Power in the Blood

by Greg Matthews

  “Very well. I intend working you hard. If you find you’ve had your fill, you will return to school. The choice will be yours, do you understand?”

  “Yessir. Thank you.”

  “I wonder, Clayton, if you’ll thank me a week from now.” The boy had always been willing to help in the fields but, apart from extended assistance at harvest times, had never truly been pushed. Edwin employed a man named Chaffey to work the farm with him, and Clay was handed into his care for a tough assignment. “Don’t give him any slack,” Edwin ordered. “Use him hard.”

  “I will, Mr. Delaney, you can bet on it.”

  “See that you do.”

  Clay was introduced to the new regimen by being ordered to dig postholes for a new fence. He made no complaint at all, even when his hands began to blister. Next, Chaffey and Clay began felling trees on land Edwin had recently purchased, thirty-three acres adjacent to his own. The former owner, a keen hunter, had left an extensive section timbered for game cover, but Edwin had no need of sport. The trees were all to go, and Clay was to perform more than his share of the work required to be rid of them.

  Chaffey reasoned that anyone so tall and skinny wouldn’t have the muscle necessary for reducing woodland to farmland, but the boy surprised him, chopping with a will, manhandling the mule team with a natural talent Chaffey found intimidating. No one should work that hard, or make it look that easy. The boy was showing him up, obliging him—in the beginning anyway—to work beyond the usual parameters simply to maintain his pride. He began to resent Edwin for having placed Clay in his charge.

  “Heard you never wanted no more schooling,” Chaffey said, as they shared lunch. Conversation between them was stilted, engaged in only during the daily half hour when both stopped working to eat.

  “That’s right.”

  “Never felt the need for it either. Had a cousin went to school, though. Fell in a horse trough drunk one time. Drowned. You’d have to be a fool, ending up that way. Learning,” he said, and shook his head. Several minutes later he added, “They ought to learned him to swim, I reckon!”

  For Clay, the work was balm, the lunch torture. Chaffey was a stupid person, in Clay’s estimation, and a lazy one to boot, allowing Clay to do more than his share of the work.

  “My brother, now, he never went to school, same as me. He does just fine. Works over Jeff City way.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Turns his hand to this and that. Could do ’bout anything, purty much. Never went to school, not one day. Proves my point.”

  Clay always stood up to resume work before Chaffey, who liked to linger while his stomach digested the food prepared for them both by Mrs. Delaney. The boy just wouldn’t sit still for a minute like a normal person would have, just had to be up and raring for more sweat. Chaffey made it a habit to delay a minute or two longer each day, following their lunch, to let Clay know he had no intention of imitating his example. It infuriated him even more that the boy seemed not to mind in the least. Chaffey almost bit his pipestem in two, watching Clay set about hitching the mules to yet another obdurate stump. Clay’s enthusiasm for work was an aberration, against human nature. Somebody ought to teach him to slow down and not be showing off that way.

  “Clayton, Mr. Delaney has such plans for you.”

  “He told me, kind of.”

  These plans were of the vaguest, hinting at the possibility of political office in the state for a young man who wanted such a thing. Clay wanted no such stature in the community, but hadn’t said so outright.

  “Then you are aware of the high regard Mr. Delaney holds you in.”

  Clay nodded awkwardly. He could never bring himself to call Edwin’s wife anything but ma’am, just as Delaney himself was always sir. They accepted this; each addressed the other, in company or in private, as Mr. and Mrs. Delaney even after nineteen years of marriage. They were his legal parents, and Clay liked them well enough, but they were not of his blood, nor could they ever be.

  “Would it not be better to do as he wishes and return to school? Nothing is accomplished in this world without knowledge.”

  “I know.”

  They were good people both, and it hurt him to go against their wishes. Only his respect for the Delaneys had kept Clay on the farm for so long, but the duration of his stay was the worst kind of thorn, pricking him every day. He had promised Zoe and Drew to return for them, and so far hadn’t taken a single step eastward to fulfill that promise. He was ashamed, didn’t understand why it was that he shied away from leaving the Delaneys. Was it nothing more than a need to remain as far west as he’d already come? Was that reason enough for betrayal?

