“Yes, sir. Mr. Pitmire said it would be all right. Mr. Ben borrowed White’s squirrel dog, and we hunted with him.”
His father regarded him for a long moment, recalling his own youth, and his estimation of the whole situation came close to the truth; he suspected a very large fish in the background, and thought he knew what was going to happen about catching it sooner or later. He didn’t want to inquire too closely, for he knew that Joey would have to work things out for himself. He remembered the secrecies, the aspirations, the fumblings, and the discoveries of his own boyhood; he wished that he could talk to Joey about these things and help him, but he knew that he could not. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll get you the frog. It might take a few days, but you won’t be going down for another two weeks, until Thanksgiving vacation.”
“Yes, sir,” Joey said, immensely relieved. “Can I stay longer this time?”
“If you want. Did you get any squirrels or any fish?”
“Yes, sir. We got four squirrels, but the dog ate them. They don’t feed him, Mr. Ben said, so we’ll feed him next time and put the squirrels where he can’t get them. We got some fish, too. Mr. Ben’s nice, Dad.”
“Mr. Ben’s all right. You mind what he tells you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Joe Moncrief stood up, and laid his hand on Joey’s shoulder. He was a little envious of the boy, just starting out. “If you need anything else before you go, you tell me. You’d better get ready for dinner now.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Dad.”
“You’re welcome, friend. Maybe I can get down for a day or two while you’re there.”
“It would be fun if you could,” Joey said, and went off to his room to dress.
The time crawled by, and Joey thought it would never pass. He rode his bicycle to school, played sandlot football in the afternoons, and did a modicum of studying in the evenings; he was often dreamy and absent-minded in class. His father brought home the license and a new belt knife, and, after a few days’ delay, the frog. It was a wonderful thing, made of rubber and realistically spotted; he kept it on his bureau and tried to make it work in the bathtub. The bathtub was too short, but he got an idea of how he would have to manage it; after he got the frog the time went by at an even more reluctant pace.
He saw Bud every day; their relationship was friendly but lacked the warmth and interest in each other’s doings that it had formerly had. Although Bud mentioned the Pond several times, Joey didn’t encourage talk about it; he had decided that he wouldn’t ask Bud to go with him at Thanksgiving, and didn’t mention that he was going himself. They weren’t in each other’s houses all the time, as they had been formerly, and Joey’s mother asked him about it.
“Have you and Bud quarreled, Joey?”
“No, ma’am.”
“He’s not here any more.”
“He’s sort of busy, I reckon.”
“His mother asked me what had happened to you.”
“I’ve been sort of busy too, with my frog and everything.”
“Joey, are you sure …?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure.”
“Well, that’s good. I’d better talk to his mother about your Thanksgiving trip.”
There was a silence, and Joey’s toe dug into the Brussels carpet. “Mom,” he said finally.
“Yes, Joey?”
“Mom, he …” He paused; he had almost said that it was Bud who didn’t want to go, but at the last minute decided to tell the truth. “Mom, I don’t want him to go.”
“Oh, Joey. I thought there was something. What is it, Joey? Tell me.”
“It isn’t anything,” Joey said. He didn’t want to tell her that Bud had no desire to shoot squirrels, and about the frog. It was a private thing, one of the privacies that grownups were always prying into for no reason that he could see. “Mom, it isn’t anything. It isn’t.”
“You’re sure you haven’t quarreled?”
“No, ma’am. We’re playing football together this afternoon.”
She looked at him for a moment, with love and a little melancholy, acknowledging that this mysterious masculine performance showed all too clearly how he was growing up, growing away from her. “All right,” she said. “But we’ll have to ask your father. He may not want you to go alone.”
“Okay,” Joey said, puzzled in his turn as to why it had all become so complicated. “Can I go play football now?”
“Yes,” she said. “Kiss me.”
He kissed her quickly and a little sheepishly, and went out.
