In the Heart of the Heart of the Country

by William H. Gass

  All right, I said. All right. All right.

  He was lost in his glass, thinking it out.

  They’re awful cold in that cellar, I said.

  There was a little liquor burning in the bottom. I was going to twist his balls like the neck of a sack.

  What are you going to do about it?

  He was putting his mean look back but it lacked enthusiasm. He was seeing things in his glass.

  I saved the kid, didn’t I? he finally said.

  Maybe you did.

  You didn’t.

  No. I didn’t.

  It’s time you did something then, ain’t it?

  Why should I? I don’t think they’re freezing. You’re the one who thinks that. You’re the one who thinks he ran for help. You’re the one. You saved him. All right. You didn’t let his head hit the table. I did that. You didn’t. No. It was you who rubbed him. All right. You saved him. That wasn’t the kid’s idea though. He came for help. According to you, that is. He didn’t come to be saved. You saved him, but what are you going to do now to help him? You’ve been feeling mighty, ain’t you? thinking how you did it. Still feel like a savior, Hans? How’s it feel?

  You little bastard.

  All right. Little or big. Never mind. You did it all. You found him. You raised the rumpus, ordering everybody around. He was as good as dead. I held him and I felt him. Maybe in your way he was alive, but it was a way that don’t count. No—but you couldn’t leave him alone. Rubbing. Well I felt him . . . cold . . . christ! Ain’t you proud? He was dead, right here, dead. And there weren’t no yellow gloves. Now, though, there is. That’s what comes of rubbing. Rubbing . . . ain’t you proud? You can’t believe the kid was lying good enough to fool you. So he was dead. But now he ain’t. Not for you. He ain’t for you.

  He’s alive for you too. You’re crazy. He’s alive for everybody.

  No he ain’t. He ain’t alive for me. He never was. I never seen him except he was dead. Cold . . . I felt him . . . christ! Ain’t you proud? He’s in your bed. All right. You took him up there. It’s your bed he’s in, Hans. It was you he babbled to. You believe him too, so he’s alive for you then. Not for me. Not for me he ain’t.

  You can’t say that.

  I am saying it though. Hear me saying? Rubbing . . . You didn’t know what you was bringing to, did you? Something besides the kid came through the storm, Hans. I ain’t saying yellow gloves did neither. He didn’t. He couldn’t. But something else did. While you was rubbing you didn’t think of that.

  You little bastard.

  Hans, Hans, please, ma said.

  Never mind that. Little or big, like I said. I’m asking what you’re going to do. You believe it. You made it. What are you going to do about it? It’d be funny if right now while we’re sitting here the kid’s dying upstairs.

  Jorge, ma said, what an awful thing—in Hans’s bed.

  All right. But suppose. Suppose you didn’t rub enough —not long and hard enough, Hans. And suppose he dies up there in your bed. He might. He was cold, I know. That’d be funny because that yellow gloves—he won’t die. It ain’t going to be so easy, killing him.

  Hans didn’t move or say anything.

  I ain’t no judge. I ain’t no hand at saving, like you said. It don’t make no difference to me. But why’d you start rubbing if you was going to stop? Seems like it’d be terrible if the Pedersen kid was to have come all that way through the storm, scared and freezing, and you was to have done all that rubbing and saving so he could come to and tell you his fancy tale and have you believe it, if you ain’t going to do nothing now but sit and hold hands with that bottle. That ain’t a burr so easy picked off.

  Still he didn’t say anything.

  Fruit cellars get mighty cold. Of course they ain’t supposed to freeze.

  I leaned back easy in my chair. Hans just sat.

  They ain’t supposed to freeze so it’s all right.

  The top of the kitchen table looked muddy where it showed. Patches of dough and pools of water were scattered all over it. There were rusty streaks through the paste and the towels had run. Everywhere there were little sandy puddles of whiskey and water. Something, it looked like whiskey, dripped slowly to the floor and with the water trickled to the puddle by the pile of clothes. The boxes sagged. There were thick black tracks around the table and the stove. I thought it was funny the boxes had gone so fast. The bottle and the glass were posts around which Big Hans had his hands.

