The Pastures of Heaven

by Steinbeck, John

  “It’s nearly ten,” said the torturer.

  The captive replied, “Yes, and you be careful how you put fire to that brush. You be sure to see them coming be­fore you light it.”

  Miss Morgan nearly screamed with relief. She walked a little unsteadily toward the stake. The free man turned and saw her. For a second he seemed surprised, but im­mediately recovering, he bowed. Coming from a man with torn overalls and a matted beard, the bow was ridiculous and charming.

  “I’m the teacher,” Miss Morgan explained breathlessly. “I was just out for a walk, and I saw this house. For a mo­ment I thought this auto-da-fé was serious.”

  Junius smiled. “But it is serious. It’s more serious than you think. For a moment I thought you were the rescue. The relief is due at ten o’clock, you know.”

  A savage barking of foxes broke out below the house among the willows. “That will be the relief,” Junius con­tinued. “Pardon me, Miss Morgan, isn’t it? I am Junius Maltby and this gentleman on ordinary days is Jakob Stutz. Today, though, he is President of the United States being burned by Indians. For a time we thought he’d be Guenevere, but even without the full figure, he makes a better President than a Guenevere, don’t you think? Be­sides he refused to wear a skirt.”

  “Damn foolishness,” said the President complacently.

  Miss Morgan laughed. “May I watch the rescue, Mr. Maltby?”

  “I’m not Mr. Maltby, I’m three hundred Indians.”

  The barking of foxes broke out again. “Over by the steps,” said the three hundred Indians. “You won’t be taken for a redskin and massacred over there.” He gazed toward the stream. A willow branch was shaking wildly. Junius scratched a match on his trousers and set fire to the brush at the foot of the stake. As the flame leaped up, the willow trees seemed to burst into pieces and each piece became a shrieking boy. The mass charged forward, armed as haphazardly and as terribly as the French peo­ple were when they stormed the Bastille. Even as the fire licked toward the President, it was kicked violently aside. The rescuers unwound the ropes with fervent hands, and Jakob Stutz stood free and happy. Nor was the following ceremony less impressive than the rescue. As the boys stood at salute, the President marched down the line and to each overall bib pinned a leaden slug on which the word HERO was deeply scratched. The game was over.

  “Next Saturday we hang the guilty villains who have attempted this dastardly plot,” Robbie announced.

  “Why not now? Let’s hang ‘em now!” the troop screamed.

  “No, my men. There are lots of things to do. We have to make a gallows.” He turned to his father. “I guess we’ll have to hang both of you,” he said. For a moment he looked covetously at Miss Morgan, and then reluctantly gave her up.

  That afternoon was one of the most pleasant Miss Mor­gan had ever spent. Although she was given a seat of honor on the sycamore limb, the boys had ceased to regard her as the teacher.

  “It’s nicer if you take off your shoes,” Robbie invited her, and it was nicer she found, when her boots were off and her feet dangled in the water.

  That afternoon Junius talked of cannibal societies among the Aleutian Indians. He told how the merce­naries turned against Carthage. He described the Lacedae­monians combing their hair before they died at Ther­mopylae. He explained the origin of macaroni, and told of the discovery of copper as though he had been there. Finally when the dour Jakob opposed his idea of the eviction from the Garden of Eden, a mild quarrel broke out, and the boys started for home. Miss Morgan allowed them to distance her, for she wanted to think quietly about the strange gentleman.

  The day when the school board visited was looked for­ward to with terror by both the teacher and her pupils. It was a day of tense ceremony. Lessons were recited nerv­ously and the misspelling of a word seemed a capital crime. There was no day on which the children made more blunders, nor on which the teacher’s nerves were thinner worn.

