after him?”

Adam's head sank down, his body jarred, just a little quiver. In back of his eyes a tiny sharp incredibly bright blue light flashed. He said thickly, “Maybe he did go back to college.” His lips seemed heavy and he murmured like a man talking in his sleep. “Don't you think he went back to college?”

Sheriff Quinn stood up. "Anything I got to do I can do later. You get a rest, Adam. You've had a shock."

Adam looked up at him. "Shock—oh, yes. Thank you, George. Thank you very much." “George?” “Thank you very much,” said Adam.

When the sheriff had gone, Cal went to his room. Adam leaned back in his chair, and very soon he went to sleep and his mouth dropped open and he snored across his palate.

Lee watched him for a while before he went back to his kitchen. He lifted the breadbox and took out a tiny volume bound in leather, and the gold tooling was almost completely worn away—The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius in English translation.

Lee wiped his steel-rimmed spectacles on a dish towel. He opened the book and leafed through. And he smiled to himself, consciously searching for reassurance.

He read slowly, moving his lips over the words. "Everything is only for a day, both that which remem-bers and that which is remembered. “Observe constantly that all things take place by change, and accustom thyself to consider that the nature of the universe loves nothing so much as to change things which are and to make new things like them. For everything that exists is in a manner the seed of that which will be.”

Lee glanced down the page. “Thou wilt die soon and thou are not yet simple nor free from perturbations, nor without suspicion of being hurt by external things, nor kindly disposed towards all; nor dost thou yet place wisdom only in acting justly.”

Lee looked up from the page, and he answered the book as he would answer one of his ancient relatives. “That is true,” he said. “It's very hard. I'm sorry. But don't forget that you also say, 'Always run the short way and the short way is the natural'—don't forget that.” He let the pages slip past his fingers to the fly leaf where was written with a broad carpenter's pencil, “Sam'l Hamilton.”

Suddenly Lee felt good. He wondered whether Sam'l Hamilton had ever missed his book or known who stole it. It had seemed to Lee the only clean pure way was to steal it. And he still felt good about it. His fingers caressed the smooth leather of the binding as he took it back and slipped it under the breadbox. He said to him-self, "But of course he knew who took it. Who else would have stolen Marcus Aurelius?"He went into the sitting room and pulled a chair near to the sleeping Adam.

In his room Cal sat at his desk, elbows down, palms holding his aching head together, hands pushing against the sides of his head. His stomach churned and the sour-sweet smell of whisky was on him and in him, living in his pores, in his clothing, beating sluggishly in his head. Cal had never drunk before, had never needed to. But going to Kate's had been no relief from pain and his revenge had been no triumph. His memory was all swirling clouds and broken pieces of sound and sight and feeling. What now was true and what was imagined he could not separate. Coming out of Kate's he had touched his sobbing brother and Aron had cut him down with a fist like a whip. Aron had stood over him in the dark and then suddenly turned and ran, screaming like a brokenhearted child. Cal could still hear the hoarse cries over running footsteps. Cal had lain still where he had fallen under the tall privet in Kate's front yard. He heard the engines puffing and snorting by the roundhouse and the crash of freight cars being assembled. Then he had closed his eyes and, hearing light steps and feeling a presence, he looked up. Someone was bending over him and he thought it was Kate. The figure moved quietly away.

After a while Cal had stood up and brushed himself and walked toward Main Street. He was surprised at how casual his feeling was. He sang softly under his breath, “There's a rose that grows in no man's land and 'tis wonderful to see—” On Friday Cal brooded the whole day long. And in the evening Joe Laguna bought the quart of whisky for him. Cal was too young to purchase. Joe wanted to accompany Cal, but Joe was satisfied with the dollar Cal gave him and went back for a pint of grappa.

Cal went to the alley behind the Abbot House and found the shadow behind a post where he had sat the night he first saw his mother. He sat cross-legged on the ground, and then, in spite of revulsion and nausea, he forced the whisky into himself. Twice he vomited and then went on drinking until the earth tipped and swayed and the streetlight spun majestically in a circle. The bottle slipped from his hand finally and Cal passed out, but even unconscious he still vomited weakly. A serious, short-haired dog-about-town with a curling tail sauntered into the alley, making his sta-tions, but he smelled Cal and took a wide circle around him. Joe Laguna found him and smelled him too. Joe shook the bottle leaning against Cal's leg and Joe held it up to the streetlight and saw that it was one-third full. He looked for the cork and couldn't find it. He walked away, his thumb over the neck to keep the whisky from sloshing out.

When in the cold dawn a frost awakened Cal to a sick world he struggled home like a broken bug. He hadn't far to go, just to the alley mouth and then across the street.

Lee heard him at the door and smelled his nastiness as he bumped along the hall to his room and fell over on his bed. Cal's head shattered with pain and he was wide awake. He had no resistance against sorrow and no device to protect himself against shame. After a while he did the best he could. He bathed in icy water and scrubbed and scratched his body with a block of pumice stone, and the pain of his scraping seemed good to him.

He knew that he had to tell his guilt to his father and beg his forgiveness. And he had to humble himself to Aron, not only now but always. He could not live without that. And yet, when he was called out and stood in the room with Sheriff Quinn and his father, he was as raw and angry as a surly dog and his hatred of himself turned outward toward everyone—a vicious cur he was, unloved, unloving.

Then he was back in his room and his guilt assaulted him and he had no weapon to fight it off. A panic for Aron arose in him. He might be in-jured, might be in trouble. It was Aron who couldn't take care of himself. Cal knew he had to bring Aron back, had to find him and build him back the way he had been. And this had to be done even though Cal sacrificed himself. And then the idea of sacrifice took hold of him the way it does with all guilty-feeling men. A sacrifice might reach Aron and bring him back.

Cal went to his bureau and got the flat package from under his handkerchiefs in his drawer. He looked around the room and brought a porcelain pin tray to his desk. He breethd deeply and found the cool air good tasting. He lifted one of the crisp bills, creased it in the middle so' that it made an angle, and then he scratched a match under his desk and lighted the bill. The heavy paper curled and blackened, the flame ran upward, and only when the fire was about his fingertips did Cal drop the charred chip in the pin tray. He stripped off another bill and lighted it. When six were burned Lee came in without knock-ing. "I smelled smoke," and then he saw what Cal was doing. "Oh!" he said.

Cal braced himself for intervention but none came. Lee folded his hands across his middle and stood silently—waiting. Cal doggedly lighted bill after bill until all were burned, and then he crushed the black chips down to powder and waited for Lee to comment, but Lee did not speak or move.

At last Cal said, "Go ahead—you want to talk to me. Go ahead!" “No,” said Lee, “I don't. And if you have no need to talk to me—I'll stay a while and then I'll go away. I'll sit down here.” He squatted in a chair, folded his hands, and waited. He smiled to himself, the expression that is called inscrutable.

Cal turned from him. "I can outsit you," he said. “In a contest maybe,” said Lee. “But in day to day, year to year—who knows?—century to century sitting—no, Cal. You'd lose.”

After a few moments Cal said peevishly, "I wish you'd get on with your lecture." “I don't have a lecture.”

"What the hell are you doing here then? You know what I did, and I got drunk last night." “I suspect the first and I can smell the second.” “Smell?” “You still smell,” said Lee. “First time,” said Cal. “I don't like it.” “I don't either,” said Lee. “I've got a bad stomach for liquor. Besides it makes me playful, intellectual but playful.” “How do you mean, Lee?” “I can only give you an example. In my younger days I played tennis. I liked it, and it was also a good thing for a servant to do. He could pick up his master's flubs at doubles and get no thanks but a few dollars for it. Once, I think it was sherry that time, I developed the theory that the fastest and most elusive animals in the world are bats. I was apprehended in the middle of the night in the bell tower of the Methodist Church in San Leandro. I had a racquet, and I seem to have explained to the arresting officer that I was improving my backhand on bats.”

