by Треваньян
The story had begun hesitantly, but the last of it gushed out, leaving him gripping the porch rail so hard that his fingertips were splayed flat. He swallowed to keep back the bitter tears that stung his eyes. When he could speak, he said, "When I got home I took that dictionary of hers and threw it at the wall! It ended up on the floor, splayed open, with its spine broken. And I felt real bad, looking down on it… limp and broken-backed. All the rest of it-the kids pounding on me, the schoolmarm screaming at me-none of that hurt so bad as breaking my dictionary. It was the only thing I'd ever won." He closed his eyes hard.
Ruth Lillian was silent for a time. Then she spoke in a soft, healing tone. "I'm sorry, Matthew. I know how mean kids can be. You wouldn't think it now, but there used to be a school in Twenty-Mile. Thirty or more kids. Old B. J. Stone was the schoolmaster. The girls didn't like me because my ma always dressed me up in pretty clothes. And I was sort of stuck-up, I got to admit. They used to mix nasty things about my ma into their jump-rope rhymes. And sometimes they'd make a circle around me and scrape their fingers at me and chant: shame, shame, double shame! Everybody knows your name! So I know how mad and helpless you must have felt when those bullies made up lies about your pa beating on your ma."
Matthew looked at Ruth Lillian. "I guess I better be getting home."
He went down the four wooden steps to the street, where he stopped. Without turning back to her, he said in a toneless voice, "Fact is, Ruth Lillian, those kids weren't making up stories. My pa was a drunk. He used to come home smelling like whiskey and pee and upchuck, and he'd beat on my ma something awful. Beat her till she was…" He drew a deep breath and scrubbed his face with his hands, then he sniffed hard. "I just hate the smell of whiskey!" Then, after a moment: "So it was true, what the kids said. That's why I couldn't stand it and had to fight them to keep their mouths shut. But I guess that when a person's pa always smells like whiskey and up-chuck, he can't expect to get much respect. Know what I mean?"
She didn't say anything. What could she say?
He went home.
MATTHEW'S CONVICTION THAT THE people of Twenty-Mile didn't respect him despite his hard work and his constant efforts to be biddable and cheerful was reinforced a week later when a slip of the tongue gave him reason to believe that not even Ruth Lillian really respected him. It was Sunday, and after the train offloaded supplies for Twenty-Mile and took the miners back up to the Lode, Matthew made his usual two trips from the depot to the Mercantile, pushing a handbarrow loaded with new stock. That done, he went to the barbershop to do his barrel-scrubbing. He was late getting to dinner because Professor Murphy had piled on extra chores, saying that, by God, if he was going to be blackmailed into paying somebody an extra six-bits of his hard-earned money then, by God, he meant to get an extra six-bits' worth of sweat out of him! So Matthew arrived at the Mercantile late, and Mr. Kane, worn out by an all-night vigil behind the counter, grumbled about Matthew's letting his food get cold, then he said he thought he'd go to his room and lie down… not that he was tired. No, he was just… well, his back was stiff, that was all!
After they did the dishes, Matthew and Ruth Lillian walked down the Sunday-silent street, then turned up into the donkey meadow. He was careful to guide her away from the soggy patch beneath the tree, where the Bjorkvists had slaughtered that week's beef. Lost in their own thoughts, they strolled across the meadow, the uneven ground causing their shoulders to brush occasionally, until they reached the fenced-in burying ground with its weathered wooden grave markers, some already slumping in toward the settled graves. Matthew thought the burying ground was awfully big, considering the small number of wooden markers clustered in one corner; and Ruth Lillian told him the space had been set aside when Twenty-Mile was still growing and everyone expected the Surprise Lode to last forever.
"How come all the grave markers are the same shape?"
"The mining company had a whole lot of them ran off at the sawmill down in Destiny. Most of them are still stored in Professor Murphy's shed. He's got the burying concession. He used to make a good profit, back before the bust, when lots of people got killed in fights and accidents. He still buries three or four a year, men killed by mine cave-ins, or by getting caught in the machinery." She shuddered at the thought of that.
