The Sound of Thunder

by Taylor Caldwell

  Edward, this evening, saw that his father, perched like a cherub on a stool near the till, seemed depressed. He had his account books spread out before him. He hardly glanced up at his son as he bounded in. He sighed. “It is not doing well, this August,” he remarked.

  “It never does well in August,” said Edward cheerfully. “You always forget, Pa.”

  “But I hope,” said Heinrich. “The mother needs a fine winter coat this year. Thirty-five dollars it is, laid away in the Cohen store. Thirty dollars still owed.”

  “She’ll have it out before the first snow,” said Edward in English. He saw a pile of flat tins near his father’s elbow. “No sale?”

  “Only three this month,” said Heinrich in a lugubrious voice. It was a cross to his wife that his English was still poor, and he relapsed into this language, speaking slowly and carefully. But, as Sylvia said discontentedly, “Even when Pa speaks English, he still speaks German.” “What is this, that I cannot sell the English tongue? A fine tongue! A bargain. The Norwegian sardines,” and he waved his short arms in despair, “they are twenty-five cents. The English tongue is so the much better. And more! Little sardines in oil! For one sandwich. The tongue is a meal for a family. With the flavor! Smoked like a delicious.”

  “A delicacy,” said Edward. He picked up one of the long flat tins. He frowned. “I forget. What do we sell this for?”

  “Twenty-five cents.”

  “Too cheap—twenty-five cents. You have to sell things.” Edward considered; then he went behind the counter, found a square of white cardboard and a red pencil. He printed on it: “English smoked tongue, an exclusive import. During August only, thirty-two cents.”

  He held the card up triumphantly before his father, who was aghast. He fell back into German in his agitation. “That is impossible! That is robbery. The women speak of Enger’s. Reasonable. Sensible. Twelve cents’ profit! Do not be absurd, my optimistic son. No one will pay thirty-two cents. There will be laughter.”

  “They will pay,” said Edward. He took the pile of tins, stacked them in a pyramid. Then he crushed red tissue paper and made a circle about the pile. Against them he stood his card. “I’ll eat every can myself and pay you wholesale for them if you don’t sell every one before the end of August. That will be in ten days. If you don’t give the idea that something is first-rate and exclusive, you don’t sell. This’ll make the women fight over the tongue. Besides it is an exclusive, by the way. No delicatessen within five miles of here sells it for that price. And are the women going to run there to make comparisons? Even if they do, they’ll find bigger shops and bigger prices. We’re doing them a favor. You’ll see.”

  “Are you teaching me to sell, Edward?” But Heinrich, so worried, smiled.

  “I’ve been reading some new methods of merchandising in the Retailer’s Journal,” said Edward. “People have more money these days. If we don’t take advantage of their purses, someone else will. How many tins do we have besides these?”

  “Forty,” said Heinrich, becoming despondent again. He pointed to a shelf. Edward promptly cleared away the tongue, hiding it under the counter on a shelf. “Exclusive,” he said. “We’ve just got these. When we’re down to half a dozen, we bring out the others. But only a few at a time.”

  He went to the rear of the store where the toilet stood in a little closet with a washbowl. He scrubbed his hands, changed to a long white shirt he kept there. He combed his thick dark hair. When he emerged, there were two women in the store. After examining the tongue and exclaiming over it and announcing it was just the thing for the Sunday late supper, each bought a tin apiece. Heinrich beamed, but with sheepishness. He wrapped each tin carefully in a sheet of tissue paper like a jewel and tied it with a colored string. “Hah, you’re learning merchandising yourself, Pa,” said Edward teasingly. “You forgot to use the butcher paper or the newspaper or a bag.”

  “One cannot say that Heinrich Enger does not learn new methods,” said his father, with some pompousness. He tapped his tiny fat fingers, which were sprinkled with black hair, on the counter and thrust out his plump pink lips. His nails were rosy and round. “But we are robbers,” he said. “It is not right, it is not Christian. I do not think the Reverend Mr. Yaeger will appreciate it.”

  “The Reverend Mr. Yaeger will appreciate an extra nickel in the box,” said Edward cynically. “From all of us.” Then he remembered he had no time for church nor for the Wednesday evening socials. “I never met him. Do you like him?”

