The father stopped patting the bottle and looked at her, startled. He watched her cross the room and pick up the knife and the half-peeled potato from the sink board.
"There’s sensible girl," he announced finally. "Glad somebody’s got some sense left. Have to eat, no matter what happens." He thought about that. "Just time for one more little drink before we eat," he said finally. He set the bottle on the table and sat forward and began trying to uncork it.
Harold came to the side of his chair in two strides and took the bottle out of his hands and yanked the cork out so it popped loudly. Then he got a glass off the sideboard, poured it a third full, and set it in front of the old man. He corked the bottle again, and set it down sharply beside the glass.
The father’s red, searching eyes found him then. He nodded, making it almost a sitting bow. "Thank you, my boy," he said. He raised his head heavily to look at Harold again, and then let it swing back down of its own weight. After a moment he remembered the glass of whisky and held it up and peered at it, grinning.
"One true friend of man," he declared.
He drank half the whisky, and said, "Ah," and set the glass down again.
Harold looked at Grace. "I’l1 get at the chores," he said. “I’ll be done by the time supper’s ready."
He got the lantern from behind the stove and set it on the table and lit it. He put on his coat and cap, and came back for the lantern, and went to the door. When he opened the door, the cold wind sucked in and a thin shifting of snow came with it, twisting and sliding along the planks. The roaring of the pines came in loudly too.
"Come on, Joe Sam," Harold said.
The old Indian rose from his seat on the wood-box and crossed the room silently, and went out past him into the noisy darkness.
"He’Il be eating with us," Harold said. "Set him a place too."
"But if Mother..." Grace began.
"She’ll stay in there," Harold said. "She’d damn well better," he added, with sudden fierceness, and went out, closing the door so hard the window beside it rattled more than the wind was rattling it.
17
When Harold and Joe Sam came in again, the father was already eating. Grace straightened up by the table, with the coffee pot; in her hand, and said, "Mother wants to see you."
"What about now?"
Grace shook her head. "I don’t know. She just said she wanted to see you as soon as you came in."
Harold took off his coat and cap and hung them up.
"Did she eat any supper?" he asked.
Grace nodded. "She drank her coffee, and ate a little meat."
"Well, that’s something," Harold said. "Go ahead," he said to them all, "I’ll be back in a minute," and crossed to the bedroom door.
The mother was sitting in the rocker by the bed, with the black shawl around her and her hands lying one upon the other in her lap.
"Did you want to see me, Mother?" Harold asked.
The mother didn’t look around, but said, "Come in here, will you? There’s no use telling our troubles to the whole wor1d."
Meaning Gwen, he thought, and went in and stood beside her, but looked over her at Arthur on the bed. It wasn’t like Arthur sleeping there now. The long, dark hair and beard looked false around the sinking face. He looks like an old man trying to be young, Harold thought. A skinny, mean, old man. With a pot belly, too, he thought, seeing how tight the black coat had become. We keep the room too warm.
“We better have the funeral tomorrow, no matter what," the mother said.
"I guess we’d better."
"If you and Joe Sam would bring the coffin down."
"All right."
"Then I could get it ready tonight," she said.
"It’s all ready."
"He can’t lie on the bare boards," the mother said, more in her old tone. "I want to line it with a quilt."
After a moment, he said, "Why don’t you just get the lining ready, Mother, and I’ll put it in, first thing in the morning."
"I’d like to do that much myself, if I’m to be allowed now."
If you’re to be allowed, he thought, but finally said, "All right, then."
"If you’d just bring me down a hammer and tacks when you come."
Just what they need to listen to all night, he thought, but said, "All right," again.
"After you’ve had your supper."
She began to rock the chair a little.
Enjoying herself now, Harold thought. He turned toward the door.
The mother stopped rocking. "Harold."
"Yes?"
"Are there enough good boards for another?"
Jesus, he thought violently, all his anger coming up at once, the Erst time she doesn’t have everything her own way, she wants to bury us all. He didn’t trust himself to answer, and finally she looked up at Then he wasn’t so sure. If I’m tired, he thought, think what she must be.