They wandered among the markers, most of which bore only a name and the year of death, but a few of the older ones had epitaphs burned into the wood, and some were intriguingly enigmatic like: Now it's her turn! And: Well, he'd tried just about everything else. A relatively conventional epitaph, Not Dead, Just Sleeping, made Matthew frown and shake his head. He told Ruth Lillian that he'd rather think of people buried in a cemetery as dead, good'n dead, and not just lying down there dozing. As they walked along, he read some of the names aloud, and asked who they'd been. She remembered nearly all of them, her parents having come to Twenty-Mile when she was seven and the town not yet a year old. Him? He was the assayer. Her? She was a whore who got shot by another girl… something about a red dress. Him? He used to pull teeth and tell fortunes. I don't know what he died of. Whatever it was, you'd think he'd of seen it coming, what with being a fortune-teller."
A thought came to Matthew. "Ruth Lillian, is… is your ma here?"
"No," she said curtly. They walked on. He found a stick and used it to whip the heads off some weeds. After a time, she said dryly, "My ma's in Cheyenne. At least, that's where she went when she left here. Of course, maybe she's moved on by now. I don't know."
He didn't want to pry, but at the same time he didn't want her to think he didn't care. So he said a noncommittal, "Cheyenne, eh?"
"Yes. She ran off with the town marshal."
"The man who used to live in my place? The one who wore the star you gave me?"
"That's the one."
"And she… ran off? Just like that?"
"Just like that. The marshal was a big, handsome man. And Pa? Well, Pa was a lot older than her. And he worked all the time, trying to build up the business, so he didn't have time to go to dances over to the Pair o' Dice Social Club, and things like that. When they argued, she'd complain about him not being any fun, and he'd snap back that he worked day and night to keep her in fancy clothes, and she'd shout back that there were plenty of men who'd give her nice things, believe you me! She used to say that a lot: believe you me. I never say it."
Matthew nodded but remained silent, in case she wanted to tell him more. But after a time, he felt pretty sure she didn't, so he took the burden of the silence off her by reading aloud from another cross: 1889. Prospector. 60 years old-give or take.
"There used to be lots of prospectors wandering these mountains in the early days," she said. "They figured if there was one Surprise Lode there must be others. But the 'surprise' was that there wasn't but one vein of silver in the whole Medicine Bow Range."
Matthew chuckled at this, then he turned his attention to battling a tall mean-tempered weed with his stick, finally winning with a parry and a deft slash.
"Matthew?" she asked in an offhand tone.
"Hm-m-m?"
"What's 'the Other Place'?"
He turned and stared at her. "How do you know about that?"
"You told me."
"I never!"
"Yes, you did. You were telling about your fight with the Benson boys, and you said you couldn't feel their punches because you were in this 'Other Place.' I didn't ask you about it then, 'cause you were all worked up. But I've been curious about it ever since."
"Oh, it's just…" In a gesture that had something of embarrassment in it and something of irritation, he threw his stick as hard as he could, and it whop-whop-whop'd through the air, landing against the sagging fence that separated the burying ground from the donkey meadow.
"If you don't want to tell me, forget it. I just thought… Never mind." She walked on.
"It's not that I don't want to tell you. But it's… it's hard to explain."
She stopped and waited patiently.
"It's ju
st… well, when I was a little kid and I was scared-scared because Pa was shouting at Ma, or because I was going to have to fight some kid during recess-I'd fix my eyes on a crack in the floor or a ripple in a pane of glass-on anything, it didn't matter what-and pretty soon I'd slip into this- this Other Place where everything was kind of hazy and echoey, and I was far away and safe. At first, I had to concentrate real hard to get to this safe place. But then, this one day a kid was picking on me, and just like that-without even trying-I was suddenly there, and I felt just as calm as calm, and not afraid of anything. I knew they were punching me, and I could hear the kids yelling names, but it didn't hurt and I didn't care, 'cause I was off in the Other Place. And after that, any time I was scared, or if I was facing something that was just too bad, I'd suddenly find myself there. Safe and peaceful." He searched her eyes. "Does that make any sense to you, Ruth Lillian?"
