Harold bowed his head a little and gripped the two stakes fiercely. When the intolerable tearing was over, and the ghosts of the two parts flowed together again, he drew a deep breath and loosened his hold and looked up. In the half-aliveness that remained, he was capable only of pity among the strong feelings, but his vision was cleared like that of a man who has rid himself, for a time, of prejudice and memory, so that what he sees is all new and strange. Joe Sam had trampled the snow down in a wide circle with the big boots. He was standing in the center of the circle, with the grain measure in his arm, and the chickens were crowding around him. They were all kinds, gray and red and black and crossed, and the harder colors of their combs and wattles, their beaks and legs, made bright flecks and spots upon the soft colors of the feathery mass. The two fierce, painted little bantams darted back and forth on the edge of the crowd, picking up the grains that fell outside. Arthur had brought the bantams all the way from the Carson Valley. They were his favorites, and they were Joe Sam’s favorites too. Curt always snorted about the bantams. "No damn use at all," he’d say. "One egg a week, as big as your thumb."
Joe Sam fanned the grain out slowly and thinly, a handful at a time. It was the motion of a man sowing seed who likes to do it, and has a feeling that the act is holy and should be thought about. Only it was even slower than that, with long pauses between sweeps when Joe Sam’s hand waited above the measure and he solemnly watched the chickens turning and pecking about him. He looked from one to another of them, considering each by itself. Only when they began to move uneasily, hunting and not finding anything, would he slowly fan out the next handful onto the snow. It took Joe Sam a long time to feed the chickens this way. He was nearly done now, though. He was already holding the last handful for the part of the ceremony he liked best. He squatted and set down the measure on the snow beside him. Then he divided the last handful, and holding half of it out in each hand, close to the snow, began to make a soft, continuous sound through his teeth, now clucking, now whistling. The bantams at once stopped hunting around on the edge of the flock and came running to him, forcing their way boldly among the big chickens that had shut them out before. The cock began to strike quickly at the grain in his right hand and the hen at the grain in his left. The other chickens knew better than to push into this final rite. It was just for the bantams, and all the time it went on, Joe Sam kept up the soft clucking and whistling, and at the same time grinned with a faint, malicious pleasure to feel their tiny beaks darting against his palms. When they had taken the last grains, he stood up slowly, still grinning, and stopped the coaxing sounds, and held out his hands, palms down, to show they were empty. The little cock reared and beat the air before him with his wings and crowed exultantly in his high, thin voice. Joe Sam laughed out loud. The same happy malice was in the laugh that was in the grin, and a pride like the bantam cock’s as well.
"Shoo," he said finally, and waved first the bantams, and then all the rest of the flock, away from him. The small magic of the ceremony dissolved, and it was hard to tell what had made it in the first place. Joe Sam picked up the measure and went slowly out of the chicken run, dragging the big boots so they made channels in the snow. He closed the gate carefully, fastened it with its wire loop, and plodded on up to the store room at the south end of the shed.
Harold went up after him. Watching the feeding, and remembering Arthur watching it, had cleaned the last anger out of him. He had to remind himself, with an effort, that Joe Sam still had the bottle neck somewhere, and of what he had already done with it.
The store room was shadowy and cold and full of the smells of grain and of the new wood that was stacked up along the east wall. Joe Sam was standing by the grain bins, holding up the big lid that covered them all.
"We better take some boards up with us, to make the coffin, Joe Sam," Harold said. "It’s too cold to work down here."
Joe Sam looked at him without expression, and waited.
"Make box for Arthur," Harold explained. "To bury him."
"Make box," Joe Sam said. He dropped the measure into a bin, and let the lid down.
Harold chose five long boards that were still white from the saw and plane. He drew them out of the pile and laid them one on top of the other on the floor. He brought the tool tray from the bench under the cobwebby front window and set it on top of the boards. Then he signed to Joe Sam to take the other end. They carried the boards out and set them down in the snow while Harold closed the store room. Then they picked them up again, and went slowly, with several stops to let Joe Sam rest or get a new hold, across the yard and up the hill to the bunk-house.
In the bunk-house, Harold built up the fire again.
"Better get your clothes on now, Joe Sam," he said, and waited until the old man had taken off the big dust coat and the boots and begun to dress beside the stove. Then he hung up the coat on the wall by the wash stand, and set the boots together under it. He stood there for a moment, watching Joe Sam, but the old Indian seemed to be away in his mind again, and not noticing anything around him, so he went outside and up to the woodpile, and came back with two sawhorses. He set the sawhorses up in the middle of the room and laid the first board across them, and a saw, a folding rule, a square and a blue pencil on the board. Then he looked at Joe Sam again. He was sitting on the box beside the stove, slowly pulling on a sock. He had set his breakfast down on the floor beside the box.
Harold crossed to the water bucket and dipped himself a glass of water. This time he looked at Joe Sam in the mirror. The old man was very small, and way back there on his box, in the mirror, but Harold could see that he was pulling on a moccasin now, and not paying any attention to anything else. Harold raised the glass of water, and while he drank, felt quickly over the old dust coat, hiding the search with his body. There was nothing solid in the dust coat. It hung flat and limp, and was getting damp now from the snow melting on it.