  Ma began picking up the kid’s clothes. She picked them up one at a time, delicately, by their ends and corners, lifting a sleeve like you would the flat, burned, crooked leg of a frog dead of summer to toss it from the road. They didn’t seem human things, the way her hands pinched together on them, but animal—dead and rotting things out of the ground. She took them away and when she came back I wanted to tell her to bury them—to hide them somehow quick under the snow—but she scared me, the way she came with her arms out, trembling, fingers coming open and closed, moving like a combine between rows.

  I heard the dripping clearly, and I heard Hans swallow. I heard the water and the whiskey fall. I heard the frost on the window melt to the sill and drop into the sink. Hans poured whiskey in his glass. I looked past Hans and Pa was watching from the doorway. His nose and eyes were red, his feet in red slippers.

  What’s this about the Pedersen kid? he said.

  Ma stood behind him with a mop.

  3

  Ever think of a horse? Pa said.

  A horse? Where’d he get a horse?

  Anywhere—on the way—anyplace.

  Could he make it on a horse?

  He made it on something.

  Not on a horse though.

  Not on his feet.

  I ain’t saying he made it on anything.

  Horses can’t get lost.

  Yes they can.

  They got a sense.

  That’s a lot of manure about horses.

  In a blizzard a horse’ll go home.

  That’s so.

  You let them go and they go home.

  That’s so.

  If you steal a horse, and let him go, he’ll take you to the barn you stole him from.

  Couldn’t give him his head then.

  Must have really rode him then.

  And known where he was going.

  Yeah, and gone there.

  If he had a horse.

  Yeah, if he had a horse.

  If he stole a horse before the storm and rode it a ways, then when the snow came, the horse would be too far off and wouldn’t know how to head for home.

  They got an awful good sense.

  Manure.

  What difference does it make? He made it. What difference does it make how? Hans said.

  I’m considering if he could have, Pa said.

  And I’m telling you he did, Hans said.

  And I’ve been telling you he didn’t. The kid made the whole thing up, I said.

  The horse’d stop. He’d put his head into the wind and stop.

  I’ve seen them put their rears in.

  They always put their heads in.

  He could jockey him.

  If he was gentle and not too scared.

  A plower is gentle.

  Some are.

  Some don’t like to be rid.

  Some don’t like strangers neither.

  Some.

  What the hell, Hans said.

  Pa laughed. I’m just considering, he said. Just considering, Hans, that’s all.

  Pa’d seen the bottle. Right away. He’d been blinking. But he hadn’t missed it. He’d seen it and the glass in Hans’s hand. I’d expected him to say something. So had Hans. He’d held on to the glass long enough so no one would get the idea he was afraid to, then he’d set it down casual, like he hadn’t any reason to hold it or any reason to put it down, but was putting it down anyway, without thinking. I’d grinned but he hadn’t seen me, or else he made out he hadn’t. Pa’d kept his mouth shut ab
out the bottle though he’d seen it right away. I guess we had the Pedersen kid to thank for that, though we had him to thank for the bottle too.

  It’s his own fault for putting out all them snow fences, Pa said. You’d think, being here the time he has, he’d know the forces better.

  Pedersen just likes to be ready, Pa, that’s all.

  Hell he does. He likes to get ready, that cock. Get, get, get, get. He’s always getting ready, but he ain’t never got ready. Not yet, he ain’t. Last summer, instead of minding his crops, he got ready for hoppers. Christ. Who wants hoppers? Well that’s the way to get hoppers—that’s the sure way—get ready for hoppers.

  Bull.

  Bull? You say bull, Hans, hey?

  I say bull, yeah.

  You’re one to get ready, ain’t you? Like Pedersen, ain’t you? Oh what a wrinkled scrotum you got, with all that thinking. You’d put out poison for a million, hey? You know what you’d get? Two million. Wise, oh these wise men, yeah. Pedersen asked for hoppers. He begged for hoppers. He went on his knees for hoppers. So me? I got hoppers too. Now he’s gone and asked for snow, gone on his knees for snow, wrung his fingers off for snow. Is he ready, tell me? Hey? Snow? For real snow? Anybody ever ready for real snow? Oh jesus, that fool. He should have kept his kid behind them fences. What business—what—what business—to send him here. By god, a man’s got to keep his stock up. Look—Pa pointed out the window. See—see—what did I tell you—snowing . . . always snowing.

  You seen a winter it didn’t snow?

  You were ready, I guess.

  It always snows.

  You were ready for the Pedersen kid too, I guess. You was just out there waiting for him, cooling your cod.