"It’s no good trying to fool ourselves," the mother said tonelessly. "Not after two days, and all this snow."
"He’s been out longer’n that, lots of times, Mother," Harold said. And if he doesn’t get back, he thought, we won’t need any coffin.
"It was never like this," the mother said. "I know. I can feel it. Well," she said, sighing, and looking away from him at the proud unicorn in the center of the bedspread, "it don’t matter right now. It’s just I keep thinkin’ of things, settin’ here with nothin’ to keep me busy." Then suddenly she buried her face in her hands, and cried thinly, "Oh, what have I done, that the Lord should turn on me like this?"
For a moment Harold could only stare at her, his own will draining out with hers. Then he came back to her, trying to keep his boots quiet on the floor. He wanted to kneel beside her and put his arm around her, but even now he couldn’t make himself do that. He put his hand on her shoulder, timidly.
"Mother, you got to get some sleep pretty quick. Why don’t you go in your room right now, and try and get some sleep? There’ll be plenty of time for everything in the morning." He closed the hand gently on her shoulder. "Please, Mother."
She shook her head, and then slowly sat up and leaned back, with her eyes closed and her hands in her lap, and Harold thought, That’s the way she was when I came in. She wasn’t taking it easy at all.
"I can’t sleep," the mother said. "I’m better with something to keep me busy. If you’ll just bring me those things when you come down." After a moment, she added fretfully, "If only that wind would stop blowing. It keeps blowing the snow against the window all the time."
Finally Harold said, "Well, we’ll bring it down now."
"No," she said, without opening her eyes, "there’s no such hurry as that about it. It’s way late for your supper now. You get something to eat first."
When he still didn’t go, she added, "I’m perfectly all right, I tell you. You go get your supper."
He thought, She’s poisoning herself in here, but he couldn’t think of any way to say that either, and finally turned and went back out as quietly as he could.
Grace and Gwen were already seated at the table, but they were waiting for him. Grace looked up at him, but saw his face and looked down again without asking the question. Joe Sam’s place was still empty. Harold looked around. The old Indian was sitting cross-legged on the floor, with his back against the wood-box. He still had on the big coat and the black sombrero.
"Come on, Joe Sam," Harold said. "Take ojf your things and pull up a chair."
Joe Sam didn’t move. Not even the faint glitter of his eyes changed. Harold went over to him and leaned down and put a hand on his shoulder. Joe Sam came back slowly from the distance he was watching, and looked up.
"Come to the table," Harold said. "Eat supper."
"Table?" Joe Sam asked.
"It’s all right." He coaxed with his hand under Joe Sam’s arm. Joe Sam did it easily, not using his hands, or any help from Harold, but just uncrossing his feet and rising silently, in one motion.
"Better take oif your hat
and coat," Harold said. “It’s hot in here."
"Hot," Joe Sam said. He took his hat off and put it on the wood in the box, and then slowly took his coat off, and folded it carefully, and laid it down beside the hat. He followed Harold to the table like a sleep-walker, and sat down in the chair beside Gwen, when Harold pulled it out for him. He didn’t look around at anybody, but right across the table, over Grace’s shoulder, at the stairs. Harold sat down between him and the father. The father had finished already, and he was just sitting there now, hunched over his plate and breathing heavily. He wasn’t paying any attention to anyone else.
Harold glanced several times, out of the corners of his eyes, at Joe Sam. It made him a stranger to see him sitting there at the table, very upright, and blinking slowly against the light. Grace and Gwen kept looking at him secretly too, staring at the blue bandana and the hair that had come unbraided as if they had never seen them before.
Finally Harold said, "You better eat something, Joe Sam."
