Harold turned around and took hold hard on the edge of the sink shelf behind him, with both hands. "You could maybe pick your words a little better," he said softly.
"You’ve done the pickin’ for me, I’d say. Your pa called her a dirty, foreign little mucker’s brat. Well, she’s that, right enough, but that’s the least of what she is. I never been one to mince my words, when they tell the truth. Whore is what I called her, and whore is what I meant. I’m sayin' only what has to be said, and you’l1 listen to me."
"Get it all said quick then."
The mother stared at him. "I’d send her packin’ this minute," she said finally, "only I won’t have it on my conscience she got put out in this storm by herself. And you can’t take her home now. You’ll have to finish the coffin, and with Curt gone, you’ll have to dig the grave too. She can get her things together and take them up to the bunk-house, and wait there till you’re ready. If she.. ."
“That’ll do," Harold said.
Gwen said scornfully, "Never mind, Harold. I’m going, and I won’t need any help, thank you."
"You’ll go when the buryin’s done,” the mother said.
"We’ll go now," Harold said. "Curt can dig the, grave when he gets back, and finish the coffin too. If you think . . ."
Gwen turned away suddenly toward the door.
"You better take your things up with you," the mother said.
Gwen went on toward the door.
It was Grace’s voice that stopped her. "Mother, you’re making a nasty, filthy lie out of nothing. It’s you that’s shaming Arthur, not Gwen. And not Harold either."
They’d nearly forgotten she was there, and even Gwen stopped and turned, astonished by the sharp voice. They all stared at Grace. She was standing behind the chair now, gripping the back of it with both hands so hard her knuckles were white. Her face was white too, and her eyes were very wide, and dark and shining. She was staring at the mother.
"What’s Gwen done, anyway?" she cried. "You, to be always talking as if you were God around here."
The mother slowly let go of her shawl and gripped her two hands together in front of her. "Don’t blaspheme, girl.”
"Me blaspheme?" Grace cried. She lifted her face for a moment at the rafters, and laughed shrilly. "Me blaspheme?" she cried again, staring at the mother, and even leaning a little toward her, as if about to spring, though still clutching the back of the chair.
"Grace," Harold said, moving toward her with his hand out.
"Don’t you touch me," she cried, but still holding the mother with her staring eyes. "Don’t any of you touch me. Oh, God, I’ve needed to say this. We all need to. Even the house needs to. It’s rotten with lies and greed and bad dreams. Arthur knew; oh, how he knew. But he was too kind-hearted. He always forgave everything. All he’d do was make little jokes that told the truth if you listened to them. But you and your God don’t hear little jokes. And Curt and Father don’t even have a God, not any kind. Only money. Only self-importance and wanting their own way, and money, money, money. And there isn’t any use for money around here, or anything to be important about. So all Father wants now is to be drunk and pretend he’s not here, and Curt wants to kill everything; he wants everything in the valley dead but Curt. He was happy when he found those steers dead. Didn’t you see that, you old fool? Couldn’t you hear that when he talked about it? They were dead already, and it gave him an excuse to kill something else too.
“And think how happy he was when he found Arthur out there. He let him go out there alone, didn’t he? He sent him out there, so he could come back here and strut around. He knew Arthur wouldn’t kill anything. He knew he’d get to do that too. And that isn’t all; that’s just the end of it. He’s been robbing Arthur for years. He’s taken Arthur’s share time after time, with your blessing, and your God’s, and Father’s too. To improve the ranch, he says. Oh, yes, but his ranch, his. You don’t think he ever means it to be anything else, do you?"
"Grace," the mother said sharply.