  “A young man, but so wise!” said his father with sudden enthusiasm. “Did I tell you? Your mother’s family knew his family in Munich. He is new here. He was appointed by the church board only six weeks ago, and already he is a success. Such eloquence. It moves the heart. That is why I do not think he will approve.”

  “He’s a Lutheran, not a priest,” said Edward, hardily. “You don’t confess to a Protestant minister. He can’t even forgive your sins. Why make a fuss? Give him an extra dollar at Christmas.” He stretched his arms out with exhilaration. “With the way things are going to go around here after today, you can give him two dollars, and he’ll fall on your neck and kiss you.”

  “Such language,” said Heinrich. “Two dollars! The mother will be angry. You must remember she is a gentlewoman, a gracious lady. She will not approve of this already.”

  “We won’t tell her then,” said Edward, doubting the righteousness attributed to his mother. “We’ll keep our dark and bloody secrets to ourselves. Besides, you’re underselling butter. I’ve struck an average on the market. It’s twenty-one cents a pound after today.”

  “No one will buy,” said Heinrich, alarmed.

  “Yes, they will. Where are the fancy wrappers with the yellow daisies on them? Oh, I’ve got them. We’re going to cut the bulk butter into pounds and wrap the pounds separately and show a dummy on the counter. We’ve got to get some extra money for our efforts. Sanitary. Sweet cream. Country-fresh. Give me another card and the red pencil. Who’s going to tell the difference between our bulk butter and the nicely wrapped pounds?”

  “Taste,” groaned Heinrich, paralyzed by this audacity and mendaciousness.

  “Taste!” said Edward. “Taste’s all in the mind. We’ll keep some bulk butter but push these cut pounds. Pa, you’re right in the way of the scale. The women will say they never ate such butter. You’ll never sell bulk again, after a few days. They’ll be standing in line to get this. You know something? I’m going to cut the pounds into four long quarters. That’ll sweep ’em off their feet.”

  Heinrich watched with complete helplessness. But he took care that Edward weighed scrupulously. After a moment or two he even evinced an interest himself. With boyish squeals he introduced a new innovation. Each quarter must be wrapped in the daisy paper. “Pa, you’re a genius,” said Edward, reverently. “I am not so much the fool,” said Heinrich, glowing with modesty. He became excited. “Good straight quarters! No cutting and weighing for quarters and half-pounds! We sell cold, golden quarters by themselves! It is worth the extra money, the cutting, the wrapping.”

  Edward stood and smiled at his father. “A real genius,” he said. Somewhere he found a small empty box the size of a pound of butter and covered it with the daisy paper and wrote another sign: “Quarters, half-pounds, pounds, untouched by human hands. Fresh every day. Daisy Butter, unrivaled.”

  He looked around for new conquests, but his father said, hastily: “Is it not enough genius for the day? One must not press even genius. Let us consider in quiet and repose.”

  It was becoming dark; the street outside floated in deep purple twilight, lit by the moonlike globes of street lamps. A little girl came in. Heinrich, discontentedly checking the money in the till, turned as she slapped the door behind her. He regarded all mankind with maudlin love, but he retained a special love for children. His eye, so perceptive, saw that this child looked too thin, too spindly, and that her cotton frock, a bulky blue-and-white check, was obviously second-hand, its blouse
d front hanging over the string of faded blue ribbon at the waist, its skirt wide and bunched. Her long black cotton stockings were too big for her, too, wrinkling over her emaciated legs, dropping over the top of her high black button shoes with the scuffed toes. Yet she was so clean, and even the ugly clothes, even the frill of coarse machine lace around the neck, could not hide her cleanness, her immature beauty.

  “Ach, now, little one,” said Heinrich, leaning his dimpled elbows on the counter, his small black eyes sparkling. “You are just in time. We are closing. It is eight o’clock.” He reached under the counter and decided that this time it was not to be a one-cent cone but a five-cent one, heaped with three flavors. The little girl watched him as he soberly filled the rich cone and then held it out to her. However, she put her hands behind her back. “There isn’t any extra money,” she said in a very careful and pretty voice.

  “We always give the last customer on Sunday night the big cone free,” said Heinrich. “It is a superstition with us. Here, it is dripping already.”