  He could, if he wanted, go east only for as long as it took to locate and sweep up his brother and sister, then all could go even further west together, to places Clay truly yearned for. The one lesson he had studied assiduously in school was the location of Missouri in relation to the continent; it wasn’t even halfway across.

  The life he led was tolerable enough to hold him in stasis, divided by westward hankering and eastward obligation. Clay inhabited the narrow margin between indulgence and responsibility, and found it an uncomfortable place. The dichotomy was persistent, insoluble, forgotten only when Clay worked his gangling body to exhaustion. He wished the stand of trees slowly succumbing to his efforts were an endless forest, a magical wood wherein he could lose himself forever, beholden to no one. The illusion might have been possible, on a daily basis, if not for the grating presence of Chaffey, with his inane conversations and casual approach to the work Clay wished could be more Herculean a task.

  “Then why, Clayton, do you resist?”

  Mrs. Delaney’s round, sweet face could be irritating in its warmth, its quality of eternal forgiveness and understanding. Clay acknowledged she was a woman deserving of a son’s love, but he did not want to be that son, nor did he want to fulfill Delaney’s expectations of him. Wasn’t Delaney himself no more than a farmer with high-flown notions of himself and his place in the world? Who was he to be planning a life for Clay? Neither of the Delaneys knew of Zoe and Drew’s existence. Clay held that secret close, a kind of talisman against falling under the spell of the Delaneys’ cozy concern for him, their careful planning and obvious affection, the very things he would need to overturn when the time came to escape their gentle prison.

  “I just don’t want to, not right now.”

  “Is Mr. Chaffey working you hard?”

  “I don’t mind. I like it.”

  “But not forever. You could do so much more.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You know our own boy was clever, like you. He could have gone on and made himself into something if the Lord had seen fit to leave him with us. You could do that too, with just a little effort in your heart.”

  He hung his head and felt ashamed. She was right, but Mrs. Delaney’s correctness existed in a world different from Clay’s. There was no bridge between these worlds.

  “Good night, Clayton.”

  “Night, ma’am.”

  “Ever take your toby out?”

  Clay looked up from his food. “What?”

  Chaffey gave him a conspiratorial smile. “Your toby, your thing, ever take it out and handle it, you know?”

  “No,” lied Clay.

  “Boy your age, you don’t know about your toby? Never felt it stiffen up, kind of? That’s when you got to take it out and grab ahold and squeeze it, kind of.”

  Clay turned away from him, blushing with anger and disgust.

  “Course, it’s better with a friend,” Chaffey persisted. “You trade tobies and do the squeezing part. I could show you how.”

  Clay stood up so fast his lunch flew from his knees. “Don’t you ever touch me.…”

  “Just a friendly offer is all,” Chaffey protested, a look of bafflement on his face. “No need to get huffy.”

  Clay was already walking away. Chaffey called after him: “I don’t believe you never done nothing with no on
e!”

  Clay ignored him. Chaffey hated him then, his dislike finally changing to something darker. He was disappointed too. Several times he’d seen Clay’s cock when the boy relieved himself, and it was long as the boy himself, just the kind Chaffey liked to fondle and suck. It was pretty harsh rejection, and he decided he was justified in being offended. Clay Delaney was as high-handed as his father. Both of them needed taking down a peg.

  “How is the work progressing, Chaffey?”

  “Coming along good, Mr. Delaney, real good.”

  “Is Clayton working as hard as yourself?”

  “Oh, he’s a devil for it, yessir. Good worker, that boy.”

  “No sign of him wearing out? No lamenting his lot?”

  “Nothing like that, nossir, not as I’ve heard. He don’t talk much.”

  “Well, keep hard at it, both of you. I’ll be asking you again about him.”

  “Yessir. Mr. Delaney?”

  “What is it?”

  “My brother, he’ll be coming by here in the next few days. I got a letter says he’ll be over to see me, so is it all right if he stays with me just one night? Ain’t seen each other in must be three, four years now. He could use my bed. No need to feed him. Bill generally brings his own provisions.”