He wanted to be home when his father got there, but a quarter of a mile from the lot where they played football he had a puncture in his front tire and had to walk his bicycle the rest of the way. Further tribulations caught up with him two blocks from home, in the shape of a boy named Jerry MacDonald, who was in charge of the Christmas bonfire. Practically every Richmond family kept their trash for weekly collection in wooden barrels at their back gates; and every group of neighborhood boys—“gangs” as they called themselves—stole these barrels for a month before Christmas, hoarded them somewhere, and burned them on their favorite corner for three or four days during the holidays. These fires were kept burning day and night by details who were appointed far ahead of time; parental permission for the details was obtained early; it was the most important event of the year. A gang was respected for the splendor of its fire, and the gang members sat about on boxes, set off firecrackers, and discussed matters of interest while their parents visited one another and drank eggnog and ate fruit cake. These were ancient customs, the origins of which were lost in the mists of the past.
Jerry hailed Joey from his front porch, and came down to the street. “I just finished making my list up,” he said. “You reckon you could be at the fire the night after Christmas? Early in the morning, I mean.”
“I reckon so,” Joey said. “How early?”
“From four to eight, maybe?”
“Why do I have to get up that early, for gosh sake? I’d rather be there from seven to ten.”
“You were there from seven to ten last year,” Jerry said. “You had it easy.”
“You had it easy yourself. You were there in the daytime. I bet you’re going to be there in the daytime this year, too.”
“All right, I am, but I have all the work to make up the list, don’t I?”
“I don’t think it’s fair,” Joey said, passionately, and saw his father’s car stop before the house. “I got to go.”
“You can’t go until you tell me about the fire.”
“Gosh hang it, I don’t want to get up at four o’clock in the morning.”
“The only other thing I’ve got is two turns on the last day.”
“I’ll take—” Joey began, and caught himself. He might want to go to the Pond then, he thought. It was three days after Christmas, and they might let him go by that time.
“I can’t be there then. I might go away.” He began to move his feet restlessly. “I got to go, I tell you.”
“You’ve got to take the first one, then,” Jerry said, and grinned like a possum at him.
“Okay! Okay!” Joey shouted and trotted off, pushing his bicycle, scowling, and grumbling to himself over the heaviness of his social obligations. He was still grumbling when he reached home, and then forgot the encounter in the uneasiness he felt over his coming interview with his father. He took his bicycle through the passageway beside the house and left it in the backyard and looked down at himself. His knickerbockers were dusty, his hands were grimy, and one of his long black stockings was torn, so he went in through the kitchen, up the back stairs, and changed his clothes before he went to find his father in the study. Joe Moncrief was looking through a gun catalogue and glanced up as Joey stopped in the doorway.
“Hi, Dad. Dad?”
“Hi, Joey. Come on in.”
Joey went in and stood in the middle of the floor. “Dad, did Mom tell you … I mean, I reckon you talked with her.”
“You mean a
bout Bud?”
“Yes, sir,” Joey said in apprehension.
“What’s it all about?”
“I wanted to go by myself.”
“Why?”
His father’s eye was on him, and he knew that he would have to come up with a reason this time; he squirmed. “He just doesn’t want to shoot squirrels,” he blurted out. “He just wants to fish all the time.”
“And there’s only one Kalamazoo frog?” Joe Moncrief asked. His original estimate of the situation was working out as he had suspected it would.
Joey didn’t say a word; he looked at the floor.
“Well,” his father said, after a bad moment, “I think it’s all right. I don’t want you driving alone, though. I’ll write Ed Pitmire and have him meet you and take you over.”
Joey breathed again; a great smile appeared on his face. “Thanks, Dad,” he said. “Dad? He’ll just be for you and me, huh? I mean, if I don’t … I mean …”
Joe Moncrief smiled at him. “Sure,” he said. “Don’t rush it now. Big fish are smart. Take your time.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Ed Pitmire’s driving technique was simple; he pulled the throttle lever all the way down when he started to go somewhere and never touched it again until he arrived. The engine roared, knocked, and rattled, the mud flew and the car swayed, bucked, and did its best to hurl its passengers over the semi-opaque windshield or over the side. Joey hung on to anything he could reach and enjoyed himself. Pitmire presided over the uproar with an Olympian calm, with most of his attention on the woods; once he stopped, reached down for the shotgun beside him, blasted away at a squirrel, jumped out and retrieved it, threw it in the back of the Model T, and drove on. Occasionally he would shout something unintelligible and Joey would shout back affirmatively.