  The little girl took the cone eagerly and gazed at Heinrich with thought. “You’re such a nice man,” she said, and licked. Edward, who had too many brothers and a sister, was bored. He was putting away some cracker boxes, rearranging some cans of soup. There had been eighteen customers tonight, more than on any August Sunday evening he could remember. Ten of them had bought the “Daisy Butter, Untouched by Human Hands, Sanitary, Country-fresh, Sweet cream. Our Specialty.” Edward had told the customers, “We are in the business of supplying the neighborhood with the best.” Heinrich, newly distressed, had averted his head at this salesmanship and had colored a bright red. Edward had even opened one of the icy quarters and had permitted the customers to taste off the end of a gleaming knife. They had ecstatically pronounced it the finest butter they had ever eaten. Edward had smiled. “It is not robbery, the extra few cents,” he had admonished his father again during an interlude. “It’s specially wrapped, the wrappers cost us money, we cut it up for the customers’ convenience, and we’re entitled to that profit.”

  “I haf not seen you before,” said Heinrich to the child. “You are new, is it not?”

  “I came from the orphanage yesterday,” said the child, leaning against the counter to relax herself as she absorbed the delight of the ice cream. At this, Edward turned abruptly and gave her his full attention. What a homely kid in those sloppy clothes made for an older girl! Then he saw that she was not homely at all. She had a small pointed face, the tapering chin cleft by an extraordinarily long deep dimple, the thin nose very dainty, the mouth wide and full and the color of coral. Her cheekbones were flushed with the same coral, were wide, and gave delicate strength to her appearance. And she had eyes of the purest, most intense blue Edward had ever seen, set in lashes like fringes of gilt, and a long mass of light brown hair hanging in waves and rolls over her shoulders and far down her back. Why, she was a pretty kid! And look at those gilded eyebrows, not just curved like other people’s, but starting low at the inner corner of the eyes and flashing straight upward like a bird’s wings. Too bad she was only about ten years old; she would be a corker when she was fourteen or sixteen. A corker! When all that skinniness was gone and the bones did not show in her arms and legs.

  “You are living with some people, you haf a new mama and papa?” said Heinrich with loving compassion.

  “Well, yes,” replied the child, thoughtfully. “But not just that way.” She sucked happily at the strawberry layer. “It’s Mr. and Mrs. Baumer. Mr. and Mrs. Hans Baumer.”

  “Baumer!” said Heinrich sharply, and his smile vanished, and his white-coated, tubby body straightened in shock. “I know those Baumers.”

  “What did they do with Josie?” asked Edward, coming to the counter.

  “She wasn’t any good. She didn’t wash the floors right and she didn’t polish good,” said the child. “They sent her back to the orphanage on Friday. I am much better than Josie.” She showed them her little hands. They were sore-knuckled and fragile, and scored with soap and hot water and abrasives. “I’m not afraid of work. I washed all the floors in the orphanage. Mrs. Goetz said I was better than anybody.”

  “There was Aggie before Josie, and Ellen before Aggie. They’ve had a whole stream of kids, working them to death and then sending them back,” Edward reminded his father under his breath. “Goddamn slave drivers, getting kids from the orphanage and making them sick and starving them. Should be a law.”

  Heinrich nodded; his distress became more intense. This child, this little one, this very pretty little one! And those Baumers, mean, middle-aged, tightfisted, cruel, hated by the whole neighborhood, and with all that money! But what could one do? There was no law to protect these nameless, exploited children, in the year of Our Lord, 1904. Any monster could secure one of these innocents, under the pretext of adoption “if satisfactory.” The Baumers, childless and sullen-eyed and with hard, malevolent mouths, never had found any of the little girls satisfactory. They worked them from dawn to night, grudgingly sent them to school as required by law, half-fed them, clothed them poorly from church rummage sales, and then, as the children sickened, they sent them packing back to the orphanage. But the orphanage was overcrowded, badly supported from city and private funds, and eternally looking for “good homes” for the abandoned girls and boys. Who, besides God, cared for them? And perhaps, it seemed, not even God.

  “How about a ham sandwich?” asked Edward. “I’m just going to fix myself one.”

