by Jim Thompson
“Oh?”
“It wasn’t anything important.”
“Nothing important, eh?”
“No,” said Mrs. Dillon.
The good doctor’s face fell a little, then brightened with reminiscence. “I’ll never forget the first time I met Bob. It was when he was firing on the railroad here. You know he’d had some sort of nervous breakdown when he was lawing for the railroad, and he’d taken a job firing to get his health—”
“Yes, I know,” said Edie, with a shade of impatience.
“Well, he came into my office in his overalls—and you know I didn’t know who he was, and I hadn’t been out of medical school too long and I guess I was kind of pompous, and—oh, yes, I forgot to mention he’d hurt his arm some way. So I says to him”—he chuckled—“I says, ‘Just where does your arm hurt you, my good man?’ And he looked at me kind of sleepy-eyed like he could, you know—”
“I know.” Edie Dillon bit her lip.
“—and he says, ‘I’m not sure, Doctor: my medical education is rather deficient. I can’t decide whether it’s the radius or the ulna.’” Doc Jones guffawed. “He certainly took me down a peg!”
“He was an awfully smart man,” said Mrs. Dillon.
“A brilliant man. He’s—uh—in good health, I hope?”
“Yes—I guess so. Thanks for coming, Doc. I’ve got to get back in the kitchen now.”
“Why certainly,” said Doc Jones, hurt. “Go right ahead, Edie.”
He went out the door, considerably disappointed, and Mrs. Dillon went to the kitchen to expedite the labors of the overpaid DeHart girl.
Upstairs, Bob Dillon crawled from his couch of pain, stepped to the window, and urinated on the rear porch. He stood there for some time, watching the water slither its divers ways across the worn tar paper, wondering why it did not follow one trail as it should. When he crept back to bed, it was with a satisfying feeling of accomplishment. For some reason it seemed much better to wet on the roof than to use the pot. He wondered, too, why that was.
He was entirely able to be up and about, but something told him that his injuries deserved and would obtain him a reward. So he remained where he was, commencing to whine and moan (after he was sure the roof had dried). And being subsequently rewarded with a pint of ice cream, he dropped off into a sleep filled with dreams of even better tomorrows.
He had cause to be grateful, during the next few days, for his brief career as an aerial navigator.
Ted and Gus visited him, bringing ample supplies of corncob pipes and smoking tobacco, and they spent a hilarious half-day reliving their adventure. Josephine, it developed, had come down with nervous shock after her narrow escape and had thus been unable to flay them as she had promised, and they were looking forward to her recovery with jubilant horror.
Alf Courtland dropped in almost every day, invariably with a gift of books and candy.
Sherman came in once or twice to curse him amiably and threaten to cut his ears off.
Grant Fargo, who was taking his noon meal gratis at the hotel, came once. But he did not remain long. By a strange coincidence the boy, who had become seriously constipated from inactivity and overeating, chose the time of his visit to use the pot. And his dandy young uncle fled the room in disgust.
Best of all were the visits from little Paulie Pulasky. Paulie’s folks owned the confectionary, and she always brought ice cream and other good things. But Bob would have been gladder to see her than anyone else, even though she had brought nothing.
Paulie Pulasky and he were sweethearts. They had never admitted it to themselves, let alone to the public at large, but just the same it was true.
Paulie’s folks were second-hand generation hunkies, but most people regarded them as white. They were even better than a lot of whites, some people said. John Pulasky (his actual first name was unpronounceable) had a good business and a sizable bank account, and he was much in demand for calling the sets at dances. Mrs. Pulasky kept a spick-and-span house and laundered twice a week, and there was no better hand at a quilting bee or a tea pouring. Everyone thought it was such a shame that they were Catholics, but in view of their many other virtues, people were inclined to be tolerant. Anyway, hadn’t John Pulasky been observed buying meat on Friday? And when Dutch Schnorr had kidded him about it, he had kidded right back!
Oh, the Pulaskys were all right! Almost, anyway.