"Oh, yes, he has," Grace cried triumphantly. “You know it, but as long as nobody says it, you can pretend you don’t. Well, now I’m saying it, and you’ll listen to it, too. I don’t care what happens any more. What does it matter what happens now? Arthur’s dead. You don’t even seem. to know that, any of you. Arthur’s dead." She leaned forward still more at the mother. "And Curt killed him. He wanted him dead, and now he’s killed him. Oh, yes, he has, just as sure as if he’d shot him. And he’s glad of it, do you hear me? He’s dancing for joy out there. He was afraid of Arthur; Arthur was all that kept him from selling the whole valley right out from under us. He wouldn’t fight for himself, but he would for the rest of us, and Curt knew it. He couldn’t sell us out with Arthur alive, so he killed him. Now he can do what he wants. There’s nobody he’s afraid of now. Oh, he’s glad. Don’t you ever think he isn’t. And he can kill his painter and be a hero, too. He has everything, and all with the blessing of your wicked, selfish, ugly God."
She paused, breathing hard and quickly, and none of them could speak after the sound of her flying voice. After a moment, though, the father’s deep voice spoke from the landing above.
"What’s going on down there?"
The others were freed a little, and even in Grace herself the frightened hatred was checked. She was about to go on, but didn’t. They all looked up at the old man, the mother moving out of the doorway to see him. He appeared huge up there in the shadow. His hair was on end in the little flame shapes and his clothes were creased and twisted from his restless sleep. He was holding himself steady with his left hand on the rail, and cradling a new whisky bottle in
his right arm, like a baby.
"You all deaf?" he asked. "What’s going on? I want to know. All this screaming?" He stared down through narrowed eyes at Grace.
"Don’t ask me," Grace cried. "Ask Mother." She pointed at the mother. "Ask her. She’s the one that started it."
"Your daughter has been screaming blasphemous nonsense," the mother said stiffly. "But we’ve listened to about enough of it now, I think." She turned to Grace. "You get back in that bunk-room and stay there till you can keep a decent tongue in your head."
"Screaming nonsense, have I?" Grace cried at her. She looked up again at the old man on the landing. "She’s sending Gwen home. And she’s sending her up to the bunk-house to wait. She’s sending her up there where she’ll have Joe Sam for company, and he’s drunk, and God only knows what he’ll do. And then. . ."
The mother’s voice came over hers, saying fiercely, "Grace, you get back in that bunk-room. You hear me?"
"Lettie," the father said angrily, "have you gone crazy? She can’t stay up in that bunk-house with that old fool. Nobody knows what he’ll do when he’s got one of these idiot spells. What on earth gave you such a notion?"
Nobody answered him. Nobody could answer that question when he asked it from up there, like a chairman on a platform.
"What did she do? I asked you."
"Yes, ask her," Grace cried. "She’s the eye of God. She’s the one that saw it."
"Saw what?"
"Awful things," Grace cried. "She saw them from the window."
Gwen made a little, choking sound, and turned suddenly toward the door again.
"No, Gwen," Harold cried. She was already struggling blindly with the latch when he caught her. She wrestled to free herself, but kept working at the latch too, and crying, "Let go of me. Let go of me, I tell you." Finally, breaking half-free, she struck at him, so that he had to let go. She got the latch to work then, and pulled the door open and stumbled out, beginning to weep so they could hear her.
Outside, on the snow, Harold caught her again, pleading, "Gwen, Gwen."
The others, watching through the open door, saw her face turned up at him furiously, her eyes blind with tears, and heard her cry, "You God-Almighty Bridges. There’s nobody good enough for you, is there? To hell with you all too, then. I’ll get my dirty, foreign muck out of here so fast. . ." Her voic
e broke, choked off by a sob, and Harold, holding her with both hands now, said something they couldn’t hear, still pleading with her.
"No," Gwen cried, twisting harder to get free. "No, you won’t. I’ll go by myself. Let go of me, will you? Even a whore wouldn’t take any help from you now, not any of you."
The mother crossed to the outside door and closed it. With her back against the door, she said, "We’ve heard about enough of that, I guess. What decent woman would be screaming things like that?"
Grace cried up at the father, "She was only saying what Mother called her, and you. Mother called her a whore."
"I saw them," the mother said in the deep voice.
"Eh?" the old man said. "Saw who?" he asked.
“Those two out there. That little easy woman, and your son."
The father lurched against the rail, bending dangerously far over it, but then pushed himself up again. "Easy woman?" he asked.