Cal laughed with such amusement that Lee almost wished he had done it.

Cal said, "I just sat behind a post and drank like a pig." “Always animals—” “I was afraid if I didn't get drunk I'd shoot myself, Cal interrupted.”

"You'd never do that. You're too mean," said Lee. "By the way, where is Aron?" “He ran away. I don't know where he went. “He's not too mean,” said Lee nervously. “I know it. That's what I thought about. You don't think he would, do you, Lee?”

Lee said testily, “Goddam it, whenever a person wants reassurance he tells a friend to think what he wants to be true. It's like asking a waiter what's good tonight. How the hell do I know?”

Cal cried, "Why did I do it—why did I do it?" “Don't make it complicated,” Lee said. You know why you did it. You were mad at him, and you were mad at him because your father hurt your feelings. That's not difficult. You were just mean.” “I guess that's what I wonder—why I'm mean. Lee, I don't want to be mean. Help me, Lee!” “Just a second,” Lee said. “I thought I heard your father.” He darted out the door.

Cal heard voices for a moment and then Lee came back to the room. "He's going to the post office. We never get any mail in midafternoon. Nobody does. But every man in Salinas goes to the post office in the afternoon." “Some get a drink on the way, said Cal. “I guess it is a kind of a habit and a kind of a rest. They see their friends.” And Lee said, “Cal—I don't like your father's looks. He's got a dazed look.

Oh, I forgot. You don't know. Your mother committed suicide last night.”

Cal said, "Did she?" and then he snarled, I hope it hurt. No, I don't want to say that. I don't want to think that. There it is again. There it is! I don't—want it—Lee scratched a spot on his head, and that started his whole head to itching, and he scratched it all over, taking his time. It gave him the appearance of deep thought. He said, "Did burning the money give you much pleasure?" “I—I guess so.” “And are you taking pleasure from this whipping you're giving yourself? Are you enjoying your despair?” “Lee!” “You're pretty full of yourself. You're marveling at the tragic spectacle of Caleb Trask—Caleb the mag-nificant, the unique. Caleb whose suffering should have its Homer. Did you ever think of yourself as a snot-nose kid—mean sometimes, incredibly generous some-times? Dirty in your habits, and curiously pure in your mind. Maybe you have a little more energy than most, just energy, but outside of that you're very like all the other snot-nose kids. Are you trying to attract dignity and tragedy to yourself because your mother was a whore? And if anything should have happened to your brother, will you be able to sneak for yourself the eminence of being a murderer, snot-nose?"

Cal turned slowly back to his desk. Lee watched him, holding his breath the way a doctor watches for the reaction to a hypodermic. Lee could see the reac-tions flaring through Cal—the rage at insult, the bellig-erence, and the hurt feelings following behind and out of that—just the beginning of relief.

Lee sighed. He had worked so hard, so tenderly, and his work seemed to have succeeded. He said softly, "We're a violent people, Cal. Does it seem strange to you that I include myself? Maybe it's true that we are all descended from the restless, the nervous, the crimi-nals, the arguers and brawlers, but also the brave and independent and generous. If our ancestors had not been that, they would have stayed in their home plots in the other world and starved over the squeezed-out soil."

Cal turned his head toward Lee, and his face had lost its tightness. He smiled, and Lee knew he had not fooled the boy entirely. Cal knew now it was a job—a well-done job—and he was grateful.

Lee went on, “That's why I include myself. We all have that heritage, no matter what old land our fathers left. All colors and blends of Americans have some-what the same tendencies. It's a breed—selected out by accident. And so we're overbrave and overfearful—we're kind and cruel as children. We're overfriendly and at the same time frightened of strangers. We boast and are impressed. We're oversentimental and realistic. We are mundane and materialistic—and do you know of any other nation that acts for ideals? We eat too much. We have no taste, no sense of proportion. We throw our energy about like waste. In the old lands they say of us that we go from barbarism to decadence without an intervening culture. Can it be that our critics have not the key or the language of our culture? That's what we are, Cal—all of us. You aren't very different.” “Talk away,” said Cal, and he smiled and repeated, “Talk away.” “I don't need to any more,” said Lee. “I'm finished now. I wish your father would come back. He worries me.” And Lee went nervously out.

In the hall just inside the front door he found Adam leaning against the wall, his hat low over his eyes and his shoulders slumped. “Adam, what's the matter with you?” “I don't know. Seem tired. Seem tired.”

Lee took him by the arm, and it seemed that he had to guide him toward the living room. Adam fell heavily into his chair, and Lee took the hat from his head. Adam rubbed the back of his left hand with his right. His eyes were strange, very clear but unmoving. And his lips were dry and thickened and his speech had the sound of a dream talker, slow and coming from a distance. He rubbed his hand harshly. "Strange thing," he said, "I must have fainted—in the post office. I never faint. Mr. Pioda helped me up. Just for a second it was, I guess. I never faint."

Lee asked, "Was there any mail?" “Yes—yes—I think there was mail.” He put his left hand in his pocket and in a moment took it out. “My hand is kind of numb,” he said apologetically and reached across with his right hand and brought out a yellow government postcard. “Thought I read it,” he said. “I must have read it.” He held it up before his eyes and then dropped the card in his lap. “Lee, I guess I've got to get glasses. Never needed them in my life. Can't read it. Letters jump around.” “Shall I read it?” “Funny—well, I'll go first thing for glasses. Yes, what does it say?”

And Lee read," 'Dear Father, I'm in the army. I told them I was eighteen. I'll be all right. Don't worry about me. Aron.' " "Funny," said Adam. "Seems like I read it. But I guess I didn't." He rubbed his hand.

Chapter 52

That winter of 1917 to 1918 was a dark and frightened time. The Germans smashed everything in front of them. In three months the British suffered three hun-dred thousand casualties. Many units of the French army were mutinous. Russia was out of the war. The German east divisions, rested and re-equipped. were thrown at the western front. The war seemed hopeless.

It was May before we had as many as twelve divi-sions in the field, and summer had come before our troops began to move across the sea in numbers. The Allied generals were fighting each other. Submarines slaughtered the crossing ships.

We learned then that war was not a quick heroic charge but a slow, incredibly complicated matter. Our spirits sank in those winter months. We lost the flare of excitement and we had not yet put on the doggedness of a long war.

Ludendorff was unconquerable. Nothing stopped him. He mounted attack after attack on the broken armies of France and England. And it occurred to us that we might be too late, that soon we might be standing alone against the invincible Germans.

It was not uncommon for people to turn away from the war, some to fantasy and some to vice and some to crazy gaiety. Fortunetellers were in great demand, and saloons did a roaring business.

But people also turned inward to their private joys and tragedies to escape the pervasive fear and despondency. Isn't it strange that today we have forgotten this? We remember World War 1 as quick victory, with flags and bands, marching and horseplay and returning soldiers, fights in the bar-rooms with the goddam Limeys who thought they had won the war. How quickly we forgot that in that winter Ludendorff could not be beaten and that many people were preparing in their minds and spirits for a lost war.

2

Adam Trask was more puzzled than sad. He didn't have to resign from the draft board. He was given a leave of absence for ill health. He sat by the hour rubbing the back of his left hand. He brushed it with a harsh brush and soaked it in hot water. “It's circulation,” he said. “As soon as I get the circulation back it'll be all right. It's my eyes that bother me. I never had trouble with my eyes. Guess I'll have to get my eyes tested for glasses. Me with glasses! Be hard to get used to. I'd go today but I feel a little dizzy.”

He felt more dizzy than he would admit. He could not move about the house without a hand brace against a wall. Lee often had to give him a hand-up out of his chair or help him out of bed in the morning and tie his shoes because he could not tie knots with his numb left hand.