The old Indian looked down at his plate, and after a moment, with all three of them watching him, picked up the two slices of beef that Gwen had put on it, and began to chew at them. After a couple of mouthfuls, he stopped chewing, and looked around at the others. He was smiling, and he looked politely at each of them. "Good meat," he said. They all looked away from him then, and he finished the meat and sat there motionless and upright again, with his hands in his lap. For a long time nobody else said anything. Then Harold set down his coffee cup and cleared his throat. He didn’t want to speak, but they had to know about it before the
hammering began.
"Mother wants the coffin down here tonight. She’s going to line it."
They both looked at him, but then they looked down at their plates again. Neither of them said anything. Harold knew they didn’t understand what he meant, but after that he wasn’t going to say anything more. Even after they’d finished eating, though, they all sat there staring into the shadow under the lamp. Finally Harold roused himself and stood up. That motion, and the sound of his chair scraping on the floor, woke Grace and Gwen too. Gwen glanced at him quickly, but when she found him standing there watching her, she looked down again at once. Her face was awake and guarded now, but she sat as still as ever, and wouldn’t look
at him again.
Well, he thought finally, if she thinks I’m going to hang around here forever, like a bum waiting for handouts. Still, he thought, looking at the father, I can’t leave her with that on her hands again. Where’s he got to now? he thought, seeing the blind eyes and the anger in the big red face, and the heavy lips moving. Somebody’s getting the best of him, anyway.
“Dad," he said.
The old man didn’t turn his head, and the look in his eyes didn’t change, but he began to speak so they could hear him. "The captain’s a fool, I tell you," he said thickly. "Nineteen days now, and still nothing but the same goddam head wind and the snow and the goddam axes going chop, chop, chop. When you can hear anything but the wind, it’s just the goddam axes. And we’re frosted up like a wedding cake. ‘Turn the ship around, you goddam fool,’ I told him, and he just yelped at me. He’s crazy, I tell you. He don’t even talk like a man any more; he barks like a dog."
He paused, wheezing like a man enraged beyond speech. "Drunk too," he added. "Drunk all the time."
Clean back to the Cape, Harold thought. He’s really getting away from it this time. But not out of trouble.
"Dad," he said again.
The father drew himself up and turned his head slowly and stared at the big nickel buckle of Harold’s belt. "No, sir," he began, "I tell you if we don’t give. . ." but then stopped, and tried to look up far enough to see who Harold was.
"Don’t you want to go to bed now, Dad?"
After a moment the old man let his head swing back, and nodded. "Go to bed," he said dully. "Never get any sleep around here. Always . . ." He let it go, and then said, more clearly, "Gotta go out first." He peered around over the table. "Where’s my bottle?" he asked. "Somebody took my bottle,” he muttered. "Damn, thievin’, female tricks. If I . . ." but then stopped again, because he had found the bottle. He poured his glass half full, spilling some over onto the table this time. He drank the whisky off in two or three gulps, and carefully let the bottle down onto the floor again, and got to his feet very slowly, and breathing erociously. He stood there for a moment, balancing himself on his fists on the table, and then swung around and started toward the door. He moved in wide lurches, and twice he had to stop, and peer around to discover where he was, and start over again. Harold moved over and followed close behind him, but the old man reached the door by himself and leaned against it. His breathing was like snoring now, and he rested there, with his head against the doorframe. Finally, holding onto the handle of the door with one hand, he rolled around with his back to the wall and raised the other.
"Evenin’ everybody," he said, "wonnerful evenin’," and swung around to the door again and got it open. The wind leapt in, nearly wrenching the door from him, and the snow sprayed in over him, making a fine, glittering mist in the light. He peered out into the darkness, and then
looked back over his shoulder, more wakeful and completely astonished.
"Snowing," he told them.
He peered out again. "Wha’s a lil snow?" he asked, and let go and stepped down into the shallow drift outside the door. The door blew wide back, and the broken crest of the drift slithered in across the floor. Harold caught the door, and went out, dragging it closed after him. The old man’s voice, thin and small in the gale outside, sang, ". . . play jack o’ diamonds and trust to my luck," and then was gone, as the deep roaring came down the mountain again. Without looking at Gwen, Grace said, "It’s the worst I’ve ever seen him."