"That Gwendolyn Williams. You get back to bed now, Pa. You ain’t fit to be up. I’ll take care of this nonsense."
The old man still stood there above them, though, searching in the mist of his mind, repeating Gwen’s name twice in a question to himself. At last he said happily, "Oh, the little dark one. Curt’s intended." After a moment, he frowned and said heavily, like a man who is very patient but pushed near his limit, "And what’s she done now?"
"There’s no need to bother now," the mother said. "She’s took care of it herself. You heard her. You go finish your sleep."
"What’s she done? I asked you," the father said loudly.
"What would you expect a whore to do?"
"Don’t you believe her," Grace cried. "She says she saw them. All right, then, make her tell you what she saw, not just keep calling her names."
"Grace," the mother said, starting away from the door, "did you hear what I told you? I ain’t gonna say it again."
"Make her tell you," Grace cried.
"Yes, by God," the father said. "Hiding things from me again. Always hiding things, Well, not this time, not after all this uproar. You tell me now, you hear?"
The mother stopped by the table, and turned up at him the knife face her will made in anger. "You want to know? You want to make me talk about such things? All right, then. They was actin’ up right up by the bunk-house, in broad daylight. I seen ’em myself, from the bedroom window. And Arthur lyin’ right there beside me, not a day dead. Is that the kind of a woman you want in your house? Is that the kind you want your own son marryin’?"
"No, by God," the father began.
“She’s lying again," Grace cried. "Can’t you see she's lying? Acting like what?" she cried at the mother.
"Acting like what?" the father repeated. “Yes," he said, with sudden rage, "lying to me. All the time lying. I won’t stand any more of this goddam lying, you hear me?"
"I’1l get Harold," Grace cried triumphantly. "He’ll tell you."
But the father had come upon something sure in his own mind. He chuckled. Grace and the mother both stared up at him. He leaned over the rail and grinned at the mother, blinking slowly, and shook his head three or four times.
"No, they wouldn’t," he said. He chuckled again. "Not in all that snow, they wouldn’t."
"If Harold hadn’t seen me watching them . . .” the mother began.
“You see?” Grace cried at the father. " ‘If,’ she says. She didn’t see anything."
“She was kissing him," the mother declared, “and the way no decent woman . . ."
"Kissing," the father said loudly. He lurched again, and again caught himself on the rail, and hung there, staring down at her. "Kissing,” he said again, his head jerking from the violence with which he said the word. "Now, you listen to me, old woman." He worked himself around and started down the stairs, taking them one at a time and with the help of the rail, but as fast as he could. He was breathing hard through his nose.
"And for that she calls her a whore," Grace cried.
"Grace," the mother said, the little furies dancing behind her eyes, "I told you to keep out of this, and I ain’t gonna tell you again. You’ve made trouble enough already."
"I’ve made trouble?" Grace cried.
The father didn’t seem to hear either of them. His anger had already sunk into a muttering petulance against the stairs. He’d heard the words, though. At the foot of the stairs, leaning against the rail, he said. "All women are whores at heart."
He was pleased at having mastered the stairs, and now his own words pleased him too. He repeated them. "Yessir, all women are whores at heart." He chuckled.
"Harold," the mother said.
“Only," he said, "some’s honest whores, and some gets religion." He made a foolish, thin little laugh. "You got a good enough place yourself, old woman," he said, grinning. "The best of them would have settled for clothes and a carriage, but what did you charge me, huh? I’ll tell you what you charged me. My life, that’s what you charged me, my whole damn life. And no fun for my money either."
"I ain’t gonna stand here . . ." the mother began.
"Oh, yes, you are," he said. He lurched a little, and thrust his head forward. "It’s a fact," he said grinning. "Most expensive whore in the whole damn world, and no damn good. A clothes-pin in bed, a goddam, ’normous, wooden clothes-pin. There." He nodded happily, and uncorked the bottle and lifted it to his lips with his head tilted back. “Gotta keep drinkin’," he burbled around the bottle, "just to forget the goddam, ’normous wooden clothes-pin."