"Hm-m… sort of. It sounds kind of eerie." And she added quickly, "But really interesting!"
"I've never told anybody about it. Not even my ma. I was afraid to because… This'll sound funny, but I was afraid that if other people knew about the Other Place, it might heal up and go away, and I wouldn't be able to get there when I really needed to. Crazy, huh?"
"A little. But remember, I'm the gal who used to stare into her mirror, wondering who was inside her head, looking out through her eyes. So maybe I'm not the one to judge who's crazy and who ain't."
"You know what worries me sometimes? This'll make you laugh."
"What?"
"Well, like I told you, at first I had to work hard to get to the Other Place. Then it got so as I could slip into it without even trying, any time things got to be too much. What worries me is this: What if, someday, I go off to the Other Place, and I can't get back? What if I get stuck there? Wouldn't that be something!"
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and didn't respond.
"I'm glad I've told you, Ruth Lillian. You may think I'm crazier'n a hoo-bird, but I'm still glad I've told you."
"What's a hoo-bird?"
"Something I made up. A crazy bird that doesn't say anything but hoo hoo."
"Sort of like an owl?"
"Yeah, but taller. Hey, look there!" A name on a slumping wooden cross had snagged his attention: Mule. 1892. "They buried a mule here? Alongside of folks?" he asked.
She laughed, relieved to be talking about something else. "Mule was a man! That wasn't his real name, of course. It's just what people called him."
"Who was he?"
"Nobody. Just an odd-job man. Strong as an ox and twice as dumb. He'd work like a Chinaman for just a nickel or a sandwich. People used to play tricks on him and laugh when he made a fool of himself. And he'd laugh along too, happy for the attention."
Matthew's voice dropped to a minor key. "Just an odd-job man, eh?"
"Yeah, he worked a little here and a little there, and he'd-Matthew, he wasn't anything at all like you. Not a bit."
"But nobody respected him. I mean… look what they did! They even wrote Mule on his grave, so's everybody could come and have a good laugh at the odd-job man!"
"They laughed at him because he was a fool. Not because he did odd jobs! Jeez!" She was embarrassed, but angry too. Angry with herself for accidentally saying something hurtful, and angry with him for being so sensitive about it, so she said, "All right, maybe you're right. Maybe people didn't respect poor old Mule. Who cares?"
Matthew cared.
KERSTI BJORKVIST SNORTED MOISTLY as she climaxed. Her strong body heaved in rapture, lifting him up on her wide pelvis. Then she settled back and hugged him to her chest, hard. "Wasn't that something! I think there's nothing better in the whole world! What do you think?"
Matthew's thoughts were in great confusion at that moment. For one thing, Kersti smelled of old sweat. For another, this was sin. Sin of the Flesh. It was the first time he'd ever… done it. And it left him feeling empty and bad and embarrassed and ashamed. But most of all he felt sad that his first time had been with Kersti Bjorkvist, when all along he'd been thinking and dreaming about Ruth Lillian.
He had been in bed reading The Ringo Kid Turns Tail. (Of course, he didn't really turn tail, but he made everyone think he had, to give himself time to figure out how to thwart the slick-talking land-grabber who was scheming to get this orphan girl's ranch.) He must have dozed off because he was falling, falling, falling… when suddenly his head snapped up and he was full awake, his heart pounding. Was that a noise at his back door? No, no it was just something left over from his bad dream. He smiled at himself for being frightened, like some scaredy-cat kid. But maybe he'd better blow out his lamp anyway, just to be sure. He remembered how in The Ringo Kid Places His Bet, Ringo had heard footsteps outside his cabin (Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms called them "footfalls" in his cultured English way), and Ringo immediately blew out his lamp, so he wouldn't have the disadvantage of being in the light while his enemy is in the dark. Matthew had paused over that passage and nodded with admiration at the Kid's savvy, and at how he had thought of it right off, just like that!
He heard the sound again, a scratching at the back door. Then someone whispered harshly, "Hey? Open up!" It was a girl's voice!