Almost daily he came back to Aron. "I can under-stand why a young man might want to enlist," he said. "If Aron had talked to me, I might have tried to persuade him against it, but I wouldn't have forbidden it. You know that, Lee." “I know it.” “That's what I can't understand. Why did he sneak away? Why doesn't he write? I thought I knew him better than that. Has he written to Abra? He'd be sure to write to her.” “I'll ask her.” “You do that. Do that right away.” “The training is hard. That's what I've heard. Maybe they don't give him time.” “It doesn't take any time to write a card.” “When you went in the army, did you write to your father?”

"Think you've got me there, don't you? No, I didn't, but I had a reason. I didn't want to enlist. My father forced me. I was resentful. You see, I had a good reason. But Aron—he was doing fine in college. Why, they've written, asking about him. You read the letter. He didn't take any clothes. He didn't take the gold watch." “He wouldn't need any clothes in the army, and they don't want gold watches there either. Everything's brown.” “I guess you're right. But I don't understand it. I've got to do something about my eyes. Can't ask you to read everything to me.” His eyes really troubled him. “I can see a letter,” he said. “But the words jumble all around.” A dozen times a day he seized a paper or a book and stared at it and put it down.

Lee read the papers to him to keep him from getting restless, and often in the middle of the reading Adam went to sleep.

He would awaken and say, "Lee? Is that you, Cal? You know I never had any trouble with my eyes. I'll just go tomorrow and get my eyes tested."

About the middle of February Cal went into the kitchen and said, "Lee, he talks about it all the time. Let's get his eyes tested."

Lee was stewing" apricots. He left the stove and closed the kitchen door and went back to the stove. "I don't want him to go," he said.

"Why not?" “I don't think it's his eyes. Finding out might trouble him. Let him be for a while. He's had a bad shock. Let him get better. I'll read to him all he wants.” “What do you think it is?” “I don't want to say. I've thought maybe Dr. Ed-wards might just come by for a friendly call—just to say hello.” “Have it your own way,” said Cal.

Lee said, "Cal, have you seen Abra?" “Sure, I see her. She walks away.” “Can't you catch her?” “Sure—and I could throw her down and punch her in the face and make her talk to me. But I won't.” “Maybe if you'd just break the ice. Sometimes the barrier is so weak it just falls over when you touch it. Catch up with her. Tell her I want to see her." “I won't do it.” “You feel awful guilty, don't you?”

Cal did not answer. “Don't you like her?”

Cal did not answer. “If you keep this up, you're going to feel worse, not better. You'd better open up. I'm warning you. You'd better open up.”

Cal cried, "Do you want me to tell Father what I did? I'll do it if you tell me to." “No, Cal. Not now. But when he gets well you'll have to. You'll have to for yourself. You can't carry this alone. It will kill you.” “Maybe I deserve to be killed.” “Stop that!” Lee said coldly. “That can be the cheapest kind of self-indulgence. You stop that!” “How do you go about stopping it?” Cal asked.

Lee changed the subject. "I don't understand why Abra hasn't been here—not even once." “No reason to come now.” “It's not like her. Something's wrong there. Have you seen her?”

Cal scowled. "I told you I have. You're getting crazy too. Tried to talk to her three times. She walked away." “Something's wrong. She's a good woman—a real woman.”

"She's a girl," said Cal. "It sounds funny you calling her a woman." “No,” Lee said softly. “A few are women from the moment they're born. Abra has the loveliness of woman, and the courage—and the strength—and the wisdom. She knows things and she accepts things. I would have been to be small or mean or even vain ex-cept when it's pretty to be vain.” “You sure do think well of her.” “Well enough to think she wouldn't desert us.” And he said, “I miss her. Ask her to come to see me.” “I told you she walked away from me.” “Well, chase her then. Tell her I want to see her. I miss her.”

Cal asked, “Shall we go back to my father's eyes now?” “No,” said Lee. “Shall we talk about Aron?” “No.”

Cal tried all the next day to find Abra alone, and it was only after school that he saw her ahead of him, walking home. He turned a corner and ran along the parallel street and then back, and he judged time and distance so that he turned in front of her as she strolled along. "Hello." he said.

"Hello. I thought I saw you behind me." “You did. I ran around the block to get in front of you. I want to talk to you.”

She regarded him gravely. "You could have done «that without running around the block." “Well, I tried to talk to you in school. You walked away.” “You were mad. I didn't want to talk to you mad.” “How do you know I was?” “I could see it in your face and the way you walked. You're not mad now.” “No, I'm not.” “Do you want to take my books?” She smiled.

A warmth fell on him. "Yes—yes, I do." He put her schoolbooks under his arm and walked beside her. "Lee wants to see you. He asked me to tell you."

She was pleased. "Does he? Tell him I'll come. How's your father?"

"Not very well. His eyes bother him."

They walked along in silence until Cal couldn't stand it any more. "You know about Aron?" “Yes.” She paused. “Open my binder and look next to the first page.”

He shifted the books. A penny postcard was in the binder. "Dear Abra," it said. "I don't feel clean. I'm not fit for you. Don't be sorry. I'm in the army. Don't go near my father. Good-by, Aron."

Cal snapped the book shut. "The son of a bitch," he said under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing." “I heard what you said.” “Do you know why he went away?” “No. I guess I could figure out—put two and two together. I don't want to. I'm not ready to—that is, unless you want to tell me.”

Suddenly Cal said, "Abra—do you hate me?" “No, Cal, but you hate me a little. Why is that?” “I—I'm afraid of you.” “No need to be.” “I've hurt you more than you know. And you're my brother's girl.” “How have you hurt me? And I'm not your brother's girl.” “All right,” he said bitterly, “I'll tell you—and I don't want you to forget you asked me to. Our mother was a whore. She ran a house here in town. I found out about it a long time ago.

Thanksgiving night I took Aron down and showed her to him. I—" Abra broke in excitedly, "What did he do?" “He went mad—just crazy. He yelled at her. Outside he knocked me down and ran away. Our dear mother killed herself; my father—he's—there's something wrong with him. Now you know about me. Now you have some reason to walk away from me." “Now I know about him,” she said calmly. “My brother?”

"Yes, your brother."

"He was good. Why did I say was? He is good. He's not mean or dirty like me."

They had been walking very slowly. Abra stopped and Cal stopped and she faced him. “Cal,” she said, “I've known about your mother for a long, long time.” “You have?” “I heard my parents talking when they thought I was asleep. I want to tell you something, and it's hard to tell and it's good to tell.” “You want to?” “I have to. It's not so terribly long ago that I grew up and I wasn't a little girl any more. Do you know what I mean?” “Yes,” said Cal.

"You sure you know?"

"Yes." “All right then. It's hard to say now. I wish I'd said it then. I didn't love Aron any more.”

"Why not?" “I've tried to figure it out. When we were children we lived in a story that we made up. But when I grew up the story wasn't enough. I had to have something else, because the story wasn't true any more.”

"Well—" “Wait—let me get it all out. Aron didn't grow up. Maybe he never will. He wanted the story and he wanted it to come out his way. He couldn't stand to have it come out any other way.” “How about you?” “I don't want to know how it comes out. I only want to be there while it's going on. And, Cal—we were kind of strangers. We kept it going because we were used to it. But I didn't believe the story any more.” “How about Aron?” “He was going to have it come out his way if he had to tear the world up by the roots.”

Cal stood looking at the ground.

Abra said, "Do you believe me?" “I'm trying to study it out.” “When you're a child you're the center of every-thing. Everything happens for you. Other people? They're only ghosts furnished for you to talk to. But when you grow up you take your place and you're your own size and shape. Things go out of you to others and come in from other people. It's worse, but it's much better too. I'm glad you told me about Aron.”

"Why?" “Because now I know I didn't make it all up. He couldn't stand to know about his mother because that's not how he wanted the story to go—and he wouldn't have any other story. So he tore up the world. It's the same way he tore me up—Abra—when he wanted to be a priest.” Cal said, "I'll have to think." “Give me my books,” she said. “Tell Lee I'll come. I feel free now. I want to think too. I think I love you, Cal."

"I'm not good." “Because you're not good.”

