by Jim Thompson
“Oh?” The sheriff poised a pen over the form. “Maybe you better tell me the fellow’s name, then.”
“Well…it ain’t exactly a fellow.”
“You don’t mean it’s a woman!”
“N-no. I guess it’s a man all right. Kind of a man.”
“Well, what’s his name?”
“Uh…he’s got two or three,” said the lawyer, uncomfortably.
“Well, just give me the one he’s most commonly known by.”
Jeff wet his lips. “It’s…uh…Je-hovah,” he stuttered.
“G. Hovah,” repeated the sheriff, dipping the pen in the inkwell. “One of them hunkies, huh?”
“Well…I ain’t sure.”
Jake looked at the paper, frowning. “Y’know, I could swear I’ve seen that name before.…Where does he live?”
“Paradise.”
“Paradise? Where’s that? Up in the sand-hills some place?”
“N-no,” stammered Jeff, miserably. “It’s up there.”
“Up where, you dumb fool?” roared the sheriff. And then his voice dropped soothingly. “Now I know this is your first case and you’re kind of nervous, but we’re gettin’ along fine. We got G. Hovah, residing in Paradise, and all you got to do now is tell me where this place Paradise is and what this fellow Hovah done an’…”
The sheriff’s little eyes blinked fishily. “Paradise?” he muttered. “G. Hovah in Paradise? Jehovah…in…Heaven…” He stared at the attorney, his jowls purpling. “Why, you—You—!”
“Now, Jake! Please! Let me ex—”
“Jehovah in Paradise, is it?” roared Jake. “Goddam you, Jeff Parker, I’ll show you how to poke fun at the law! I get my hands on you—”
Jake lumbered toward him, drawing back one of his ham-like fists.
“P-please now, Jake!”
“I’ll show you!”
Jake swung. Jeff whirled and fled. He darted out the door, just as the Lincolnesque figure of Amos Ritten was passing, almost bowling over the judge. He got behind the judge and used him as a shield, turning him by the shoulders as the sheriff pawed at him.
“Judge,” whined Jeff, desperately, “make him leave me alone.”
“I’ll leave you alone,” Jake snarled. “I’ll send you to God, pussonaly.”
Ritten strained a hiccough through his chest-length beard, fumigating the hall with the aroma of forty-rod. “F-fie!” he belched. “I say, fie—hup!—gentlemen! What mean these clownish carryings-on?”
He listened to their jumbled and profane explanations while Jeff pivoted him one way, then another. Leisurely, he extended a palm and thrust it against the sheriff’s chest.
“Be calm, Jake. Be calm. Everything is quite in order.”
“In order, is it? Why, I’ll—”
“Jeff made a mistake, that’s all. He should have come to me instead of you.”
“Huh?”
“Why, certainly. This is a civil matter, not a criminal one.…Jeff, you shouldn’t have bothered Jake with a thing of this kind.”
“I’m sorry, Judge.”
“And you, Jake, as one of the principal executive officers of this county, should have set Jeff right.”
“Well, I guess I should have,” the sheriff admitted, abashed.
The judge waved an expansive hand, almost losing his balance. “We are all—huo!—friends once again, then. Come along with me, Jeff.”
He rocked on down the hall, leaning heavily upon his protégé, and they entered the courtroom together. They passed behind the dais at the rear and into an antechamber; and the judge dropped heavily into a wooden chair. Panic and sweat broke out on his face for a moment; he sent a cautious hand to explore his hip pocket. Then he beamed as he brought out a pint bottle intact.
He passed the bottle to Jeff and snatched it out of his hand almost before the attorney had wet his lips. He took a great gulp and suddenly seemed to become sober.
“Jeff,” he said, “sometimes I think you ain’t got a lick of sense.”
“Well, gollee, Judge! I guess I shouldn’t—”
“Let me see if I follow your contemplated plan of action. You were to get out a fugitive warrant and bask in notoriety as Jake went through the motions of serving it. Then you planned a jury trial with yourself as special prosecutor for the Fargo family and having a hell of a time for yourself as you picked the veniremen.…Jeff, Jeff!”