Harold finished his drink, set the glass down, and went to the window, where he pretended to be looking down at the house. As he turned back, he took a quick look into the trash keg in the corner. The bottle neck was there again, lying on top of all the smaller pieces. He smiled a little at the way he was setting tricks of his own against Joe Sam’s now, and took off his cap and mackinaw and hung them up. Then he went back to the board across the two sawhorses. As long as he knew where that bottle neck was, that was the thing. As long as it didn’t show up where he didn’t expect it. There’d be some chance to get rid of it for good when the old man didn’t have to watch him do it. Or when he was sober again, if that was what made the difference.
He stood looking down at the board and thought for a minute. Then he unfolded the yellow rule along the edge of it, and began to mark off the length he wanted.
Joe Sam had finished dressing now. He crossed slowly to his bunk and sat down on the edge of it and watched the work. He followed every move with his good eye, but didn’t appear to be really paying attention to any of them.
"You better eat something," Harold said.
"Maybe, soon," Joe Sam said, and didn’t move.
"Well, it can’t get any colder now, that’s sure," Harold said.
He laid the square across the board at the end of the length he’d measured, and made a quick slash along it with the pencil. He started the saw against the square too, and when it had cut a line groove to hold the teeth exactly on the blue line, pushed the square away. Then the rasping of the saw began, loud and rhythmical in the closed room. The sawdust fell in little, soundless spurts from the cut, and in the window behind Harold, the thinning snow fell soundlessly also, and always slower and slower. It was just floating now, as if it were being let down carefully and all together.
15
It was about one o’clock when Gwen came up with coffee and sandwiches. Harold tried to get Joe Sam to eat, but the old man just looked up at him slowly, and as if he didn’t really see him, and said, "Maybe, soon," and looked back down at the curly shavings under the plank.
/> "No use trying to make him eat when he’s like this," Harold said, and set the plate and cup down on the box beside the untouched breakfast.
Gwen turned back toward the door, and Harold asked, "How’s everything going down there now?"
"Al1 right, I guess," she said.
"You don’t have to go right away, then, do you?"
"Well," Gwen said, "I could stay a little while, I guess."
She came around the planks laid out on the sawhorses and sat down on Harold’s bunk. She smiled up at him quickly, and looked away again quickly. After a moment she said, "It’s awfully hot in here," and stood up and took off her cloak and laid it carefully over the foot of the bunk. Then she sat down again, with her hands together in her lap. Harold sat down on one of the planks, where it crossed the sawhorse nearest to her, and began to eat his lunch. When they looked at each other at the same time, they both smiled, but they didn’t try to talk. lt was too quiet in the bunk-house, and both of them felt Joe Sam there too much. They kept looking at him, first one of them and then the other.
When Harold had finished eating, he got Joe Sam’s breakfast and lunch and set them on the plank, and began to break the food into a little pile of scraps on one plate, crumbling the bread in with the rest.
"We might as well give it to his birds," he said. “He’s even forgotten them, this time. He most generally puts grain out back for them, when it snows."
He stacked the used dishes together on the plank and picked up the plate of scraps and the cup of coffee, and they went out together. Harold emptied the coffee into the snow, and led the way around to the back corner of the bunk-house. There he gave the plate to Gwen, and with short steps going around and in, in a spiral, he stamped the snow firm over a small circle. When he was done, Gwen scattered the food onto the packed surface. Her hands worked quickly and deftly at the little task. Her yellow blouse was bright as fire against the snow and the dark edge of the woods, and the floating snow slowly laid its thin crystals on the heavy coil of her hair. Harold stood there watching her all the time. When she finished, she stood for a moment looking at the birds that were already appearing in the nearest trees, and then turned and came back to him. He took the plate from her gently, looking down at her face and smiling a little all the time, and dropped the plate and the cup into the new snow behind him. They made a small, muffled clatter against each other, but neither Gwen nor Harold heard it. He took her hands and drew her slowly against him and bent his face down to hers. After the long kiss, he pushed her off a little, and kissed her lightly on the forehead, meaning to let her go. He couldn’t, though, but suddenly drew her closer again and kissed her repeatedly on the cheeks and eyelids and throat, and at last on the mouth again. He bent her back under this kiss, and their faces became fierce and bereaved. They clung to each other desperately, with their eyes closed and their hands beseeching.
The many little black caps and chickadees and the two orange towees that had been waiting fluttered down and hopped into the circle, one at a time, and then two and three together, and began to pick quickly about among the scraps. A downy woodpecker went twice around the big pine that was nearest on the other side of the circle, making a faint, rhythmical scratching on the bark. Then he walked straight down it for a few feet, launched out, and lit abruptly by the morsel he’d chosen. A big, black-crested jay came down onto the corner of the roof and stalked about in small circles, complaining stridently. Three more jays arrived in the big pine and hitched and scolded too, one on the lowest branch and the other two on the second branch above him.