They tore across the spillway, roared up the hill, turned in the gate, and stopped behind the house. Pitmire killed the engine; the silence was like the silence on the first day of creation, profound and almost unbelievable. Joey looked around, delighted to be back. Mr. Ben came out of the house, and as he walked toward the car Joey reached into the back and came up with the package his mother had given him.
“Hi, Mr. Ben,” he said, handing him the package. “My mother sent you this.”
Mr. Ben grinned and opened the package; a dark blue sweater, heavy and warm, was in it. “Why, thank you, Joey,” he said, pleased. “It’s real nice to be remembered. I’ll write your mother a letter. Come in awhile, Ed. I’ve got something that will pass for coffee.”
“I’ve got to get back,” Pitmire said. “Some people are doin’ their shoppin’ today and Liza don’t feel so good. I’ll help you unload.” He got out of the car and hoisted a big can out of the back. “I didn’t know you’d gone in the dog business.”
“Dog business?”
“Got twenty-five pounds of Spratt’s dog biscuits in here. Mr. Moncrief had me get it.”
“Oh,” Mr. Ben said, and grinned again. “Joey and I went into partnership awhile back. Just put it on the porch.” The three of them unloaded the car, piling a small mountain of food and gear on the porch, and Pitmire waved at them and left, almost taking the corner of the house with him. As they listened to his headlong progress down the hill Mr. Ben shook his head. “He’s wasted around here,” he said. “The Roman chariot races could have charged extra to see him.”
“Yes, sir,” Joey said. “It was a pretty wild ride, but we got here. I reckon I better put the things away.” He began to carry the things in and stow them. When he unpacked the frog, he took it into the living room and showed it to Mr. Ben.
“It just might work,” Mr. Ben said, examining it. “Nobody’s thrown anything like it at that fish before, that I know of. You wait until almost sundown, and then try it.” He handed it back. “You’ve a visitor outside.”
Joey went to the porch window; Charley was sitting near the bottom of the steps, looking at the kitchen door. “Great day!” Joey said, vastly pleased. “He knows I’m here.” He went out, and when he got to the bottom of the steps extended his hand. “Come here, Charley. Come see me, boy.”
The dog cocked his head; his tail stirred a little, but he remained where he was. Joey’s disappointment showed in his face; he stood there for a moment and then recalled the dog biscuits. The can was still on the porch and he went back and got two square, thick biscuits out of it; returning to the foot of the steps he held one of them out and spoke to the dog again. Charley licked his chops hungrily but didn’t move; only his eyes showed how much he wanted the biscuit. Joey was puzzled; he had never seen a hungry dog act in such a fashion, and didn’t know what to do next.
“Put it on the ground,” Mr. Ben said from the porch. “Nobody ever handed him anything before. If they did, likely it was to get him close enough to kick.”
Joey dropped the two biscuits on the ground and joined Mr. Ben on the porch. As soon as he was there Charley got up and came over to the biscuits, bolted them, and sat down again.
“Take him one, now,” Mr. Ben said, “but don’t try to get too close to him.”
Joey did as advised. Charley watched him approach, and half stood up to move away. Joey squatted down and extended his arm full length. The dog looked at him for a moment, ready to jump aside, and then stretched his head forward and took the biscuit daintily in his teeth; then he moved off a little and ate it.
Joey returned to the porch; he was disturbed by what he had seen. “Mr. Ben,” he said, “how could they treat him so mean that he acts like that? They’re cruel to him.”
“They’re not really cruel,” Mr. Ben said. “Or they don’t mean to be. It’s just the way they are with animals; lots of country people are like that. An animal to them is sort of like a machine or a plow or a shovel. If it does something they don’t think it should they bat it one. Besides that, Sam White’s got such a nasty temper sometimes he’s rougher than most. He’s got a mule over there he’s pounded so much it’ll turn around and kill him one of these days. Don’t you ever get near it.”