“Gosh, Judge, I’m sorry. But it looked like such a swell chance—”
“How do you think the taxpayers would feel about having the sheriff waste his time on such foolishness? How do you think they’d feel about the court wastin’ its time, and the expense of a jury and all that?”
“Yeah, gosh, Judge. But it would be funny—”
“And that’s the worst part of all. It wouldn’t be funny; you’d be the butt of the joke.…You’ve read Mark Twain and Petroleum Nasby and Mr. Dooley. Do you know what puts their humor across with these people? It’s the fact that it can’t be mistaken for anything but humor. You think Jake is stupid, but he’s only so, relatively. These people have lived so long with realities, the bare realities, that they can’t understand anything else. They’ve had to be that way to exist. If you call a spade a hayrake, they’ll laugh with you. If you call it a shovel, they’ll laugh at you. They’ll think you don’t know any better. In this case, what they’d say is as obvious as it is inevitable. They’d say: ‘Don’t that dumb fool know he can’t arrest God?’”
Jeff’s eyes widened slowly. “Gosh, Judge, they would, wouldn’t they? But it’s such a swell chance—”
“And you’ll take advantage of it, the right way. You go back to your office and draw up a complaint: Fargo vs. God, with yourself as attorney. I’ll let you have the money myself to run it in the newspaper. When God fails to appear in court, you’ll win the action. We won’t have wasted any of the county’s time or money, and you’ll get your laughs—the right kind—and the sort of publicity you want, if you handle it right.
“Now, go on and get busy. And make that complaint the funniest damned thing that anyone ever looked at. Make it so funny that people’ll know it’s meant to be. Make it funny so they’ll know that you’re not being sacrilegious, that it’s just a hell of a good joke between you and them and God. And be sure you work your name into it, frequent and often.
“If you handle this right, every paper in the country will copy that complaint. Everyone’ll be wondering who you are. They’ll be wondering why you ain’t high up in the councils of gov’ment, where such an amusing young fellow ought to be. And they’ll put you there—if you handle it right.”
Jeff went back to his office and drew up the complaint.
And, from subsequent developments, it was evident that he handled it right.
12
Spring slipped like a virgin into the bed of the valley. Now cloying, now rebellious, she struggled and wept against the brown giant. She touched him with fearful fingers that lingered more and more with each touching; she stroked him, brazenly. She gasped, then panted against him, and at last she sighed and her breath came warm and even. And the harlot winter slunk from the couch, jeering.
In his substantial residence in the village of Verdon, Philo Barkley rocked in front of the economically-dampered heater while he regarded his daughter with unaccustomed approval. He had come home to a house that was in excellent order and to a daughter who was fully dressed, and he had had one of the best meals he had eaten in months. Afterward, she had brought him his house-slippers and his pipe; and she was now seated sedately on the couch, occupying herself with a basket of darning.
She was a good girl, he decided. The very best daughter in the world. He was sorry that he had spoken to her brusquely so many times in the past.
“Bella,” he said.
“Yes, Father?” She looked up at him brightly. “Can I get something for you?”
“No,” he said. “No, I guess not.”
“I’ll be glad to get anything you want.�
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“No. I was just thinking,” he said.
She waited expectantly as he lit a spill at the stove and held it to his pipe. She waited, a fixed smile on her dark impetuous face. And Philo Barkley leaned back and closed his eyes. The things he had to say were important. Any of the things. They would bear waiting for. After perhaps ten minutes, while the girl’s nerves rose on end, he had meditated sufficiently to speak again.
“Bella.”
“Yes, Father?”
“I was talking to Tom Epps today.”
“Yes.”
“Well, Tom…” He frowned into his pipe and puffed rapidly at the stem. “Can’t figure out what’s wrong with this tobacco tonight. Must be the weather. Still, it ain’t real damp these days, is it? Never saw a prettier day than it was today.”
“It has been nice,” said Bella, and her fingers whitened around the darning needle.