  The school board of the Pastures of Heaven visited on the afternoon of December 15. Immediately after lunch they filed in, looking somber and funereal and a little ashamed. First came John Whiteside, the clerk, old and white haired, with an easy attitude toward education which was sometimes criticized in the valley. Pat Humbert came after him. Pat was elected because he wanted to be. He was a lonely man who had no initiative in meeting people, and who took every possible means to be thrown into their contact. His clothes were as uncom­promising, as unhappy as the bronze suit on the seated statue of Lincoln in Washington. T. B. Allen followed, dumpily rolling up the aisle. Since he was the only mer­chant in the valley, his seat on the board belonged to him by right. Behind him strode Raymond Banks, big and jolly and very red of hands and face. Last in the line was Bert Munroe, the newly elected member. Since it was his first visit to the school, Bert seemed a little sheepish as he followed the other members to their seats at the front of the room.

  When the board was seated magisterially, their wives came in and found seats at the back of the room, behind the children. The pupils squirmed uneasily. They felt that they were surrounded, that escape, should they need to escape, was cut off. When they twisted in their seats, they saw that the women were smiling benevolently on them. They caught sight of a large paper bundle which Mrs. Munroe held on her lap.

  School opened. Miss Morgan, with a strained smile on her face, welcomed the school board. “We will do nothing out of the ordinary, gentlemen,” she said. “I think it will be more interesting to you in your official capacities, to see the school as it operates every day.” Very little later, she wished she hadn’t said that. Never within her recollec­tion, had she seen such stupid children. Those who did manage to force words past their frozen palates, made the most hideous mistakes. Their spelling was abominable. Their reading sounded like the gibbering of the insane. The board tried to be dignified, but they could not help smiling a little from embarrassment for the children. A light perspiration formed on Miss Morgan’s forehead. She had visions of being dismissed from her position by an outraged board. The wives in the rear smiled on, nerv­ously, and time dripped by. When the arithmetic had been muddled and travestied, John Whiteside arose from his chair.

  “Thank you, Miss Morgan,” he said. “If you’ll allow it, I’ll just say a few words to the children, and then you can dismiss them. They ought to have some payment for having us here.”

  The teacher sighed with relief. “Then you do under­stand they weren’t doing as well as usual? I’m glad you know that.”

  John Whiteside smiled. He had seen so many nervous young teachers on school board days. “If I thought they were doing their best, I’d close the school,” he said. Then he spoke to the children for five minutes—told them they should study hard and love their teacher. It was the short and painless little speech he had used for years. The older pupils had heard of it often. When it was done, he asked the teacher to dismiss the school. The pupils filed quietly out, but, once in the air, their relief was too much for them. With howls and shrieks they did their best to kill each other by disembowelment and decapitation.

  John Whiteside shook hands with Miss Morgan. We’ve never had a teacher who kept better order,” he said kindly. “I think if you knew how much the children like you, you’d be embarrassed.”

  “But they’re good children,” she insisted loyally. “They’re awfully good children.”

  “Of course,” John Whiteside agreed. “By the way, how is the little Maltby boy getting along?”

  “Why, he’s a bright youngster, a curious child. I think he has almost a brilliant mind.”

  “We’ve been talking about him in board meeting, Miss Morgan. You know, of course, that his home life isn’t all that it ought to be. I noticed him this afternoon espe­cially. The poor child’s hardly clothed.”

  “Well, it’s a strange home.” Miss Morgan felt that she had to defend Junius. “It’s not the usual kind of home, but it isn’t bad.”

  “Don’t mistake me, Miss Morgan. We aren’t going to interfere
. We just thought we ought to give him a few things. His father’s very poor, you know.”

  “I know,” she said gently.

  “Mrs. Munroe bought him a few clothes. If you’ll call him in, we’ll give them to him.”

  “Oh. No, I wouldn’t—” she began.

  “Why not? We only have a few little shirts and a pair of overalls and some shoes.”

  “But Mr. Whiteside, it might embarrass him. He’s quite a proud little chap.”

