The Pond

by Robert Murphy

  “I think you did.”

  “Yes, sir. So he was goin’ to take her and put her on the train. She was cryin’ a little, she said she liked it here, and she didn’t want to go, but the man said the State Board wanted her to, so she had to do it. She asked me would I pack up her stuff and send it to her, and then she said good-by and they took off down the road.”

  “I see,” Mr. Ben said. He nodded his head several times; Joey could read nothing in his face.

  Crenshaw’s hands stirred restlessly in his lap. “Mr. Ben, I liked her right good, I was thinkin’ of askin’ her to marry up with me, and now …” His voice died away; he sat looking at Mr. Ben with an expression at once lost and protesting. “You reckon they can do that? Take her away, I mean, and put her back in Blacksburg? I liked her right good, like I say. …”

  “They’ve done it,” Mr. Ben said. “They can put her in any school where they need her.”

  “Yes, sir, I reckon they can,” Crenshaw said, and a hopeless note came into his voice. “Could be I might never see her again. I don’t know how I’d ever get all the way yonder to Blacksburg. I ain’t much for all this travelin’. I never been on a train.” His big body slumped in the chair and he shook his head several times and stared at the floor in front of him.

  Mr. Ben stood up and moved closer to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard, man,” he said. “I’m sure it will all turn out. You can write to her, and after a while if you still want to see her you can go up there.” Crenshaw shook his head again, but didn’t look up. “You say the man brought another teacher with him?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s pretty old, and got a face like a hatchet. I reckon she’ll stay with the Perkins for a few days and then move in.” He gave a long sighing breath and then slowly stood up. “Well …” he said, and looked unhappily around the room. “I reckon if they want to do it, they can do it. I just had a mind to ask you.”

  “I wish I could help you,” Mr. Ben said, “but the State Board has the say with the teachers.”

  “Yes, sir, I reckon it does.” He stood there for a long moment. “Well, I better go. I sure thank you, Mr. Ben.”

  “Stay and have some dinner with us. It would cheer you up.”

  “I thank y’all,” Crenshaw said, “but I reckon I’ll go home.” He got himself into motion and walked past Joey without noticing him. Mr. Ben followed him into the kitchen, lit a lantern for him, and saw him out the door.

  He didn’t look too downcast by Crenshaw’s troubles when he came back; in fact, Joey thought that he almost had an expression of satisfaction, and that puzzled him. He had felt sorry for Crenshaw himself, although the news that the teacher was gone from the vicinity had brought with it a feeling of great relief. “He was pretty sad, wasn’t he, Mr. Ben?” he asked.

  “He was indeed,” Mr. Ben said. “He’ll never know what a great favor … but never mind that.”

  “Sir?”

  “He’ll get over it,” Mr. Ben said and, turning to the kitchen cabinet, got out a can of corned-beef hash and opened it. “You cut up those boiled potatoes we had left over, and we’ll make lyonnaise potatoes again.” As he worked away to get the hash out of the can he began to sing. “‘I was feeling mighty frisky,’” he sang, and did a dance step or two, “‘When they caught me with the whisky …’ Cut them up smaller,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Joey said, slicing away and smiling at Mr. Ben’s cracked voice and his unusual gaiety. “I didn’t know they changed teachers that fast.”

  “They don’t, usually. This was a sort of accelerated case, you might say.” He put the hash in a frying pan and collected the potatoes from Joey. “Gentlemen, sir, that’s what it was. You’d better set the table.”

  “Yes, sir. I reckon Mr. White will be a little surprised.”

  “Indeed he will, if he’s not already. If those boys come around in the next couple of days it might be just as well if you had something else to do. They’re going to sweat for it.”

  “Yes, sir, I reckon you’re right. I won’t go out with them.” He stood with the knives, forks, and spoons in his hand, feeling very sorry for Odie and Claude.

  “Hash is getting ready,” Mr. Ben said. “How’s the table? We ought to eat and go to bed early. We’ve got to get up long before sunrise.”