The mother stared at him. Her face was gray, and the grooves of time and labor and war with herself grew deeper while she stood there. Finally she spoke slowly, and almost as thickly as he had spoken.
"Is that all it means to you, a lifetime of slavin’ and lookin’ out for you, and bearin’ you four young uns?"
The father let the bottle down a little and said cheerfully, "That’s all," and lifted the bottle and drank again. Then he lowered it all the way and corked it. He cradled it in his arm once more and leaned across the rail, twisting sideways.
"You think I’m too drunk to know what I’m saying. Not though. Everybody saying just what they think, so I am too. Know what I’m saying. Just what I think." He began the whinnying laugh again, but broke it off short as his head drooped and rolled toward his shoulder. He jerked it up after a moment and peered at the mother. She hadn’t moved from where she’d been standing the whole time.
All at once Grace stirred herself. She crossed swiftly to the foot of the stairs and stood right below the old man.
"Father," she said, and then again, "Father."
Finally the father’s head turned slowly, and he squinted to see her too. "What you want?"
"You won’t let her send Gwen away, will you?"
"No," the old man said, speaking angrily, because she asked the question so urgently. "Course not. Stay if she wants to."
"And she can come down here, can’t she? You won’t let Mother keep her up there in the bunk-house with Joe Sam?"
"Course not," the old man said. "My house. Have who I want in it."
Still standing there on the other side of the table, the mother asked slowly, "You want a woman like that in your house?"
For a moment the old man didn’t seem to understand where the question had come from. Then he let his head roll back again, and peered at the mother. "Eh?" he asked.
"What’s that?"
"I asked do you want that kind of a woman in your house?"
The father kept staring at her till it seemed he hadn’t understood, or had already forgotten the question. Then suddenly he chuckled, and leaned over loosely and pointed at her. "Clothes-pin," he said. "You damn right," he said. "Gotta have whore inna house anyway, have a good whore. Onlyone around here does anything anyway. Not a damn clothes-pin."
"If that’s the last word you have ..." the mother began heavily.
"Father," Grace cried. She put her hand over his on the rail. "You can’t just say that. She’s got to apologize. Mother
’s got to apologize. Gwen can’t . . ."
"Grace," the mother said, "Ain’t you heard enough . . ."
"Father," Grace said again.
"Shut up," the father said suddenly and loudly. "Both of you shut up," he said. "Clothes-pins, both of you. Not women at all. Not human. Goddam clothes-pins."
The room was very quiet for a moment, save for his loud, enraged breathing. Then the anger passed slowly from his face. He appeared to have remembered something which made him very sad.
"Man’s gotta have a drink, anyway," he said finally, and balancing himself against the rail, began to struggle with the cork of his bottle. Suddenly he stopped and frowned. "Yes,” he said to himself. " ’Pologize. You hear me, old woman," he said, staring at the mother. "You ’pologize. Good girl. Only one around here does anything. Got my breakfast even. Curt’s intended too. Then you call her names like that. You ’pologize. Understand?"
The mother just stared back at him.
"You hear me, woman?" he yelled.
"I hear you. Anybody could hear you, up to the crick."
"All right. You better. You ’pologize. Go ’pologize now. Understand?"
"No," the mother said finally. "You can do as you please with her. From now on you can all do as you please about everything. Only I warn you," she said, her voice rising a little, and the tiny furies beginning to dance in her eyes again, "don’t you bring her anywheres near me." She came quickly around the table, not looking at either of them, and stalked into the bedroom and across it, and stood in front of the north window. She stood there for a long time, with her back turned to the door, and her arms down stiffly at her sides.
The father carefully let himself down until he was seated on the second step, and got his bottle uncorked again, and drank from it. Grace waited at the foot of the stairs, still clinging to the newel post.
The old man wiped the trickling liquor from his chin with his sleeve and then corked the bottle again. "Curt’s intended," he said mournfully. "Talk about her own son’s intended that way. Be Curt’s wife."
Grace closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the post for a moment. In the bedroom the mother let herself down into her chair and took the big Bible into her lap, but then did not open it, but only sat staring across the bed and out the west window.
The Track of the Cat Page 20