“Umm-hmm. Summer’ll be here before long.”
“What,” said Bella, “what were you talking to Tom about?”
“Oh.…Well, Tom’s wanting to take over the Chandler agency. You know what I mean by Chandler. It’s an automobile.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Looked to him like he could run it pretty well, right along with his hardware business. Looked to me like he might, too. Well, o’ course, he needed a little financial help, and I told him it might be arranged. I told him we might fix it up, under certain circumstances, and we did.”
Bella looked at him with mingled incomprehension and impatience.
“Well, that’s nice,” she said, vaguely.
“You figure you can drive one?”
“An automobile? You mean you’re going to buy one?”
“Why, sure,” said Philo. “That’s what I was telling you. I’m going to get one at list price. Be a lot cheaper than having a horse, the way Tom tells it. A sight more comfortable, too.”
“Why, that’s wonderful, Father!” said Bella, genuinely pleased.
“I figured you’d like it,” he said gruffly. “All I ask is, don’t let that fancy-pants Grant behind the wheel.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t!” Bella exclaimed, and then her brows knitted a little. “Why don’t you like Grant, Father?”
“He’s just no good. He won’t do nothing.”
“He would if he had a chance.”
“Well, and he’s your cousin, too.” He shook his head, irritatedly. “It just don’t look right, Bella.”
Bella’s eyes flashed. Impelled by a sense of guilt, she had become exceedingly touchy on the subject of Grant. Too, being a wife to him in everything but name, she was instantly ready to defend him. She did not love him, but she had convinced herself that she must, to be to him what she was. And it was up to a woman in love to defend her lover, tooth and nail.
Feeling as she did, she was more surprised at her words than was her father.
“You know,” she said musingly, “I think I agree with you, Father. The more I see of Grant, the less I like him.”
“Huh?…Why do you keep seeing him, then?”
“Why, I just about have to!” exclaimed Bella, wide-eyed. “After all, he is my cousin. And you know the Fargoes are already angry with us about that business you—that Jeff Parker got ’em into. They think you’re responsible for having the whole state laughing at them.”
Barkley grunted. “It was their own darned fault,” he declared.
“Well, anyway, Father, it just wouldn’t do for us to break with the entire family. They’re not only our blood kin, but they’re important people. They could hurt your business.”
“Well…well, maybe,” Barkley admitted. He was touched by his daughter’s interest in his affairs. It was nice of her to put up with that dude on his account. But he still didn’t like Grant any better, and he didn’t want Bella to see him.
He said so.
“Do you know how old I am, Father? I’ll be twenty-three my next birthday.”
“Well, you can’t marry Grant.”
“Of course I can’t. I wouldn’t even see him any more if it wasn’t for what I just told you. But I should be thinking about getting married. If I don’t before long, you’re going to have an old-maid daughter on your hands.”
“Well,” said Philo, puffing at his pipe, “I don’t know about that.”
“There’s no one around here I could marry.”
“No, that’s a fact.”
“What do you think I ought to do, Father? You know more about such things than I do. After all, I’m just a woman.”
Philo rocked more vigorously, trying not to show how pleased and flattered he was. He supposed he had been pretty selfish with her. He didn’t want her growing old and unmarried—just the two of them there in the house. He wanted grandchildren, he suddenly realized. He wanted a son—a son-in-law who would come into the bank (investing a substantial sum of money)—someone who was someone, who would be good to Bella and admire him and do exactly as he was bidden.
“It’s too bad,” he said, “that this ain’t back in Ohio. Now if this was back in Ohio, there’d be lots of good solid young fellows around.”
“That is too bad,” said Bella.
Philo deliberated a while longer, and Bella worked at the darning, dropping one stitch after another.
“None of my people back there have got a lot of money,” said the banker. “They’re good people, but they don’t have much.”
“I know. You’re the big man of the family, Father.”
“Well, I’ve worked for it,” said Philo comfortably.
“You certainly have.”