  “Very well. One night only.”

  “Thank you, thank you, sir.”

  Delaney watched him walk away. Something about Chaffey left him feeling unclean, even after so short an encounter as this. At least the man was a good worker, worth keeping for that reason alone. It was a pity, though, about Clayton. How could so ungainly a body sustain so extended a period of punishment? The clearing of trees had gone on for almost a month now, with no sign of Clayton bending under the pressure of a man’s work. He seemed, in fact, to be thriving, the long cords of muscle in his arms thickening almost daily; his chest, although still painfully narrow, was now layered with enough lean meat to hide the washboard bones there before. Edwin’s plan was not producing the desired results, but he would not call a halt just yet; something could still happen.

  The horseman came on Sunday, while the Delaneys were at church in town. Returning home, they saw a sorrel mare hitched outside the cabin Chaffey lived in. “That’ll be the brother,” said Delaney, and drove on by to the barn. “Clayton, you’ll tend to the buggy and team.”

  Clay got down, unharnessed the horses and curried them in their stalls, then pushed the buggy deeper into the barn to its appointed place. Everything had a special place on the Delaney farm, even the simplest of tools; nothing ever went astray.

  He was wiping the buggy’s painted bodywork with a damp cloth to remove the dust of the road, when a shadow fell across him. A man stood in the barn doorway, a short man wearing a striped vest.

  “You the boy?” asked the man in the vest.

  “I suppose,” Clay said.

  “You suppose? Ain’t you the boy around here, then?”

  The man’s voice was similar to Chaffey’s, but deeper, with more of a drawl. To Clay’s ears the man sounded lazy and insolent, so he chose not to reply.

  “Someone don’t know who he is,” the man went on, “I don’t know as I’d want to trust my horse to him. Likely he’d forget all about the horse and do nothing. That what you’d do?”

  Again, Clay said nothing.

  “Well, are you the boy or not?”

  “I’m him.”

  “Glad you remembered. I expect you seen my mount. Needs taking care of bad. I rode a long way getting here. Bring her over, boy, she’s gentle.”

  “Bring her yourself.”

  “Say what now?”

  “Bring your own horse, I said.”

  The man paused before laughing. “Had a banty rooster like you,” he said. “Stood tall for what he was, but skinny. Strutted considerable, but he was no scrapper. Had to wring his chicken neck one day when he pecked me. Never drew blood, but I twisted his head clean off for it.”

  Clay turned his back and resumed work on the buggy. When he glanced over his shoulder the man was gone.

  Some time later, his chores completed, Clay left the barn and went to the house. The sorrel mare stood as before, dusty and untended. Chaffey’s brother hadn’t even bothered to loosen the cinch. Conscientious by nature and training, Clay had to make himself ignore the horse and go inside.

  Edwin was not happy about the new arrival. “Not once since we arrived home has Chaffey brought the other fellow over. Common politeness would have him do that. The man has no sense of what’s right.”

  His wife asked, “Do you really wish to meet Mr. Chaffey’s brother?”

  “That is neither here nor there, Mrs. Delaney. Common politeness brings the guest before the host. Chaffey is not the host here, even if the fellow is his brother!”

  Clay said, “I talked to him.”

  “You?”

  “He came into the barn and said to take care of his horse. I said no.”

  “Did you now. Well done. Does he think we’re here to wait on him? Damn that Chaffey for bringing him here!”

  Mrs. Delaney hurried away before further profanity could reach her. Edwin was angrier than she’d seen him since the day he found the sow had rolled on her litter, killing eight of the ten. She couldn’t see why the hidden guest should arouse his temper so, and was secretly glad the Chaffey brothers had seen fit to isolate themselves. Mrs. Delaney had always found Chaffey peculiarly repugnant, even though Mr. Delaney swore he was a better than average worker. She occupied herself with embroidery.