  “Yes, sir,” Joey said and got into motion. The turkey had slipped into the back of his mind with all the other things that had been going on, but now that Mr. Ben had recalled it, all the excitement came back again. The old man came in with their dinner, but Joey found it hard to eat very much. Even if his father came tomorrow they would have the turkey to surprise him with. “Great day!” he said. “I bet my father will be the most surprised man in the whole United States when he sees us with a turkey, Mr. Ben. Can we hang it on the porch, so that he sees it as soon as he drives in?”

  “That’s where we’ll hang it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Joey wiggled in his chair at the very thought of pointing the turkey out to his astonished father. He ate a few more forkfuls, and then couldn’t sit still any longer. He got up and found the turkey call and sat down again, but although he tried it all sorts of ways, he couldn’t get the right notes out of it. Finally, somewhat crestfallen, he put it back. “I reckon I just never will learn to work it,” he said. “I do everything you do, but …”

  “Well, you won’t need it anyhow,” Mr. Ben said. “At least, this time. But I’ll put it in my pocket when we go. Aren’t you going to eat any more?”

  “No, sir, I reckon not.”

  “We’ll wash the dishes then and go to bed.”

  They washed the dishes, and Mr. Ben got his old alarm clock, wound it, and set it for four o’clock. Joey undressed in the living room, said good night to Mr. Ben, and went into the chilly bedroom and crawled into bed. The bed was cold; they had forgotten to heat their bricks, but he didn’t want to get up again and wait for a brick to get hot. He curled himself up, hugging his knees, and presently grew drowsy. As he fell asleep he was thinking of the turkey, of it falling from the tree, and hanging on the back porch for his father to see when he stopped behind the house.

  Mr. Ben had touched off a small fire in the living room stove; it took some of the night’s chill off the room, but not all of it. Still half asleep, Joey shivered with cold and excitement as he dressed in the wan light of the single lamp.

  “Put plenty of clothes on,” Mr. Ben said. “It’s cold out, and it’ll be colder on the water. I’ll get my gun.”

  Joey fumbled with buttons and yawned and stumbled about, but finally he was dressed; Mr. Ben came back from his room with his gun. “I’d better shoot him,” he said. “I’m not too sure your twenty-gauge will talk to him loud enough. I’ve got some BB shells that will burn him good. …” He felt in his pockets, looked surprised, and said, “Well, I had them. I’ll go find them.” He went off again, and Joey could hear him walking around and poking into things; finally he returned, and they blew out the lamp and went outside.

  It was very dark; the stars glittered brilliantly, and the cold made them catch their breaths. Joey hunched himself up inside his clothes, and they started down the path. Gradually Joey’s eyes became accustomed to the dark, but his shivering didn’t stop; if anything, it increased as the great moment drew nearer. They reached the wharf, untangled the bateau’s chain with great care, climbed aboard, and shoved off. A cold and ghostly mist trailed over the water, almost as high as the gunwales, occasionally swirl­ing head-high, hiding the surface. It gave Joey the feeling that they were moving through the clouds, detached from the earth.

  He picked up his paddle and helped Mr. Ben as they slid along the dark and umbrageous shore now hidden, now revealed by the slow swirls of the mist. The exercise warmed him a little, but when they came opposite the point where the turkey was, Mr. Ben whispered to him to put his paddle down and turned for the other shore. The cold moved into him again, his excitement increased, and his teeth began to chatter; they sounded as lou
d to him as a circus band, and he found a handkerchief in his pocket and wadded it up and bit down on it.

  They slid silently up to the point; the bateau lost way and stopped several feet from the shore. Now that they were under the turkey, or under where it should be, waves of tremors followed one another through Joey. He was entirely concentrated on the darkness above him. His eyes tried to make out the bulk of turkey, but it was still too dark to see very much. He forgot the mist and the cold and didn’t even notice the small movements of the bateau as Mr. Ben held it in position with twists of the paddle, but he could hear the uneven thumps of his heart.

  Time crawled by, and almost imperceptibly the sky began to pale. Nearby twigs and branches slowly took on shape and texture and the eye moved higher as the tide of darkness withdrew, and then two rounded shapes, not one, about ten feet apart in the tree, could be seen against the paling sky.