Cal walked quickly home. "She'll come tomorrow," he told Lee. “Why, you're excited,” said Lee.

4

Once in the house Abra walked on her toes. In the hall she moved close to the wall where the floor did not creak. She put her foot on the lowest step of the car-peted stairs, changed her mind, and went to the kitchen.

"Here you are," her mother said. "You didn't come straight home." “I had to stay after class. Is Father better?” “I guess so.” “What does the doctor say?” “Same thing he said at first—overwork. Just needs a rest.” “He hasn't seemed tired,” said Abra.

Her mother opened a bin and took out three baking potatoes and carried them to the sink. "Your Father's very brave, dear. I should have known. He's been doing so much war work on top of his own work. The doctor says sometimes a man collapses all at once." “Shall I go in and see him?” “You know, Abra, I've got a feeling that he doesn't want to see anybody. Judge Knudsen phoned and your father said to tell him he was asleep.”

"Can I help you?" “Go change your dress, dear. You don't want to get your pretty dress soiled.

Abra tiptoed past her father's door and went to her own room. It was harsh bright with varnish, papered brightly. Framed photographs of her parents on the bureau, poems framed on the walls, and her closet—everything in its place, the floor varnished, and her shoes standing diligently side by side. Her mother did everything for her, insisted on it—planned for her, dressed her.

Abra had long ago given up having any private things in her room, even any personal thing. This was of such long standing that Abra did not think of her room as a private place. Her privacies were of the mind. The few letters she kept were in the sitting room itself, filed among the pages of the two-volume Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant, which to the best of her knowledge had never been opened by anyone but herself since it came off the press.

Abra felt pleased, and she did not inspect the reason. She knew certain things without question, and such things she did not speak about. For example, she knew that her father was not ill. He was hiding from some-thing. Just as surely she knew that Adam Trask was ill, for she had seen him walking along the street. She won-dered whether her mother knew her father was not ill.

Abra slipped off her dress and put on a cotton pinafore, which was understood to be for working around the house. She brushed her hair, tiptoed past her father's room, and went downstairs. At the foot of the stairs she opened her binder and took out Aron's postcard. In the sitting room she shook Aron's letters out of Volume 2 of the Memoirs, folded them tightly, and, raising her skirt, tucked them under the elastic which held up her panties. The package made her a little lumpy. In the kitchen she put on a full apron to conceal the bulge. “You can scrape the carrots,” her mother said. “Is that water hot?” “Just coming to a boil.”

"Drop a bouillon cube in that cup, will you, dear? The doctor says it'll build your father up."

When her mother carried the steaming cup upstairs, Abra opened the incinerator end of the gas stove, put in the letters, and lighted them.

Her mother came back, saying, "I smell fire." “I lit the trash. It was full.” “I wish you'd ask me when you want to do a thing like that,” her mother said. “I was saving the trash to warm the kitchen in the morning.” “I'm sorry, Mother,” Abra said. “I didn't think.” “You should try to think of these things. It seems to me you're getting very thoughtless lately.” “I'm sorry, Mother.” “Saved is earned,” said her mother.

The telephone rang in the dining room. Her mother went to answer it. Abra heard her mother say, “No, you can't see him. It's doctor's orders. He can't see anyone—no, not anyone.”

She came back to the kitchen. "Judge Knudsen again," she said.

Chapter 53

All during school next day Abra felt good about going to see Lee. She met Cal in the hall between classes. "Did you tell him I was coming?" “He's started some kind of tarts,” said Cal. He was dressed in his uniform—choking high collar, ill-fitting tunic, and wrapped leggings. “You've got drill,” Abra said. “I'll get there first. What kind of tarts?” “I don't know. But leave me a couple, will you? Smelled like strawberry. Just leave me two.” “Want to see a present I got for Lee? Look!” She opened a little cardboard box. “It's a new kind of potato peeler. Takes off just the skin. It's easy. I got it for Lee.” “There go my tarts,” said Cal, and then, “If I'm a little late, don't go before I get there, will you?” “Would you like to carry my books home?” “Yes,” said Cal.

She looked at him long, full in the eyes, until he wanted to drop his gaze, and then she walked away toward her class.

2

Adam had taken to sleeping late, or, rather, he had taken to sleeping very often—short sleeps during the night and during the day. Lee looked in on him several times before he found him awake. “I feel fine this morning,” Adam said. “If you can call it morning. It's nearly eleven o'clock.” “Good Lord! I have to get up.” “What for?” Lee asked. “What for? Yes, what for! But I feel good, Lee. I might walk down to the draft board. How is it out-side?” “Raw,” said Lee.

He helped Adam get up. Buttons and shoelaces and getting things on frontways gave Adam trouble.

While Lee helped him Adam said, "I had a dream—very real. I dreamed about my father." “A great old gentleman from all I hear,” said Lee. “I read that portfolio of clippings your brother's lawyer sent. Must have been a great old gentleman.”

Adam looked calmly at Lee. "Did you know he was a thief?" “You must have had a dream,” said Lee. “He's buried at Arlington. One clipping said the Vice Pres-ident was at his funeral, and the Secretary of War. You know the Salinas Index might like to do a piece about him—in wartime, you know. How would you like to go over the material?” “He was a thief,” said Adam. “I didn't think so once, but I do now. He stole from the G.A.R.” “I don't believe it,” said Lee.

There were tears in Adam's eyes. Very often these days tears came suddenly to Adam. Lee said, “Now you sit right here and I'll bring you some breakfast. Do you know who's coming to see us this afternoon? Abra.”

Adam said, "Abra?" and then, "Oh, sure, Abra. She's a nice girl."

"I love her," said Lee simply. He got Adam seated in front of the card table in his bedroom. “Would you like to work on the cutout puzzle while I get your breakfast?”

"No, thank you. Not this morning. I want to think about the dream before I forget it."

When Lee brought the breakfast tray Adam was asleep in his chair. Lee awakened him and read the Salinas Journal to him while he ate and then helped him to the toilet.

The kitchen was sweet with tarts, and some of the berries had boiled over in the oven and burned, making the sharp, bitter-sweet smell pleasant and astringent.

There was a quiet rising joy in Lee. It was the joy of change. Time's drawing down for Adam, he thought. Time must be drawing down for me, but I don't feel it. I feel immortal. Once when I was very young I felt mortal—but not any more. Death has receded. He wondered if this were a normal way to feel.

And he wondered what Adam meant, saying his father was a thief. Part of the dream, maybe. And then Lee's mind played on the way it often did. Suppose it were true—Adam, the most rigidly honest man it was possible to find, living all his life on stolen money. Lee laughed to himself—now this second will, and Aron, whose purity was a little on the self-indulgent side, living all his life on the profits from a whorehouse. Was this some kind of joke or did things balance so that if one went too far in one direction an automatic slide moved on the scale and the balance was re-established?

He thought of Sam Hamilton. He had knocked on so many doors. He had the most schemes and plans, and no one would give him any money. But of course—he had so much, he was so rich. You couldn't give him any more. Riches seem to come to the poor in spirit, the poor in interest and joy. To put it straight—the very rich are a poor bunch of bastards. He wondered if that were true. They acted that way sometimes.

He thought of Cal burning the money to punish himself. And the punishment hadn't hurt him as badly as the crime. Lee said to himself, “If there should happen to be a place where one day I'll come up with Sam Hamilton, I'll have a lot of good stories to tell him,” and his mind went on, “But so will he!”

Lee went in to Adam and found him trying to open the box that held the clippings about his father.

The wind blew cold that afternoon. Adam insisted on going to look in on the draft board. Lee wrapped him up and started him off. "If you feel faint at all, just sit down wherever you are," Lee said. “I will,” Adam agreed. “I haven't felt dizzy all day. Might stop in and have Victor look at my eyes."

"You wait till tomorrow. I'll go with you." “We'll see,” said Adam, and he started out, swinging his arms with bravado.