  Pa laughed and Hans got red.

  Pedersen’s a fool. Wise men can’t be taught. Oh no, not old holy Pete. He never learned all the things that can fall out the sky and happen to wheat. His neck’s bent all the time too, studying clouds—hah, that shit. He don’t even keep an eye on his kid in a blizzard. A man by god’s got to keep his stock up. But you’ll keep an eye out for him, hey, Hans? You’re a bigger fool because you’re fatter.

  Hans’s face was red and swollen like the skin around a splinter. He reached out and picked up the glass. Pa was sitting on a corner of the kitchen table, swinging a leg. The glass was near his knee. Hans reached by Pa and took it. Pa watched and swung his leg, laughing. The bottle was on the counter and Pa watched closely while Hans took it.

  Ah, you plan to drink some of my whiskey, Hans?

  Yeah.

  It’d be polite to ask.

  I ain’t asking, Hans said, tilting the bottle.

  I suppose I’d better make some biscuits, ma said.

  Hans looked up at her, keeping the bottle tilted. He didn’t pour.

  Biscuits, ma? I said.

  I ought to have something for Mr. Pedersen and I haven’t a thing.

  Hans straightened the bottle.

  There’s a thing to consider, he said, beginning to smile. Why ain’t Pedersen here looking for his kid?

  Why should he be?

  Hans winked at me through his glass. No wink would make me a friend of his.

  Why not? We’re nearest. If the kid ain’t here he can ask us to help him hunt.

  Fat chance.

  He ain’t come through. How do you consider that?

  I ain’t considering it, Pa said.

  Why ain’t you? Seems to me like something worth real long and fancy considering.

  No it ain’t.

  Ain’t it?

  Pedersen’s a fool.

  So you like to say. I’ve heard you often enough. All right, maybe he is. How long do you expect he’ll wander around looking before he comes over this way?

  A long time. A long time maybe.

  The kid’s been gone a long time.

  Pa arranged his nightshirt over his knee. He had on the striped one.

  How long’s a long time? Hans said.

  The kid’s been gone.

  Oh Pedersen’ll be here before too long now, Pa said.

  And if he don’t?

  What do you mean, if he don’t? Then he don’t. By god, he don’t. It ain’t no skin off my ass. If he don’t he don’t. I don’t care what he does.

  Yeah, Big Hans said. Yeah.

  Pa folded his arms, looking like a judge. He swung his leg. Where’d you find the bottle?

  Hans jiggled it.

  You’re pretty good at hiding, ain’t you?

  I’m asking the questions. Where’d you find it?

  Hans was enjoying himself too much.

  I didn’t.

  Jorge, hey. Pa chewed his lip. So you’re the nosy bastard.

  He didn’t look at me and it didn’t seem like he was talking to me at all. He said it like I wasn’t there and he was thinking out loud. Awake, asleep—it didn’t fool me.

  It wasn’t me, Pa, I said.

  I tried to get Hans’s attention so he’d shut up but he was enjoying himself.

  Little Hans ain’t no fool, Big Hans said.

  No.

  Now Pa wasn’t paying attention.

  He ain’t no kin to you, Pa said.

  Why ain’t he here then? He’d be looking too. Why ain’t he here?

  Gracious, I’d forgot all about Little Hans, ma said, quickly taking a bowl from the cupboard.

  Hed, what are you up to? Pa said.

  Oh, biscuits.

  Biscuits? What in hell for? Biscuits. I don’t want any biscuits. Make some coffee. All this time you been just standing around.

  For Pedersen and little Hans. They’ll be coming and they’ll want some biscuits and coffee, and I’ll put out some elderberry jelly. The coffee needed reminding, Magnus, thank you.

  Who found the bottle?

  She scooped some flour from the bin.

  Pa’d been sitting, swinging. Now he stopped and stood up.

  Who found it? Who found it? God dammit, who found it? Which one of them was it?

  Ma was trying to measure the flour but her hands shook. The flour ran off the scoop and fell across the rim of the cup, and I thought, Yeah, You’d have run, Yeah, Your hands shake.

  Why don’t you ask Jorge? Big Hans said.

  How I hated him, putting it on me, the coward. And he had thick arms.

  That snivel, Pa said.

  Hans laughed so his chest shook.

  He couldn’t find nothing I hid.

  You’re right there, Hans said.