  Joey stared at one and then the other, puzzled, for they had heard and seen only one turkey fly up. It seemed impossible that another had joined it, for they had stayed until after dark; then it came to him that one of the shapes must be a squirrel nest. He turned to Mr. Ben, who was also staring up the tree. Mr. Ben felt the movement and dropped his glance to look back at him, and it was evident from the old man’s expression that he was confused too. He didn’t know which shape was the turkey; he had put the paddle down and picked up his gun, but he held it across his knees in indecision and shook his head. He sat for a moment longer, half raised the gun, and lowered it again, then he looked up at the sky.

  He looked at Joey again and shook his head once more. He couldn’t make up his mind, and it was growing light more rapidly now; any instant the turkey might awake and launch itself from the tree. The nervous tension had built up inside Joey until he could hardly contain himself; he felt that he was going to explode and apparently Mr. Ben felt the same way, for he suddenly swept the gun up and pulled the trigger.

  There was a shattering roar and the bateau bucked from the recoil; leaves and sticks flew from Mr. Ben’s target, and Joey had a confused and heartbreaking impression of the other shape suddenly sprouting great wings and vanishing from the limb. It was gone instantaneously, as though by a trick of magic; the limb was empty, leaves and sticks were raining through the trees, and the echoes of the shot were still bouncing thunderously around the Pond.

  Mr. Ben slowly lowered the gun, laid it gently on the bottom of the bateau, and picked up his paddle. He didn’t look at Joey, and Joey, after a quick and stricken look at him, turned and picked up his own paddle. Without a word they headed toward the wharf.

  CHAPTER TEN

  They were almost through breakfast before Mr. Ben had very much to say. He had been pretty silent, and so had Joey; in their great disappointment they had passed things hurriedly and kept their noses mostly in their plates.

  Mr. Ben pushed his chair back a little and cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “Honest confession is good for the soul. It was my fault, Joey, and I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, sir,” Joey said automatically, and then added, “I mean, no, sir, Mr. Ben. I don’t reckon it was. Nobody could tell which was which.”

  “I should have been prepared for something like that, and I wasn’t. If I’d let you take your gun, and if we’d both shot at once, we’d probably have the turkey now.” He shook his head. “With turkeys it’s always the unexpected that happens, and they react so fast you don’t get a second chance.”

  “Yes, sir. He sure got out of there fast.”

  “He sure God did,” Mr. Ben said. “Bang! Swish! Gentlemen, sir, it was Hey, Betty Martin! and he was gone.” He shook his head and grinned ruefully. “Maybe if we’d sat still until he woke up, he might have put his head up and looked around before he flew. Well, if the sky fell down we could all catch larks. We just got excited and went off half cocked.”

  “Yes, sir, I reckon we did. But,” Joey said sturdily, “I’d have done the same thing you did. I would have shot at the same thing. The squirrel nest looked more like a turkey than the turkey did.”

  “You’re a generous and forgiving soul, Joey, and I appreciate it.” He grinned at Joey, and Joey grinned back; some of the pain of the great disappointment withdrew into the background. “What are you going to do today?”

  “I thought maybe if Charley …” He got up and walked over and looked out the window, but there was no Charley in the yard. “He’s not there,” he said. “You reckon anything’s happened to him? Maybe Mr. White …”

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Ben said. “I doubt it, somehow. That dog’s had a lot of practice taking care of himself. Sam might have him shut up, but I think he’ll get here sooner or later. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir, I hope so.” He sat for a moment in thought. “I reckon I’ll just go still-hunting today.” He stood up and got the turkey call and worked on it for a while, but without very much success. “You reckon I’ll ever learn how to do it?”

  Mr. Ben held out his hand and Joey gave the call to him. The old man showed him how it was done. His calls fell into the silence of the room as though a turkey itself were there; but when Joey took it back and tried to imitate them, what came out was scratchy and shrill and he knew they would send any turkey in hearing the other way as fast as it could go. He finally gave up and put the call back again.