Abra came in with shining eyes and a red nose from the frosty wind, and she brought such pleasure that Lee giggled softly when he saw her. “Where are the tarts?” she demanded. “Let's hide them from Cal.” She sat down in the kitchen. “Oh, I'm so glad to be back.”

Lee started to speak and choked and then what he wanted to say seemed good to say—to say carefully. He hovered over her. "You know, I haven't wished for many things in my life," he began. "I learned very early not to wish for things. Wishing just brought earned disappointment."

Abra said gaily, "But you wish for something now. What is it?"

He blurted out, "I wish you were my daughter—" He was shocked at himself. He went to the stove and turned out the gas under the teakettle, then lighted it again.

She said softly, "I wish you were my father."

He glanced quickly at her and away. "You do?" “Yes, I do.”

"Why?" “Because I love you.”

Lee went quickly out of the kitchen. He sat in his room, gripping his hands tightly together until he stopped choking. He got up and took a small carved ebony box from the top of his bureau. A dragon climbed toward heaven on the box. He carried the box to the kitchen and laid it on the table between Abra's hands. "This is for you," he said, and his tone had no inflection.

She opened the box and looked down on a small, dark green jade button, and carved on its surface was a human right hand, a lovely hand, the fingers curved and in repose. Abra lifted the button out and looked at it, and then she moistened it with the tip of her tongue and moved it gently over her full lips, and pressed the cool stone against her cheek.

Lee said, "That was my mother's only ornament."

Abra got up and put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek, and it was the only time such a thing had ever happened in his whole life.

Lee laughed. "My Oriental calm seems to have deserted me," he said. "Let me make the tea, darling. I'll get hold of myself that way." From the stove he said, "I've never used that word—never once to any-body in the world."

Abra said, "I woke up with joy this morning." “So did I,” said Lee. “I know what made me feel happy. You were coming.” “I was glad about that too, but—” "You are changed," said Lee. "You aren't any part a little girl any more. Can you tell me?" “I burned all of Aron's letters.” “Did he do bad things to you?” “No. I guess not. Lately I never felt good enough. I always wanted to explain to him that I was not good.” “And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good. Is that it?” “I guess so. Maybe that's it.” “Do you know about the mother of the boys?” “Yes. Do you know I haven't tasted a single one of the tarts?” Abra said. “My mouth is dry.” “Drink some tea, Abra. Do you like Cal?” “Yes.”

Lee said, “He's crammed full to the top with every good thing and every bad thing. I've thought that one single person could almost with the weight of a finger—” Abra bowed her head over her tea. "He asked me to go to the Alisal when the wild azaleas bloom."

Lee put his hands on the table and leaned over. "I don't want to ask you whether, you are going," he said.

"You don't have to," said Abra. "I'm going."

Lee sat opposite her at the table. "Don't stay away from this house for long," he said. “My father and mother don't want me here.” “I only saw them once,” Lee said cynically. “They seemed to be good people. Sometimes, Abra, the strang-est medicines are effective. I wonder if it would help if they knew Aron has just inherited over a hundred thou-sand dollars.”

Abra nodded gravely and fought to keep the corners of her mouth from turning up. "I think it would help," she said. "I wonder how I could get the news to them." “My dear,” said Lee, “if I heard such a piece of news I think my first impulse would be to telephone someone. Maybe you'd have a bad connection.” {a} bra nodded. "Would you tell her where the money came from?" “That I would not,” said Lee.

She looked at the alarm clock hung on a nail on the wall. "Nearly five," she said. "I'll have to go.

My father isn't well. I thought Cal might get back from drill." “Come back very soon,” Lee said.

Cal was on the porch when she came out.

4

"Wait for me," he said, and he went into the house and dropped his books. “Take good care of Abra's books,” Lee called from the kitchen. ... winter night blew in with frosty wind, and the street lamps with their sputtering carbons swung rest-lessly and made the shadows dart back and forth like a runner trying to steal second base. Men coming home from work buried their chins in their overcoats and hurried toward warmth. In the still night the monot-onous scattering music of the skating rink could be heard from many blocks away.

Cal said, “Will you take your books for a minute, Abra? I want to unhook this collar. It's cutting my head off.” He worked the hooks out of the. eyes and sighed with relief. “I'm all chafed,” he said and took her books back. The branches of the big palm tree in Berges's front yard were lashing with a dry clatter, and a cat meowed over and over and over in front of some kitchen door closed against it.

Abra said, "I don't think you make much of a soldier. You're too independent." “I could be,” said Cal. “This drilling with old Krag-Jorgensens seems silly to me. When the time comes, and I take an interest, I'll be good.”

"The tarts were wonderful," said Abra. "I left one for you." “Thanks. I'll bet Aron makes a good soldier.” “Yes, he will—and the best-looking soldier in the army. When are we going for the azaleas?” “Not until spring.” “Let's go early and take a lunch.” “It might be raining.” “Let's go anyway, rain or shine.”

She took her books and went into her yard. "See you tomorrow," she said.

He did not turn toward home. He walked in the nervous night past the high school and past the skating rink—a floor with a big tent over it, and a mechanical orchestra clanging away. Not a soul was skating. The old man who owned it sat miserably in his booth, flip-ping the end of a roll of tickets against his forefinger.

Main Street was deserted. The wind skidded papers on the sidewalk. Tom Meek, the constable, came out of Bell's candy store and fell into step with Cal. "Better hook that tunic collar, soldier," he said softly. “Hello, Tom. The damn thing's too tight.” “I don't see you around the town at night lately.” “No.”

"Don't tell me you reformed." “Maybe.”

Tom prided himself on his ability to kid people and make it sound serious. He said, “Sounds like you got a girl.”

Cal didn't answer. “I heard your brother faked his age and joined the army. Are you picking off his girl?” “Oh, sure—sure,” said Cal.

Tom's interest sharpened. “I nearly forgot,” he said. “I hear Will Hamilton is telling around you made fifteen thousand dollars in beans. That true?” “Oh, sure,” said Cal. “You're just a kid. What are you going to do with all that money?”

Cal grinned at him. "I burned it up." “How do you mean?” “Just set a match to it and burned it.”

Tom looked into his face. "Oh, yeah! Sure. Good thing to do. Got to go in here. Good night."

Tom Meek didn't like people to kid him. "The young punk son of a bitch," he said to himself. “He's getting too smart for himself.”

Cal moved slowly along Main Street, looking in store windows. He wondered where Kate was buried. If he could find out, he thought he might take a bunch of flowers, and he laughed at himself for the impulse. Was it good or was he fooling himself? The Salinas wind would blow away a tombstone, let along a bunch of carnations. For some reason he remembered the Mex-ican name for carnations. Somebody must have told him when he was a kid. They were called Nails of Love—and marigolds, the Nails of Death. It was a word like nails—claveles. Maybe he'd better put marigolds on his mother's grave. “I'm beginning to think like Aron,” he said to himself.

Chapter 54

The winter seemed reluctant to let go its bite. It hung on cold and wet and windy long after its time. And people repeated, “It's those damned big guns they're shooting off in France—spoiling the weather in the whole world.”

The grain was slow coming up in the Salinas Valley, and the wildflowers came so late that some people thought they wouldn't come at all.

We knew—or at least we were confident—that on May Day, when all the Sunday School picnics took place in the Alisal, the wild azaleas that grew in the skirts of the stream would be in bloom. They were a part of May Day.

May Day was cold. The picnic was drenched out of existence by a freezing rain, and there wasn't an-open blossom on the azalea trees. Two weeks later they still weren't out.

Cal hadn't known it would be like this when he had made azaleas the signal for his picnic, but once the symbol was set it could not be violated.

The Ford sat in Windham's shed, its tires pumped up, and with two new dry cells to make it start easily on Bat. Lee was alerted to make sandwiches when the day came, and he got tired of waiting and stopped buying sandwich bread every two days. “Why don't you just go anyway?” he said. “I can't,” said Cal. “I said azaleas.” “How will you know?” “The Silacci boys live out there, and they come into school every day. They say it will be a week or ten days.” “Oh, Lord!” said Lee. “Don't overtrain your picnic.”