  When evening came, Edwin’s mood darkened. “This has lasted long enough.” He left the house and went to Chaffey’s cabin. Clay watched from the window as his father knocked and was let inside. The grandfather clock beside him ticked away less than two minutes before Edwin reappeared and stamped across the yard to the house.

  “Drunk!” he raged. “They’re both drunk, flat-out devil-take-me drunk!” Clay watched him march twice around the room. “I won’t tolerate this tomorrow,” Edwin said. “A Sunday drunk is bad enough, but if Chaffey can’t perform his work come morning I’ll send him away, brother and all.”

  He didn’t tell Clay that Chaffey’s brother had told him to either pour himself a drink and join in the merrymaking, or leave them in peace. Chaffey had looked a trifle sheepish at seeing his employer humiliated that way, but had said nothing. Edwin had already made up his mind about dismissing Chaffey, whether he was capable of work on Monday morning or not; the qualification was for Clay’s benefit.

  “I … regret placing you in his hands, Clayton. Do you have any complaints to make about the fellow? I’m prepared to listen.”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure? A closed mouth is an admirable thing more often than not, but I want the truth now.”

  “There’s nothing.”

  Clay could not bring himself to speak of Chaffey’s advances. Delaney seemed content with silence, and began filling a pipe, muttering of ingratitude and low breeding. Clay excused himself and went to his room.

  Morning saw the stranger’s horse still untended, and little improvement in Edwin’s disposition. Immediately after breakfast he went to Chaffey’s cabin and entered without knocking. Less than a minute passed before a gunshot was heard. Clay and Mrs. Delaney ran to the cabin. Edwin lay dead on the floor. Chaffey’s brother stood by the far wall, lingering wisps of smoke still issuing from the barrel of his pistol.

  “Never did get acquainted,” he said, his voice slurred by liquor. “Bill Chaffey’s my name, and I don’t like for to be told my business.”

  Chaffey was standing openmouthed in the corner, staring at the dead man. Mrs. Delaney moaned once and fell upon her husband to cradle his head.

  “Won’t do no good, lady,” Bill assured her. “See where I got him? Don’t many men live with a bullet in the chest. He’s gone. I told him to quit yelling, but he wouldn’t, so I made him, and be damned if I say I’m sorry. He brung it on himself.”

  Clay turned and left the cabin. H
e knew where Edwin kept his gun, a heavy cap-and-ball Colt of Civil War vintage; even hands large as Clay’s had trouble lifting the brute. Halfway across the yard, he heard a second shot. Instead of continuing on to the house, he turned and ran back inside the cabin. Mrs. Delaney lay across her husband, a patch of blood darkening the back of her dress.

  “You be still there, boy,” Bill warned. “I’m in no mood for folks that don’t do what they’re told, so help me I’m not.”

  Clay stared at the bodies. He felt paralyzed. He should have kept going to fetch the Colt from Delaney’s bedside table. Even now he could have been aiming it from the upstairs window, waiting for the murderer and his accomplice to step outside into sunlight. He’d made a terrible mistake, acted like a fool, and very likely would die for it. Vomit welled up inside him and gushed from his mouth, some of it reaching as far as the dead couple.

  Bill watched him, not without sympathy. “Well,” he said, addressing no one in particular, “now what?” He seemed calm, even a little bemused by the situation. Chaffey hadn’t moved since Clay came in. A sour reek of bile filled the cabin. Clay began to hiccup with fear. Bill would have to shoot him too, as the only witness.

  “Outside,” Bill told his brother. He had to push Chaffey’s shoulder to start him moving toward the door. Clay listened to the low buzzing of their voices. There was no other door to escape through than the one they stood near, discussing what to do with him. He heard his name twice before Bill came back inside.

  “Boy, is there cash money on the premises?”

  “No …”

  “You sure?”

  “He … he never kept money … not here.”

  “I better not find any, or I won’t be happy about how you lied.”

  He went out again, talked for several minutes, then was replaced by Chaffey, nervously holding Bill’s pistol. “He’s gone to see. I told him Mr. Delaney, he always paid his bills monthly in town. He’s gone to see anyway.”