“No, sir.”
“You remember that. That mule’s smart. He stores up all the whacks he’s had, and he waits for one real good chance to get even. He knows he’s not going to get more than one. He hates the whole human race. You stay away from him.”
“Yes, sir, I will. Charley did take the biscuit from me, though. Maybe he’s beginning to know I like him.”
“You take it slow and easy with him. He’ll come to you presently.”
“Yes, sir. I reckon I’ll go squirrel hunting now.” He went into the house, put his gun together, and changed into his hunting clothes. The bedroom, bare but clean, was chilly; it would get colder all winter, and Joey wondered fleetingly whether he would be comfortable in the bed without Bud to help him warm it up. Now that Bud wasn’t there he missed him, but he didn’t dwell on this or even acknowledge it. His mind was too full of anticipation, of killing squirrels and being there and free to do as he wished. He went outside and whistled to Charley and started off for the woods.
The dog came after him as before, and moved out ahead of him when he came to the trees. He knew what he was about now; it wasn’t like the first time, when neither he nor Bud knew what they were supposed to do. When he paused to listen for Charley’s voice, the woods around him, so silent and still, suddenly seemed to be full of a brooding mystery; a feeling came over him that the woods withheld from him, just beyond the compass of his eyes and ears, a secret that he couldn’t penetrate. It was like standing before a closed door and not knowing how to open it. This was a feeling that he was going to have again and again when he was alone: a waiting and a reaching-out to know and be merged with the mystery, an exaltation and a yearning. Many woodsmen have had it and are only completely happy when they are lost from the outside world and on the edge of it. It drove the mountain men of the early American West into the silence and loneliness of the Rockies and still sends its acolytes far into wild places where they can be alone.
When t
he dog began to bay in the distance Joey, who had been standing in a trancelike immobility, shook his head and stood for a moment collecting himself. He was a little shaken by his first exposure to an experience as mystical and moving as the experience of religion, or the more universal but equally mysterious one of falling in love with one woman. To put it simply, he had fallen in love with the woods; like every lover, he would make many fumbling mistakes before he understood his love.
He found Charley at the base of a very tall cypress near the water. The squirrel was curled around the tip of the trunk, and seemed halfway to Heaven. In Joey’s mind it was already in his game pocket; he raised his gun and shot, but the squirrel didn’t move. It was so high and its hide was so tough that the shot didn’t penetrate it.
Joey had a rather hazy notion of the range of his gun, and he couldn’t believe his eyes. He shot again. The squirrel was stung and stirred a little, but stayed where it was. Joey fired at it twice more. Finally he realized that he just couldn’t reach it, and gave up. He called Charley, but Charley sat with his eyes on the squirrel and refused to leave it. Joey couldn’t move him and presently went off, and then the dog gave up in his turn and ran away to hunt again.
Their erratic course, during which Joey killed three squirrels with great expenditure of ammunition, took them the length of the Pond to the head of it where the country flattened out into a big swamp. The dark, slow branches of the stream that fed the Pond meandered through it and cypresses grew thickly in the water, many of them bearded with long gray streamers of Spanish moss. It was a dim and ghostly place, featureless and silent. Joey had never been into it, but as he skirted the edge and looked down the dim, watery aisles between the cypresses he determined to come back in the bateau and explore it. It was the wildest-looking place he had found so far; it looked as though no one had ever been in it, and he wanted to penetrate it and move about and see what was there.
The prospect was exciting, and as he thought about it he decided that he had killed enough squirrels for the day; besides, the afternoon was getting on and his mind turned toward the bass. He didn’t know where Charley was, but he whistled and yelled for him, waited a little while, and went back; when he reached the house the dog was waiting for him in the yard. Mr. Ben was on the porch, he had apparently been out on the Pond, seeing to his traps, and had three muskrats that he was skinning. “Any luck?” he asked.
The Pond Page 6