He got out of bed and unlatched the back door to ask what-But suddenly she was in and everything happened at once. She gave him a big wet kiss that half missed his mouth, and she fumbled around until she had it in her hand, and he could feel it getting hard, then she was sitting on his bed, snatching her dress off over her head, and there was a strong smell of sweat when she raised her arms, and she pulled him onto her. At first he didn't really want to. But then he did want to, and pretty soon he really needed to something fierce. She sort of growled, annoyed because he was fumbling around, so she put it in for him, and she came almost immediately, then he came, but she continued heaving and pumping and he stayed hard long enough for her to climax again… snorting… and then she settled back and hugged him to her, hard, and said, "Wasn't that something! I think there's nothing better in the whole world! What do you think?" He still lay on her thick, sweat-slippery body, feeling empty and embarrassed and sinful, but sort of wanting to do it again, and at the same time feeling disgusted with himself for wanting to. And vaguely sad, too.
She pushed him off and hugged him against her side, where he was close to the sweat smell. "Was that the first time you ever did a girl?"
"No! No, I've done lots of… But it's been a spell. A man forgets."
"Forgets?"
"Well, I don't mean forget so much as… well, you know…" He didn't go on with it. It wasn't going to get any better.
"I'm quick," she boasted. "Men like a woman who's quick."
"Of course they do. I mean… why wouldn't they?" His eyes had adjusted to the moonlight coming through the window, and he could make out her profile, the lush hair growing low on her forehead, the long meaty nose, the thick lips. And lower down, he could see the still-erect nipple of one heavy breast.
She threaded his arm around her neck and cuddled close to him, playing idly with his penis as she talked into the darkness above them. She didn't have her parents' chanting accent, which didn't surprise Matthew because most of the kids he'd gone to school with had parents with old-country accents, but the kids talked regular American-like Ruth Lillian, who had no trace of her father's brittle consonants. The thought of Ruth Lillian made his ears tingle with shame.
While Kersti babbled on, hungry for a chance to talk to someone, his arm, trapped beneath her neck, became numb, then it began to tingle painfully, but he didn't move it because he didn't want her to think he didn't like her.
"It wouldn't surprise me if you never done a girl before. You're still a kid. Me, I'm twenty-two years old. My brother's about the same age as you, and he does himself out in the back shed. Sometimes three, four times a day. He's always at it. Maybe that's why he's so dumb. But I don't think so. If you ask me, he's just naturally dumb. But I suppose doing himself all the time don't help any. Ther
e was this drummer come through town four, five years ago? The last drummer ever to come to Twenty-Mile. He was different from most drummers. He didn't have a big smile and a bright tie and tell jokes and all. He dressed in black, like a preacher, and he talked serious and deep, like he was feeling sorry for everybody? He read to my ma out of this book that said how it was dangerous for boys to do themselves 'cause it made them stupid and blind. Me and my brother was listening from behind the door, and we had to bite our knuckles to keep from laughing out loud, 'cause my brother was already doing himself regular and his eyesight was just fine. Well, this drummer said that parents who cared about their sons ought to stop them from doing themselves by feeding them plenty of a special flour invented by a preacher named of Dr. Sylvester Graham, and this Graham flour was what the drummer sold. You paid him in advance, and he'd have the Graham flour shipped to you, but my ma told him she wasn't born yesterday, and she wasn't going to give no drummer money in advance for flour he might ship and might not, and anyway she didn't have to worry about her son abusing himself, because she'd raised us kids as God-fearing Christians, and that made my brother and me snicker even more because the reason our family got chucked out of the settlement of Swedes my folks came to America with was because my pa got caught doing the prayer-leader's wife. And that was funny because the prayer-leader had been doing me on the sly for months. Not really doing me, 'cause I was too young and small down there to be done proper. But while he was giving me Bible instruction, he'd touch me and make me touch him and that sort of stuff. That's why they run us off from the settlement and we ended up in Twenty-Mile. From that day on, my ma wouldn't let my pa do her. I know 'cause I heard them arguing about it at night. And that's why my pa sneaks out sometimes to do one of the girls at the hotel."