Adam's health was slowly improving. The numbness was going from his hand. And he could read a little—a little more each day.

"It's only when I get tired that the letters jump," he said. "I'm glad I didn't get glasses to ruin my eyes. I knew my eyes were all right."

Lee nodded and was glad. He had gone to San Francisco for the books he needed and had written for a number of separates. He knew about as much as was known about the anatomy of the brain and the symp-toms and severities of lesion and thrombus. He had studied and asked questions with the same unwavering intensity as when he had trapped and pelted and cured a Hebrew verb.

Dr. H. C. Murphy had got to know Lee very well and had gone from a professional impatience with a Chinese servant to a genuine admira-tion for a scholar. Dr. Murphy had even borrowed some of Lee's news separates and reports on diagnosis and practice. He told Dr. Edwards, “That Chink knows more about the pathology of cerebral hemorrhage than I do, and I bet as much as you do." He spoke with a kind of affectionate anger that this should be so. The medical profession is unconsciously irritated by lay knowledge.

When Lee reported Adam's improvement he said, “It does seem to me that the absorption is continuing—” “I had a patient,” Dr. Murphy said, and he told a hopeful story. “I'm always afraid of recurrence,” said Lee. “That you have to leave with the Almighty,” said Dr. Murphy. “We can't patch an artery like an inner tube. By the way, how do you get him to let you take his blood pressure?” “I bet on his and he bets on mine. It's better than horse racing.” “Who wins?” “Well, I could,” said Lee. “But I don't. That would spoil the game—and the chart.” “How do you keep him from getting excited?” “It's my own invention,” said Lee. “I call it conver-sational therapy.” “Must take all your time.” “It does,” said Lee.

2

On May 28, 1918, American troops carried out their first important assignment of World War 1. The First Division, General Bullard commanding, was ordered to capture the village of Cantigny. The village, on high ground, dominated the Avre River valley. It was de-fended by trenches, heavy machine guns, and artillery. The front was a little over a mile wide.

At 6:45 A.M., May 28, 1918, the attack was begun after one hour of artillery preparation. Troops involved were the 28th Infantry (Col. Ely), one battalion of the 18th Infantry (Parker), a company of the First Engi-neers, the divisional artillery (Summerall), and a sup-port of French tanks and flame throwers.

The attack was a complete success. American troops entrenched on the new line and repulsed two powerful German counterattacks.

The First Division received the congratulations of Clemenceau, Foch, and Pétain.

3

It was the end of May before the Silacci boys brought the news that the salmon-pink blossoms of the azaleas were breaking free. It was on a Wednesday, as the nine o'clock bell was ringing, that they told him.

Cal rushed to the English classroom, and just as Miss Norris took her seat on the little stage he waved his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. Then he went down to the boys' toilet and waited until he heard through the wall the flush of water on the girlside. He went out through the basement door, walked close to the red brick wall, slipped around the pepper tree, and, once out of sight of the school, walked slowly along until Abra caught up with him. “When'd they come out?” she asked. “This morning.” “Shall we wait till tomorrow?”

He looked up at the gay yellow sun, the first earth-warming sun of the year. "Do you want to wait?" “No,” she said. “Neither do I.”

They broke into a run—bought bread at Reynaud's and jogged Lee into action.

Adam heard loud voices and looked into the kitchen. "What's the hullabaloo?" he asked. “We're going on a picnic,” said Cal. “Isn't it a school day?”

Abra said, “Sure it is. But it's a holiday too.”

Adam smiled at her. "You're pink as a rose," he said.

Abra cried, "Why don't you come along with us? We're going to the Alisal to get azaleas." “Why, I'd like to,” Adam said, and then, “No, I can't. I promised to go down to the ice plant.

We're putting in some new tubing. It's a beautiful day.” “We'll bring you some azaleas,” Abra said. “I like them. Well, have a good time.”

When he was gone Cal said, "Lee, why don't you come with us?"

Lee looked sharply at him. "I hadn't thought you were a fool," he said. “Come on!” Abra cried. “Don't be ridiculous,” said Lee.

4

It's a pleasant little stream that gurgles through the Alisal against the Gabilan Mountains on the east of the Salinas Valley. The water bumbles over round stones and washes the polished roots of the trees that hold it in.

The smell of azaleas and the sleepy smell of sun working with chlorophyll filled the air. On the bank the Ford car sat, still breathing softly from its overheating. The back seat was piled with azalea branches.

Cal and Abra sat on the bank among the luncheon papers. They dangled their feet in the water. "They always wilt before you get them home," said Cal. “But they're such a good excuse, Cal,” she said. “If you won't I guess I'll have to—” "What?"

She reached over and took his hand. "That," she said. “I was afraid to.”

"Why?" “I don't know.” “I wasn't.” “I guess girls aren't afraid of near as many things.” “I guess not.” “Are you ever afraid?” “Sure,” she said. “I was afraid of you after you said I wet my pants.” “That was mean,” he said. “I wonder why I did it,” and suddenly he was silent.

Her fingers tightened around his hand. "I know what you're thinking. I don't want you to think about that."

Cal looked at the curling water and turned a round brown stone with his toe.

Abra said, "You think you've got it all, don't you? You think you attract bad things—" "Well—" “Well, I'm going to tell you something. My father's in trouble.” “How in trouble?” “I haven't been listening at doors but I've heard enough. He's not sick. He's scared. He's done some-thing.”

He turned his head. "What?" “I think he's taken some money from his company. He doesn't know whether his partners are going to put him in jail or let him try to pay it back.” “How do you know?” “I heard them shouting in his bedroom where he's sick. And my mother started the phonograph to drown them out.”

He said, "You aren't making it up?" “No. I'm not making it up.”

He shuffled near and put his head against her shoul-der and his arm crept timidly around her waist. “You see, you're not the only one—” She looked sideways at his face. “Now I'm afraid,” she said weakly.

5

At three o'clock in the afternoon Lee was sitting at his desk, turning over the pages of a seed catalogue. The pictures of sweet peas were in color. “Now these would look nice on the back fence. They'd screen off the slough. I wonder if there's enough sun.” He looked up at the sound of his own voice and smiled to himself. More and more he caught himself speaking aloud when the house was empty. “It's age,” he said aloud. “The slowing thoughts and—” He stopped and grew rigid for a moment. “That's funny—listening for something. I wonder whether I left the teakettle on the gas. No—I remem-ber.” He listened again. “Thank heaven I'm not super-stitious. I could hear ghosts walk if I'd let myself. I could—” The front doorbell rang. “There it is. That's what I was listening for. Let it ring. I'm not going to be led around by feelings. Let it ring.”

But it did not ring again.

A black weariness fell on Lee, a hopelessness that pressed his shoulders down. He laughed at himself. “I can go and find it's an advertisement under the door or I can sit here and let my silly old mind tell me death is on the doorstep. Well, I want the advertisement.”

Lee sat in the living room and looked at the enve-lope in his lap. And suddenly he spat at it. "All right," he said. "I'm coming—goddam you," and he ripped it open and in a moment laid it on the table and turned it over with the message down.

He stared between his knees at the floor. "No," he said, "that's not my right. Nobody has the right to remove any single experience from another. Life and death are promised. We have a right to pain."

His stomach contracted. "I haven't got the courage. I'm a cowardly yellow belly. I couldn't stand it."

He went into the bathroom and measured three teaspoons of elixir of bromide into a glass and added water until the red medicine was pink. He carried the glass to the living room and put it on the table. He folded the telegram and shoved it in his pocket. He said aloud, "I hate a coward! God, how I hate a coward!" His hands were shaking and a cold perspiration damp-ened his forehead.

At four o'clock he heard Adam fumbling at the doorknob. Lee licked his lips. He stood up and walked slowly to the hall. He carried the glass of pink fluid and his hand was steady.