  “Embarrass him to have decent clothes? Nonsense! I should think it would embarrass him more not to have them. But aside from that, it’s too cold for him to go bare­foot at this time of year. There’s been a frost on the ground every morning for a week.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” she said helplessly. “I really wish you wouldn’t do it.”

  “Miss Morgan, don’t you think you’re making too much of this? Mrs. Munroe has been kind enough to buy the things for him. Please call him in so she can give them to him.”

  A moment later Robbie stood before them. His un­kempt hair fell over his face, and his eyes still glittered with the fierceness of the play in the yard. The group gathered at the front of the room regarded him kindly, trying not to look too pointedly at his ragged clothes. Robbie gazed uneasily about.

  “Mrs. Munroe has something to give you, Robert,” Miss Morgan said.

  Then Mrs. Munroe came forward and put the bundle in his arms. “What a nice little boy!”

  Robbie placed the package carefully on the floor and put his hands behind him.

  “Open it, Robert,” T. B. Allen said sternly. “Where are your manners?”

  Robbie gazed resentfully at him. “Yes, sir,” he said, and untied the string. The shirts and the new overalls lay open before him, and he stared at them uncompre­hendingly. Suddenly he seemed to realize what they were. His face flushed warmly. For a moment he looked about nervously like a trapped animal, and then he bolted through the door, leaving the little heap of clothing be­hind him. The school board heard two steps on the porch, and Robbie was gone.

  Mrs. Munroe turned helplessly to the teacher. “What’s wrong with him, anyway?”

  “I think he was embarrassed,” said Miss Morgan.

  “But why should he be? We were nice to him.”

  The teacher tried to explain, and became a little angry with them in trying. “I think, you see—why, I don’t think he ever knew he was poor until a moment ago.”

  “It was my mistake,” John Whiteside apologized. “I’m sorry, Miss Morgan.”

  “What can we do about him?” Bert Munroe asked.

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  Mrs. Munroe turned to her husband. “Bert, I think if you went out and had a talk with Mr. Maltby it might help. I don’t mean you to be anything but kind. Just tell him little boys shouldn’t walk around in bare feet in the frost. Maybe just a word like that’ll help. Mr. Maltby could tell little Robert he must take the clothes. What do you think, Mr. Whiteside?”

  “I don’t like it. You’ll have to vote to overrule my ob­jection. I’ve done enough harm.”

  “I think his health is more important than his feelings,” Mrs. Munroe insisted.

  School closed for Christmas week on the twentieth of December. Miss Morgan planned to spend her vacation in Los Angeles. While she waited at the crossroads for a bus to Salinas, she saw a man and a little boy walking down the Pastures of Heaven road toward her. They were dressed in cheap new clothes, and both of them walked as though their feet were sore. As they neared her, Miss Morgan looked closely at the little boy, and saw that it was Robbie. His face was sullen and unhappy.

  “Why, Robert,” she cried. “What’s the matter? Where are you going?”

  The man spoke. “We’re going to San Francisco, Miss Morgan.”

  She looked up quickly. It was Junius shorn of his beard. She hadn’t realized that he was so old. Even his eyes, which had been young, looked old. But of course he was pale because the beard had protected his skin from sunburn. On his face there was a look of deep puzzlement.

  “Are you going up for the Holidays?” Miss Morgan asked. “I love the stores in the city around Christmas. I could look in them for days.”

  “No,” Junius replied slowly. “I guess we’re going to be up there for good. I am an accountant, Miss Morgan. At least I was an accountant twenty years ago. I’m going to try to get a job.” There was pain in his voice.

  “But why do you do that?” she demanded.

  “You see,” he explained simply. “I didn’t know I was doing an injury to the boy, here. I hadn’t thought about it. I suppose I should have thought about it. You can see that he shouldn’t be brought up in poverty. You can see that, can’t you? I didn’t know what people were saying about us.”

  “Why don’t you stay on the ranch? It’s a good ranch, isn’t it?”