  “I reckon I just can’t do it,” he said, “and it looks so easy.”

  “It’s not easy when you’re in the woods and excited and so cold your hands shake,” Mr. Ben said. “I’ve had trouble that way myself. I wish somebody would invent one that can’t make a wrong sound no matter how much you’re shaking, but I never saw one like that.”

  “I wish they would too. I reckon if a turkey was really there and I was trying to call him, I’d shake too much to work your call. I like to shook myself all over the bateau this morning, and if I’d had a call I bet it would have sounded more like a beagle than a turkey.” He began to take the dishes off the table and Mr. Ben joined him. They decided to stack them up until they had more to wash, and Joey went into the bedroom and put on his hunting gear and went out.

  He hadn’t been in the country about halfway up the southern shore of the Pond yet, and so he took the bateau and paddled there. He landed near the beginning of the cutover section which had been lumbered several years past; it ran almost half a mile toward the head of the Pond and was covered with a tangle of brush, young trees several feet high, and the decaying litter and tree tops that lumbermen leave behind them. His father had told him there were quail there, but it was hard going; he decided to stay in the bordering woods for a while and still-hunt, and walked around until he was on a little hillside where he could see for a hundred yards or so around him, then sat down.

  After wriggling about for a bit he found a comfortable position and relaxed; the silence settled around him. He knew that nothing would happen for half an hour or so, for if there were any squirrels in the vicinity they would have hidden themselves when they heard him coming and remained hidden that long to be sure that he had passed. If they had hidden in a place from which they could see him they would not move for a much longer time than that, unless he was immobile and they forgot he was there, so he became immobile and listened for the first stir of life, for claws on bark or footfalls in the leaves. His eyes roved about but he kept his head still, and as time drew out, his thoughts drifted from one thing to another.

  He thought of Bud and wondered what Bud was doing and whether Bud ever thought of him; he had missed his friend in the odd moments when he wasn’t engaged with turkeys or schoolteachers or some other adventure. So many new things had happened to him at the Pond that they had preoccupied him, but Bud was still in his thoughts; Bud’s absence left a lonely place when he had time to think about it. He wondered if his father would come today instead of two days hence and hoped not, for he loved his new independence. He thought of the sudden departure of the teacher and was very glad it had happened, though he really didn’t understan
d any of it; the teacher’s actions or why Sam White had been there to meet her when he had a family of his own and Crenshaw had no one. He wondered if all grownups did incomprehensible things like that, and why; he couldn’t imagine his father doing it, or his mother.

  He had to shift his position a little, and as he did it his eye caught motion; he was immediately back in the woods again. A squirrel was coming down a tree trunk sixty feet away, head first, slowly circling the tree. Joey waited until it was on the side away from him and raised his gun, but the squirrel didn’t reappear. It had dropped to the ground, and he could hear it in the leaves. A game of hide and seek began, with Joey holding his breath and following the sound and the squirrel moving slowly about but managing to stay out of sight. It moved farther off and then began to move back again; after what seemed hours it suddenly appeared in a clear space between two trees and Joey shot it.

  The squirrel fell over, twitched a moment, and lay still. Joey retrieved it. He felt a little as though he had taken an unfair advantage—he didn’t feel as triumphant as he should; but he lost this feeling when he recalled the breathless suspense of following its movements by ear and trying to locate it. He moved on to another part of the woods and killed another squirrel. At the third place he wounded one and it got away from him. He thought it was dead after the shot and walked over to get it, leaving his gun leaning against a tree, but when he had nearly reached it the creature revived. Its back was broken and it couldn’t use its hind legs; it pulled itself along by its forelegs, eluded the stick he swung at it, and managed to drag itself into a hollow tree.

  He didn’t like any of this. The sight of it desperate and crippled and the thought of it dying slowly and in pain considerably diminished his enthusiasm. He left the place and, after wandering rather unhappily about for a time, sat down again. He was of two minds about shooting another squirrel now, and besides, in the stillness of the woods, he began to feel drowsy. He had got up very early; his head began to nod. He leaned the gun against the tree behind him and fell asleep.