  I could, I said. I have.

  A liar, Hans, hey? You found it.

  Pa was somehow pleased and sat on the corner of the table again. Was it Hans he hated most, or me?

  I never said Jorge found it.

  I’ve got a liar working for me. A thief and a liar. Why should I keep a liar? I’m just soft on him, I guess, and he’s got such a sweet face. But why should I keep a thief . . . little movey eyes like traveling specks . . . why?

  I ain’t like you. I don’t spend every day drinking just to sleep the night and then sleep half the day too, fouling your bed and your room and half the house.

  You been doing your share of lying down. Little Hans is half your size and worth twice. You—you got a small dick.

  Pa’s words didn’t come out clear.

  How about Little Hans? Little Hans ain’t showed up. Folks must be getting pretty worried at the Pedersens’. They’d like some news maybe. But Pedersen don’t come. Little Hans don’t come. There’s a thousand drifts out there. The kid might be under any one. If anybody’s seen him, we have, and if we haven’t, nobody’s going to till spring, or maybe if the wind shifts, which ain’t likely. But nobody comes to ask. That’s pretty funny, I’d say.

  You’re an awful full-up bastard, Pa said.

  I’m just considering, that’s all.

  Where’d you find it?

  I forgot. It needed reminding. I was going to have a drink.

  Where?

  You’re pretty good at hiding, Hans said.

&n
bsp; I’m asking. Where?

  I didn’t, I told you, I didn’t find it. Jorge didn’t find it neither.

  You bastard, Hans, I said.

  It hatched, Hans said. Like the fellow, you know, who blew in. He hatched. Or maybe the kid found it—had it hid under his coat.

  Who? Pa roared, standing up quick.

  Oh Hed found it. You don’t hide worth a damn and Hed found it easy. She knew right away where to look.

  Shut up, Hans, I said.

  Hans tilted the bottle.

  She must have known where it was a long time now. Maybe she knows where they’re all hid. You ain’t very smart. Or maybe she’s took it up herself, eh? And it ain’t yours at all, maybe that.

  Big Hans poured himself a drink. Then Pa kicked the glass out of Hans’s hand. Pa’s slipper flew off and sailed by Hans’s head and bounced off the wall. The glass didn’t break. It fell by the sink and rolled slow by ma’s feet, leaving a thin line. The scoop flew a light white cloud. There was whiskey on Hans’s shirt and on the wall and cupboards, and a splash on the floor where the glass had hit.

  Ma had her arms wrapped around her chest. She looked faint and she was whewing and moaning.

  Okay, Pa said, we’ll go. We’ll go right now, Hans. I hope to god you get a bullet in your belly. Jorge, go upstairs and see if the little sonofabitch is still alive.

  Hans was rubbing the spots on his shirt and licking his lips when I hunched past Pa and went out.

  Part Two

  I

  There wasn’t any wind. The harness creaked, the wood creaked, the runners made a sound like a saw working easy, and everything was white about Horse Simon’s feet. Pa had the reins between his knees and he and Hans and I kept ourselves close together. We bent our heads and clenched our feet and wished we could huddle both hands in one pocket. Only Hans was breathing through his nose. We didn’t speak. I wished my lips could warm my teeth. The blanket we had wasn’t worth a damn. It was just as cold underneath and Pa drank from a bottle by him on the seat.

  I tried to hold the feeling I’d had starting out when we’d hitched up Horse Simon when I was warm and decided to risk the North Corn Road to the Pedersen place. It catty-cornered and came up near the grove behind his barn. We figured we could look at things from there. I tried to hold the feeling but it was warm as new bath water and just as hard to hold. It was like I was setting out to do something special and big—like a knight setting out—worth remembering. I dreamed coming in from the barn and finding his back to me in the kitchen and wrestling with him and pulling him down and beating the stocking cap off his head with the barrel of the gun. I dreamed coming in from the barn still blinking with the light and seeing him there and picking the shovel up and taking him on. That had been then, when I was warm, when I was doing something big, heroic even, and well worth remembering. I couldn’t put the feeling down in Pedersen’s back yard or Pedersen’s porch or barn. I couldn’t see myself, or him, there. I could only see him back where I wasn’t any more—standing quiet in our kitchen with his gun going slowly up and down in ma’s face and ma shooing it away and at the same time trying not to move an inch for getting shot.