  “But I couldn’t make a living on it, Miss Morgan. I don’t know anything about farming. Jakob is going to try to run the ranch, but you know, Jakob is very lazy. Later, when I can, I’ll sell the ranch so Robbie can have a few things he never had.”

  Miss Morgan was angry, but at the same time she felt she was going to cry. “You don’t believe everything silly people tell you, do you?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Of course not. But you can see for yourself that a growing boy shouldn’t be brought up like a little animal, can’t you?”

  The bus came into sight on the highway and bore down on them. Junius pointed to Robbie. “He didn’t want to come. He ran away into the hills. Jakob and I caught him last night. He’s lived like a little animal too long, you see. Besides, Miss Morgan, he doesn’t know how nice it will be in San Francisco.”

  The bus squealed to a stop. Junius and Robbie climbed into the back seat. Miss Morgan was about to get in be­side them. Suddenly she turned and took her seat beside the driver. “Of course,” she said to herself. “Of course, they want to be alone.”

  Seven

  OLD GUIERMO LOPEZ died when his daughters were fairly well grown, leaving them forty acres of rocky hill­side, and no money at all. They lived in a whitewashed, clap-board shack with an outhouse, a well and a shed be­side it. Practically nothing would grow on the starved soil except tumbleweed and flowering sage, and, although the sisters toiled mightily over a little garden they succeeded in producing very few vegetables. For a time, with grim martyrdom, they went hungry, but in the end the flesh conquered. They were too fat and too jolly to make martyrs of themselves over an unreligious matter like eating.

  One day Rosa had an idea. “Are we not the best makers of tortillas in the valley?” she asked of her sister.

  “We had that art from our mother,” Maria responded piously.

  “Then we are saved. We will make enchiladas, tortillas, tamales. We will sell them to the people of Las Pasturas del Cielo.”

  “Will those people buy, do you think?” Maria asked skeptically.

  “Listen to this from me, Maria. In Monterey there are several places where tortillas, only one finger as good as ours, are sold. And those people who sell them are very rich. They have a new dress thrice a year. And do their tortillas compare with ours? I ask that of you, remember­ing our mother.”

  Maria’s eyes brimmed with tears of emotion. “They do not,” she declared passionately. “In the whole world there are none like those tortillas beaten by the sainted hands of our mother.”

  “Well, then, adelante!” said Rosa with finality. “If they are so good, the people will buy.”

  There followed a week of frenzied preparation in which the perspiring sisters scrubbed and decorated. When they had finished, their little house wore a new coat of white­wash inside and out. Geranium cuttings were planted by the doorstep, and the trash of years had been collected and burned. The front room of the house was trans­formed into a restaurant containing two tables which were covered with yellow oilcloth. A pine board on the fence next to the county road proclaimed: TORTILLAS, ENCHILADAS, TAMAL
ES AND SOME OTHER SPANISH COOKINGS, R. & M. LOPEZ.

  Business did not come with a rush. Indeed very little came at all. The sisters sat at their own yellow tables and waited. They were childlike and jovial and not very clean. Sitting in the chairs they waited on fortune. But let a customer enter the shop, and they leaped instantly to attention. They laughed delightedly at everything their client said; they boasted of their ancestry and of the marvelous texture of their tortillas. They rolled their sleeves to the elbows to show the whiteness of their skin in pas­sionate denial of Indian blood. But very few customers came. The sisters began to find difficulties in their busi­ness. They could not make a quantity of their product, for it would spoil if kept for long. Tamales require fresh meat. So it was that they began to set traps for birds and rabbits; sparrows, blackbirds and larks were kept in cages until they were needed for tamales. And still the business languished.

  One morning Rosa confronted her sister. “You must harness old Lindo, Maria. There are no more corn husks.” She placed a piece of silver in Maria’s hand. “Buy only a few in Monterey,” she said. “When the business is better we will buy very many.” Maria obediently kissed her and started out toward the shed.

  “And Maria—if there is any money over, a sweet for you and for me—a big one.”