Gwen didn’t answer, but Joe Sam made a small, soft sound in his throat. It might have been a chuckle, and it might not. When they looked at him, his face didn’t tell them anything. His good eye was looking at them now, though, and seeing them.
Gwen rose and began to clear the table. She moved quickly and sharply, putting the plates together too hard, and letting the knives and forks clatter on them. Grace got up slowly and began to help her.
They were washing the dishes when Harold and the father came back in. The father had a new bottle of whisky. He leaned against the door and embraced the bottle while Harold brushed the snow off him. He was quiet now, though, and his face was dull and sleepy. He let Harold help him around the table and up the stairs without saying anything. Only as they were going in through the door from the landing, he said plaintively, "Curt should be back. No night to be out. Nobody be out."
Harold came down again, and began to put on his coat and cap. "He’ll stay there this time, I think," he said. He went over and took the lantem down and lit it. "Joe Sam," he said. He had to speak three times, before Joe Sam looked at him and stood up, and then he had to help him into his coat and put his hat on him. They went out, letting the sound of the storm in, and a gust filled with snow, and then shutting them away again.
Grace and Gwen finished the dishes in silence. Then Gwen went into the bunk-room, though she left the door open. Grace went slowly to the mother’s place at the table, and sat down. She was still there when the heavy knocking came at the bottom of the outside door. The knocking came a second time, even louder, before she slowly got up and walked across and opened the door.
Harold came in first, carrying the big end of the coffin, and with the lantern hanging from his belt. The coffin was black, with a new, thin coat of paint. It looked huge, coming into the small, white room, and a strong smell of tar came with it. Joe Sam stumbled up over the sill, carrying the narrow end, and blinking against the light. There was a fine powdering of blown snow clinging all over both the men, making them almost white, except for their faces, and a sifting of dry flakes stirred like sand on the lid of the coffin. Grace closed the door and stood against it, and watched Harold and Joe Sam carry the coffin slowly around the
table and into the bedroom. Their feet made a soft shuffling because they were taking such short steps, and in the bedroom door, Harold had to turn around and tilt the coffin a little to get it through. The figure on the bed was covered with a white blanket now, and there was a folded quilt on the floor by the table.
The mother stood up and pushed the rocking chair back to make room by the bed.
"Put it over here," she said, "where I’ll have the light to see by."
They set the coffin down beside the bed, being very careful not to make a loud sound. Then Harold took the lantern off his belt and set it down by the coflin. He lifted the lid off the coffin, and a strong smell of wet sage came out of it, stronger even than the tar smell. He carried the lid over and stood it on end beside the wardrobe. The nails were already standing up all around the edge of it, ready to be driven in. He came back and took a hammer and a box of tacks out of the coffin and put them on the table.
Then he took out the two, big, twisted pieces of wet sage and stood there holding them, one in each hand. "He liked the smell of it when it was wet like that," he said.
The mother nodded. "You could leave it on the bed," she said.
He laid the two gray branches on the bed, one on each side of the feet under the white blanket.
The mother looked down into the coffin. The inside was still white, raw wood, and there were sage leaves scattered all over the bottom.
"I thought maybe I’d put balsam in the lining," she said.
Harold nodded.
The mother looked at Joe Sam, who was standing at the foot of the bed, looking at the long shape under the blanket. His face didn’t show anything.
"That’s all for now, I guess," the mother said.
"Well," Harold said, "if you want me for anything, you can send Grace up for me."
The mother looked at him, but she didn’t say anything, just nodded. Harold picked up the lantern, and said, "Come on, Joe Sam," and went back out into the kitchen. The old Indian followed him silently. Harold hesitated for a moment between the stove and the table. He looked at the open doorway of the bunk-room, and then back into the white bedroom. The mother was already bending over the coffin, unfolding the quilt along the edge of it. It was a patchwork quilt, with patches of all shapes and colors on it. Some of the patches shone in the light like water, and changed color when the mother moved the quilt.
The Track of the Cat Page 22