“Well, as I was sayin’, now. If you was to go back there, you’d have to take a pretty good chunk of cash with you to help them out and pay all the expenses of entertaining and the like. A couple thousand dollars, maybe.”
Bella smiled at him magnificently, but she said nothing. She could not trust herself to speak at the moment.
“When you go, I want you to go right,” Barkley explained. “I’m not stingy when it comes to getting my daughter the right kind of husband.”
“Of course you’re not. You’re not stingy any time.”
“Well, people say I am.”
“Well, you’re not,” Bella declared. “You’re the nicest, bestest father in the world. I don’t know how I’ll ever stand being away from you.”
Philo beamed.
“Well, we won’t have to worry about it just yet.”
“What—what do you mean, Father?”
“I’ve got a little business matter coming up this fall. Something I ought to do pretty well on. I figure it’ll be time enough for you to go after that.”
“Oh,” said Bella. “Oh.”
By sheer will power she managed to control herself. She had worked so carefully to lead him to the point where she wanted him, and now—fall! Months away! How could she stand this—him—being without Grant until fall? She wanted to scream.
Instead, she remained where she was, quietly darning and talking for another thirty minutes. And she arose then, regretfully, as one remembering a distasteful but important task.
“Oh, my goodness! I’ve got to go over to Myrtle Courtland’s.”
“What for?” her father protested.
“Now you mustn’t ask me that,” said Bella secretively.
“But I want to know. What have you got to see her about?”
“Well—you know, I want you to come home for lunch tomorrow.”
“No, I don’t know it,” said Philo.
“Well, I do. And I’ve got to go over to Myrtle’s and get a certain recipe.”
“Oh,” said the banker, both pleased and displeased. “You won’t be gone very long, will you?”
“Just a little while. Not over an hour or two.”
“Well, that’s quite a while.”
Bella smiled at him, pinched his cheek, and swept out into the hallway.
“I’ll be back just as soon as I can. I don’t want to be away from you, either.”
He heard the door close after her, and he leaned back in the rocker, contented, relaxing. She was a good girl, he assured himself, stifling a vague feeling of uneasiness. A good girl, just like her mother. Once she was married and had a child or two, her disturbing tempestuousness and impetuousness would disappear.
He wondered where she had got those traits. Her mother hadn’t been like that, and he certainly wasn’t. It was almost as though, sometimes, she was an outsider. Her mother, now, had been as quiet and easygoing a woman as a man could want. Passionate, surely, but not flibbertigibbet any more than he was.
He wondered where Bella…
Abruptly, he shut off that train of thought.
Well, women were pretty much all alike in the long run. Cooking, sewing, gossiping, having children. That was all they knew. That was the way it should be, naturally, and that was the way it was. You mentioned business to ’em or threw a little something at them out of the ordinary, and they went all up in the air. Flighty. That’s the way they were and they couldn’t help it. And, God bless ’em, he wouldn’t want to help it.
He picked the Omaha Bee from the floor, scanned a few columns, and gradually let it slide down into his lap:
These suffragettes, now. What were they thinking about? They were women themselves, and they ought to know women. What would the women do with the vote if they got it? What did they know about politics or business, or anything outside the home? Why, they’d have the country in a mess in jig time. It would be a mess. It would be as bad as it had been after ’65 when they turned all those ignorant niggers loose on the country.
It would be the same deal all over again.
While he sat musing, thus, Bella had left the house and was hurrying down the plank walk to the north. The Barkley house stood on the edge of town, and there was a grove of maples in front of it. Now, as she left the town proper, skirted the lumber yard, and approached the sagging gates of the fairgrounds, she was sure that she had not been observed.
Dusk had fallen. She had lingered with her father, waiting for it.
She pushed at the gate, the lower edge of which was warped into the mud, and entered the grounds. She passed by the deserted poultry buildings, stepping around the puddles of rain and thawed snow, and paused before the little structure—the soft-drink store—in front of the grandstand. It was deserted like everything else, of course; the door was closed and the wooden shutters which served as awnings were pulled flush with the scarred counter.