  The little girl looked nervous. “I was supposed to come right back after getting the milk and the bread and half a pound of butter and six eggs.” But her beautiful eyes filled with longing, and she licked her lips. “Haven’t had any dinner today. Mrs. Baumer doesn’t have big dinners on Sundays, just some cold things, and there wasn’t anything left over.”

  “Won’t take a second,” said Edward, and cut a very thick slice of the pink and fragrant ham, heavily buttered two pieces of bread, and slapped the whole thing together. “Here. And I’m just going to drink half a bottle of milk. You can have the other half. Mustard?”

  “No, thank you,” she said, politely. She had eaten the cone; she sank her even white teeth into the sandwich with gratitude, and looked over the immensity of it with radiant eyes like the sky at noonday. “Um. This is good,” she said, her mouth filled. “Best ham I ever tasted. First time we had ham was at Easter. I like ham.” She stopped chewing and became nervous again. “This isn’t charity, is it? You won’t tell Mrs. Baumer?”

  “It isn’t charity,” said Edward. “I just like to have company when I eat. Good ham, isn’t it? Hate to eat alone. Here, I’ll put the milk in a glass.”

  Heinrich, so easily moved, was speechless with tears. “You just come in when you feel hungry and eat with me,” said Edward. “I’m here every day. If there’s a customer, you can just go back in that closet and we won’t tell a soul. What’s your name?”

  The child swallowed ravenously before answering. “Meg. Meg Proster. I came in the P’s. That’s why it’s Proster. Mrs. Goetz makes up the names. I came in the P’s when I was a baby. But it’s really Margaret, not Meg.”

  “Margaret?” said Edward. “Your name is Margaret?” He put his sandwich down. Yes, she was a Margaret, with all that beauty and sweetness, with that white forehead broad with serenity and steadfastness. Her hair shone like the crest of a great elm tree in the sun. A sapling of a Margaret. “I have a tree with that name,” he said impulsively, and out of his tender remembrance, and then blushed.

  The little girl nodded solemnly. “There was a tree in the orphanage yard,” she said as if all this were quite understandable. “But he was a he. I called him Eddie. He was really an Eddie, big like you; he had leaves like big hands.”

  “My name’s Eddie, too,” said Edward. “Ed. That’s what they call me.”

  Her face became luminous with surprise and happiness. She nodded. “Yes, you’re an Eddie.” Then her small face dimmed sorrowfully, and her gil
ded eyebrows drew together in pain. “They killed Eddie. One of the boys was climbing him, and he fell and broke his head, the boy I mean, and so they cut Eddie down. I cried and cried. The birds flew away; Eddie took care of them and they cried like me when Eddie fell over on his side. He died.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  She took another last bite of the sandwich, sniffled, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Ach, the poor little one,” murmured Heinrich, in German. “They have the aching hearts, the little ones, and no one hears. Only the flute can give them a voice, the lonely flute singing all alone.”

  “Never mind, Margaret,” said Edward. “You can have my tree with me. I’ll show her to you.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. I got to work for my keep every day. That’s only right, Mrs. Baumer giving me a home, a real home, all to myself, and my own bed. Besides, they’re buying a farm. We’re going to move next week. A big farm.” Her eyes lighted with joy again. “Lots of trees. Maybe I’ll find an Eddie there just for myself!”

  “Ach, yes, so I heard,” said Heinrich. There was always food on a farm, and even ugly human voracity could not always prevent a child from taking an egg, or sipping milk from a pail, or pulling a peach from a tree, or hiding a handful of nuts. This little one would not starve on a farm, as the others had starved. The misery in Heinrich’s heart loosened; he had not known there was such a tightness in his chest until now. He put his hand to it. He must remember what the doctor had told him, no excitement, no emotion, no strain. But what could one do for such a pain, such a drawing-together of hurt flesh? The pain began in the spirit.

  “Where is the farm?” asked Edward, already bereaved.

  “Oh, it’s a long way,” replied Margaret, waving one thin arm vaguely. “Millions of miles away.”

  “Near Albany. I heard already,” said Heinrich, in English. “It was the Websters who told me. The Baumers haf enough money; it is always the farm they want, and they saved. Fifty miles.”