It was Gwen who finally gently pushed Harold from her and shook her head at him. Harold lifted the pushing hands to his lips, pressing them together in his own, and kissed them many times. The hunger came on Gwen’s face again as she looked down at his head, but after a moment she whispered, "No, no," and kissed his hair quickly and lightly and drew her hands free.
"I have to go back now, Harold."
He stood looking down at her again, with a little, one-sided smile like Arthur’s. Finally he just nodded and touched her arm with his fingertips. Then he turned and dug the cup and plate up out of the snow.
"I’ll get the rest of the dishes," he said huskily.
They stood looking at each other again, and then, suddenly Gwen’s eyes filled with tears.
"Honey, honey," Harold said, and would have moved to her again, but she held him oif, gently but stubbornly.
"No, Harold, please."
"No," he said finally, and tried to smile. He stepped back to let her go ahead of him, and the way he did it made it a big gesture, as if he were opening a way through a crowd for her. Then he turned and followed close behind her, glancing down at the house as he did so. He wasn’t thinking about it at first, but after an instant he really saw what he was looking at, and something pierced swiftly and coldly into him. Small, not quite real, a puppet in the box of the closed stage down there, the mother was standing in the north window, watching them. Her face was only a tiny, blank oval, but he knew how it looked. He knew what she was thinking as if he could hear her saying it, and the knowledge separated him from Gwen. A quick, murderous fury leapt up in him, but it was partly the fury of a culprit caught in the act. He looked away from the north window at once.
Behind them, the scolding jays came down into the circle, and the blackcaps and chickadees and towees fluttered away. The downy woodpecker stayed where he was, though, and went on picking at what he wanted. The jays left a clear circle of snow around him, but they were angry because they had to do it, and squabbled loudly with each other. Two of the chickadees came back down and started to feed again. They kept close to the woodpecker, and the jays let them alone too.
"Mother’s watching us," Harold said.
"Is she?" Gwen said absently. Then she said, "Oh,” and that little sound coming by itself afterwards told him the cold blade had struck into her too. He didn’t want to look down at the north window again, but he saw Gwen glance down, and then away again quickly, and he began to feel that he was even walking awkwardly. In spite of himself, he looked again as they went around the corner to the front of the bunk-house. The dark puppet with the white patch of face was still there in the window. Gwen stopped outside the door and turned to face him. He halted an arm’s length from her.
"Will it make her awfully angry, Hal?" she asked.
"Don’t you care about it," he said. "Don’t you care, no matter what she says."
After a moment, Gwen said, "It was pretty bad, wasn’t it? I mean now? She’d think it was?"
"What was" he asked angrily. "What did we do that was so awful?"
"It’s what she’s thinking about it," Gwen said tonelessly.
"I don’t think she likes me very much anyway, and now . . ."
There wasn’t anything good to say to her that was true. After a time, he turned and stared down at the house. His fists were doubled, and the fury came out in his words, though quietly. "Just because she’s never been anything but a whore and a slave, just because that’s all it’s ever meant to her, she thinks even God sees it that way now. If she even . . ." He turned back and saw Gwen standing there, perfectly still, staring at his face, and the anger turned cold in him. Gradually he knew what it was that he’d said, and heard a little how it must have sounded to her.
"Well," he said finally, "she’s seen us now, and she can’t pretend about it any more. The sooner we get it over with, the better. Wait’ll I get the dishes."
Gwen turned her back to the house and stood there while he went in and picked up her cloak and the dishes and came back.
"If you’ll take these for a minute," he said, "I’ll put your cloak on."
She took the dishes without looking at him, and turned her back to him, and waited. He laid the cloak gently over her shoulders, and then, because he had to do something more, drew the hood up over her head and forward to shield her face. While he still had hold of the hood, he leaned past her shoulder until he could see her face inside,
in the shadow, and smiled at her. She wouldn’t smile back, though, and after a moment he couldn’t smile either. He straightened and walked stiffly back and closed the door. When he turned again, Gwen was already going down toward the house, carrying the dishes. He couldn’t hurry after her and try to take them from her when she had done that, so he just followed her down, feeling that he had already lost all that would matter in the trouble he was sure was coming.
When they entered the kitchen, Grace was sitting by herself at the table, holding Arthur’s little carving of a sheep-herder carrying a lamb over his neck. She wasn’t really looking at it, though. She was staring at the edge of the table, and then she looked up at them. Before any of them could speak, the mother appeared in the bedroom door. She had the black shawl on still, and was holding it together at the throat with one hand. She looked only at Harold, and she spoke to him as if Gwen weren’t there.
"I saw you up there with her."
"Did you?" Harold said.
He took the dishes from Gwen, and walked slowly over and set them down on the sink shelf. He did it carefully, so they couldn’t see how he was trembling.
"How could I help it?" the mother asked, in the deep voice like a man’s. "Playin’ with your little whore right out in plain sight, and your brother not yet in his grave."
The Track of the Cat Page 19