Chapter 55

All of the lights were on in the Trask house. The door stood partly open, and the house was cold. In the sit-ting room Lee was shriveled up like a leaf in the chair beside the lamp. Adam's door was open and the sound of voices came from his room.

When Cal came in he asked, "What's going on?"

Lee looked at him and swung his head toward the table where the open telegram lay. "Your brother is dead," he said. "Your father has had a stroke."

Cal started down the hall.

Lee said, “Come back. Dr. Edwards and Dr. Mur-phy are in there. Let them alone.” Cal stood in front of him. “How bad? How bad, Lee, how bad?” “I don't know.” He spoke as though recalling an ancient thing. “He came home tired. But I had to read him the telegram. That was his right. For about five minutes he said it over and over to himself out loud. And then it seemed to get through into his brain and to explode there.” “Is he conscious?”

Lee said wearily, “Sit down and wait, Cal. Sit down and wait. Get used to it. I'm trying to.” Cal picked up the telegram and read its bleak and dignified announcement.

Dr. Edwards came out, carrying his bag. He nodded curtly, went out, and closed the door smartly behind him.

Dr. Murphy set his bag on the table and sat down. He sighed. "Dr. Edwards asked me to tell you." "How is he?" Cal demanded. “I'll tell you all we know. You're the head of the family now, Cal. Do you know what a stroke is?” He didn't wait for Cal to answer. “This one is a leakage of blood in the brain. Certain areas of the brain are affect-ed. There have been earlier smaller leakages. Lee knows that.” “Yes,” said Lee.

Dr. Murphy glanced at him and then back at Cal. "The left side is paralyzed. The right side partly. Prob-ably there is no sight in the left eye, but we can't determine that. In other words, your father is nearly helpless." “Can he talk?” “A little—with difficulty. Don't tire him.”

Cal struggled for words. "Can he get well?" “I've heard of reabsorption cases this bad but I've never seen one.” “You mean he's going to die?” “We don't know. He might live for a week, a month, a year, even two years. He might die tonight.”

"Will he know me?"

"You'll have to find that out for yourself. I'll send a nurse tonight and then you'll have to get permanent nurses." He stood up. "I'm sorry, Cal. Bear up! You'll have to bear up." And he said, "It always surprises me how people bear up." They always do. Edwards will be in tomorrow. Good night." He put his hand out to touch Cal's shoulder, but Cal moved away and walked toward his father's room.

Adam's head was propped up on pillows. His face was calm, the skin pale; the mouth was straight, neither smiling nor disapproving. His eyes were open, and they had great depth and clarity, as though one could see deep into them and as though they could see deep into their surroundings. And the eyes were calm, aware but not interested. They turned slowly toward Cal as he entered the room, found his chest, and then rose to his face and stayed there.

Cal sat down in the straight chair beside the bed. He said, "I'm sorry, Father."

The eyes blinked slowly the way a frog blinks. “Can you hear me, Father? Can you understand me?” The eyes did not change or move. “I did it,” Cal cried. “I'm responsible for Aron's death and for your sickness. I took him to Kate's. I showed him his mother. That's why he went away. I don't want to do bad things—but I do them.”

He put his head down on the side of the bed to escape the terrible eyes, and he could still see them. He knew they would be with him, a part of him, all of his life.

The doorbell rang. In a moment Lee came to the bedroom, followed by the nurse—a strong, ad wom-an with heavy black eyebrows. She opened breeziness as she opened her suitcase. “Where's my patient! There he is! Why, you look fine! What am I doing here? Maybe you better get up and take care of me, you look good. Would you like to take care of me, big handsome man?" She thrust a muscular arm under Adam's shoulder and effortlessly hoisted him toward the head of the bed and held him up with her right arm while with her left she patted out the pillows and laid him back. “Cool pillows,” she said. “Don't you love cool pil-lows? Now, where's the bathroom? Have you got a duck and a bedpan? Can you put a cot in here for me?” “Make a list,” said Lee. “And if you need any help—with him—” “Why would I need help? We'll get along just fine, won't we, sugar-sweetie?”

Lee and Cal retired to the kitchen. Lee said, "Before she came I was going to urge you to have some supper—you know, like the kind of person who uses food for any purpose good or bad? I bet she's that way. You can eat or not eat, just as you wish."

Cal grinned at him. "If you'd tried to make me, I'd have been sick. But since you put it that way, I think I'll make a sandwich." “You can't have a sandwich.” “I want one.” “It all works out,” said Lee, “true to outrageous form. It's kind of insulting that everyone reacts about the same way.” “I don't want a sandwich,” Cal said. “Are there any tarts left?” “Plenty—in the breadbox. They may be a little soaky.” “I like them soaky,” Cal said. He brought the whole plate to the table and set it in front of him. The nurse looked into the kitchen. “These look good,” she said and took one, bit into it, and talked among her chewings. “Can I phone Krough's drugstore for the things I need? Where's the phone? Where do you keep the linen? Where's the cot you're going to bring in? Are you through with this paper? Where did you say the phone is?” She took another tart and retired.

Lee asked softly, "Did he speak to you?"

Cal shook his head back and forth as though he couldn't stop. “It's going to be dreadful. But the doctor is right. You can stand anything. We're wonderful animals that way.” “I am not.” Cal's voice was flat and dull. “I can't stand it. No, I can't stand it. I won't be able to. I'll have to—I'll have to—” Lee gripped his wrist fiercely. "Why, you mouse—you nasty cur. With goodness all around you—don't you dare suggest a thing like that! Why is your sorrow more refined than my sorrow?"

"It's not sorrow. I told him what I did. I killed my brother. I'm a murderer. He knows it." “Did he say it? Tell the truth—did he say it?” “He didn't have to. It was in his eyes. He said it with his eyes. There's nowhere I can go to get away—there's no place.”

Lee sighed and released his wrist. "Cal"—he spoke patiently—"listen to me. Adam's brain centers are affected. Anything you see in his eyes may be pressure on that part of his brain which governs his seeing. Don't you remember?—he couldn't read. That wasn't his eyes—that was pressure. You don't know he accused you. You don't know that." “He accused me. I know it. He said I'm a mur-derer.” “Then he will forgive you. I promise.”

The nurse stood in the doorway. "What are you promising, Charley? You promised me a cup of coffee." “I'll make it now. How is he?” “Sleeping like a baby. Have you got anything to read in this house?” “What would you like?” “Something to take my mind off my feet.” “I'll bring the coffee to you. I've got some dirty stories written by a French queen. They might be too—” "You bring 'em with the coffee," she said. "Why don't you get some shuteye, sonny? Me and Charley'll hold the fort. Don't forget the book, Charley."

Lee set the percolator on the gas jet. He came to the table and said, "Cal!" “What do you want?” “Go to Abra.”

Cal stood on the neat porch and kept his finger on the bell until the harsh overlight flashed on and the night bolt rasped and Mrs. Bacon looked out. "I want to see Abra," Cal said.

Her mouth dropped open in amazement. "You want what?" “I want to see Abra.” “You can't. Abra's gone to her room. Go away.”

Cal shouted, "I tell you I want to see Abra." “You go away or I'll call the police.”

Mr. Bacon called, "What is it? Who is it?"

"Never you mind—go back to bed. You aren't well. I'll handle this."

She turned back to Cal. "Now you get off the porch. And if you ring the bell again I'll phone the police. Now, get!" The door slammed, the bolt scraped, and the hard overlight went off.

Cal stood smiling in the dark for he thought of Tom Meek lumbering up, saying, "Hello, Cal.

What you up to?"

Mrs. Bacon shouted from inside. "I see you. Go on now! Get off the porch!"

He walked slowly down the walk and turned toward home, and he hadn't gone a block before Abra caught up with him. She was panting from her run. "Got out the back way," she said. “They'll find you gone.” “I don't care.” “You don't?” “No.”

Cal said, "Abra, I've killed my brother and my father is paralyzed because of me."

She took his arm and clung to it with both hands.

Cal said, "Didn't you hear me?" “I heard you.” “Abra, my mother was a whore.” “I know. You told me. My father is a thief.” “I've got her blood, Abra. Don't you understand?” “I've got his,” she said.

They walked along in silence while he tried to rebal-ance himself. The wind was cold, and they quickened their steps to keep warm. They passed the last street-light on the very edge of Salinas, and blackness lay ahead of them and the road was unpaved and sticky with black 'dobe mud.

They had come to the end of the pavement, to the end of the streetlights. The road under their feet was slippery with spring mud, and the grass that brushed against their legs was wet with dew.

Abra asked, "Where are we going?" “I wanted to run away from my father's eyes. They're right in front of me all the time. When I close my eyes I still see them. I'll always see them. My father is going to die, but his eyes will still be looking at me, telling me I killed my brother.” “You didn't.”

"Yes, I did. And his eyes say I did." “Don't talk like that. Where are we going?” “A little farther. There's a ditch and a pump house—and a willow tree. Do you remember the willow tree?” “I remember it.”

He said, “The branches come down like a tent and their tips touch the ground.” “I know.” “In the afternoons—the sunny afternoons—you and Aron would part the branches and go inside—and no one could see you.” “You watched?” “Oh, sure. I watched.” And he said, “I want you to go inside the willow tree with me. That's what I want to do.”

She stopped and her hand pulled him to a stop. "No," she said. "That's not right." “Don't you want to go in with me?” “Not if you're running away—no, I don't.”

Cal said, "Then I don't know what to do. What shall I do? Tell me what to do." “Will you listen?” “I don't know.” “We're going back,” she said. “Back? Where?” “To your father's house,” said Abra.

3

The light of the kitchen poured down on them. Lee had lighted the oven to warm the chilly air. "She made me come," said Cal. “Of course she did. I knew she would.”

Abra said, "He would have come by himself." “We'll never know that,” said Lee.

He left the kitchen and in a moment he returned. "He's still sleeping." Lee set a stone bottle and three little translucent porcelain cups on the table. “I remember that,” said Cal.

"You ought to." Lee poured the dark liquor. "Just sip it and let it run around your tongue."

Abra put her elbows on the kitchen table. "Help him," she said. "You can accept things, Lee. Help him." “I don't know whether I can accept things or not,” Lee said. “I've never had a chance to try. I've always found myself with some—not less uncertain but less able to take care of uncertainty. I've had to do my weeping—alone.” “Weeping? You?”

He said, “When Samuel Hamilton died the world went out like a candle. I relighted it to see his lovely creations, and I saw his children tossed and torn and destroyed as though some vengefulness was at work. Let the ng-ka-py run back on your tongue."

He went on, “I had to find out my stupidities for myself. These were my stupidities: I thought the good are destroyed while the evil survive and prosper. “I thought that once an angry and disgusted God poured molten fire from a crucible to destroy or to purify his little handiwork of mud. “I thought I had inherited both the scars of the fire and the impurities which made the fire necessary—all inherited, I thought. All inherited. Do you feel that way?" “I think so,” said Cal. “I don't know,” Abra said.

Lee shook his head. "That isn't good enough. That isn't good enough thinking. Maybe—" And he was silent.

Cal felt the heat of the liquor in his stomach. "Maybe what, Lee?" “Maybe you'll come to know that every man in every generation is refired. Does a craftsman, even in his old age, lose his hunger to make a perfect cup—thin, strong, translucent?" He held his cup to the light. "All impurities burned out and ready for a glorious flux, and for that—more fire.

And then either the slag heap or, perhaps what no one in the world ever quite gives up, perfection," He drained his cup and he said loudly, "Cal, listen to me. Can you think that whatever made us—would stop trying?" “I can't take it in,” Cal said. “Not now I can't.”

The heavy steps of the nurse sounded in the living room. She billowed through the door and she looked at Abra, elbows on the table, holding her cheeks between her palms.

The nurse said, "Have you got a pitcher? They get thirsty. I like to keep a pitcher of water handy.

You see," she explained, "they breathe through their mouths." “Is he awake?” Lee asked. “There's a pitcher.” “Oh, yes, he's awake and rested. And I've washed his face and combed his hair. He's a good patient. He tried to smile at me.”

Lee stood up. "Come along, Cal. I want you to come too, Abra. You'll have to come."

The nurse filled her pitcher at the sink and scurried ahead of the When they trooped into the bedroom Adam was propped high on his pillows. His white hands la palms down on either side of him, and the sinews from knuckle to wrist were tight drawn. His face was waxen, and his sharp features were sharpened. He breethd slowly between pale lips.

His blue eyes reflected back the night light focused on his head.

Lee and Cal and Abra stood at the foot of the bed, and Adam's eyes moved slowly from one face to the other, and his lips moved just a little in greeting.

The nurse said, "There he is. Doesn't he look nice? He's my darling. He's my sugar pie. “Hush!” said Lee. “I won't have you tiring my patient.” “Go out of the room,” said Lee. “I'll have to report this to the doctor.”

Lee whirled toward her. "Go out of the room and close the door. Go and write your report." “I'm not in the habit of taking orders from Chinks.”

Cal said, “Go out now, and close the door.”

She slammed the door just loud enough to register her anger. Adam blinked at the sound.

Lee said, “Adam!”

The blue wide eyes looked for the voice and finally found Lee's brown and shining eyes.

Lee said, "Adam, I don't know what you can hear or understand. When you had the numbness in your hand and your eyes refused to read, I found out everything I could. But some things no one but you can know. You may, behind your eyes, be alert and keen, or you may be living in a confused gray dream. You may, like a newborn child, perceive only light and movement. “There's damage in your brain, and it may be that you are a new thing in the world. Your kindness may be meanness now, and your bleak honesty fretful and conniving. No one knows these things except you. Adam! Can you hear me?”

The blue eyes wavered, closed slowly, then opened.

Lee said, “Thank you, Adam. I know how hard it is. I'm going to ask you to do a much harder thing. Here is your son—Caleb—your only son. Look at him, Adam!”

The pale eyes looked until they found Cal. Cal's mouth moved dryly and made no sound.

Lee's voice cut in, "I don't know how long you will live, Adam. Maybe a long time. Maybe an hour. But your son will live. He will marry and his children will be the only remnant left of you." Lee wiped his eyes with his fingers. “He did a thing in anger, Adam, because he thought you had rejected him. The result of his anger is that his brother and your son is dead.”

Cal said, "Lee—you can't." “I have to,” said Lee. “If it kills him I have to. I have the choice,” and he smiled sadly and quoted, “'If there's blame, it's my blame.'” Lee's shoulders straight-ened. He said sharply, “Your son is marked with guilt out of himself—out of himself—almost more than he can bear. Don't crush him with rejection. Don't crush him, Adam.”

Lee's breath whistled in his throat. “Adam, give him your blessing. Don't leave him alone with his guilt. Adam, can you hear me? Give him your blessing!”

A terrible brightness shone in Adam's eyes and he closed them and kept them closed. A wrinkle formed between his brows.

Lee said, "Help him, Adam—help him. Give him his chance. Let him be free. That's all a man has over the beasts. Free him! Bless him!"

The whole bed seemed to shake under the concentra-tion. Adam's breath came quick with his effort and then, slowly, his right hand lifted—lifted an inch and then fell back.

Lee's face was haggard. He moved to the head of the bed and wiped the sick man's damp face with the edge of the sheet. He looked down at the closed eyes. Lee whispered, "Thank you, Adam—thank you, my friend. Can you move your lips? Make your lips form his name."

Adam looked up with sick weariness. His lips parted and failed and tried again. Then his lungs filled. He expelled the air and his lips combed the rushing sigh. His whispered word seemed to hang in the air:

"Timshel!"

His eyes closed and he slept.