On the last day of his convalescence, Paulie called on Bob with ice cream and cookies. And Mrs. Dillon, after she had brought saucers and spoons, left the two together.
Paulie and Bob looked shyly at each other. He was awfully smart, she thought. Her father had said Mr. Dillon was an awfully smart man, and her mother had said she must be careful how she acted.
Bob thought Paulie was beautiful. Her brown hair—it was actually waist length—was done up in two coils over her ears; and her face was round and rosy and cream-like; and she had great humble slate-gray eyes, with long black-gray lashes.
They looked at each other, pretending not to look. Together, they raised their plates and licked them.
“You know what you are?” said Bob, suddenly. “You’re a Yahoo.”
Paulie giggled humbly. “I am not, neither! What’s a Yahoo?”
“That’s people that ain’t horses. There’s two kinds of people: the horses, the Whinny-ums, and the Yahoos. It says so right in this book Alf brought me. Gul—Gul-lie—ver’s Travels, it’s called.”
Paulie giggled again. “You’re a Yahoo, too, then,” she ventured, fearfully.
“It tells all about it, here,” said Bob, ignoring her remark. “Gul-lie-ver lived with the Whinny-ums for a long, long time, and when he went home he wouldn’t kiss his wife because he was ashamed of her because she was a Yahoo.”
“Well,” said Paulie, dropping her great gray eyes, “I don’t think he should have acted like that.”
“Ho, ho! I guess you know more than the book!”
“I think,” said Paulie, “he should have kissed her. He’d been gone a long time, and—and”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“she prob’ly n-needed it.”
The boy frowned at her, an uneasy, but not unpleasant sensation coursing through his gawky body.
“I guess,” he said, “I guess you think I—I guess you think I—you think I—”
She shook her head, ambiguously. She seemed absorbed in the intricate crochet-work of her immaculate and stiffly starched dress.
“I guess—I guess you think—You come over here, Paulie!” said Bob Dillon.
“Huh-uh.” She arose and inched toward the bed, plucking at her dress. “Huh-uh, Bobbie.”
“You come over here!”
“Huh-uh, now.”
“Pigs say huh-uh,” recited the boy. “Squeeze their tails and they say uh-huh.”
She blushed and giggled. “I’m not a pig, though.”
“You come over here!”
“I—I am here.…”
He had sat up, and now, somehow, his body inclined toward hers, even as hers seemed drawn to him. The round little pink-and-cream face came closer and closer, and the great eyes became greater. Then they closed, and their lips touched, and their arms locked around each other. They kissed again and again, patting one another awkwardly, the gawky solemn-faced boy and the little girl in the crisp pink apron. And the love and the sweetness that were theirs was not something to mock with words.…
Suddenly she broke away from him and, to his amazement, began to weep.
“You don’t like me! You’ll never like me! I’m going home!”
“Paulie!” he said. “Don’t go—don’t cry—”
But she had already gone.
She flew through the lobby in such an obvious state that Mrs. Dillon tried to intercept her, but the phone rang at that moment and she was compelled to answer it instead.
“Yes, Alf,” she said, “this is Edie.” She frowned a little, for Alf had acted very strangely toward her on one occasion.
“I wond
er if you could come down to the bank right away?”
“Well…I don’t know. What did you want, Alf?”
“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. But it’s important.”
“Well—I’ll come right down.”
She shoved her apron beneath the cigar counter, patted her hair, and hurried out the door. It was all right, she supposed, in the daytime like this. She would be safe enough. But Alf had acted so funny that night when he had come to the hotel. It had been late, and she had been afraid he would wake up the roomers, and he had such a funny look in his eyes.…Well, though, probably he had just had a drink or two too many. It wasn’t like Alf to do things like that.
She would not admit how relieved she was when she saw Sherman barging out of the hardware store. She called to him, then ran the few steps that brought her up with him.
“Alf just asked me to come over to the bank,” she explained. “He said it was important, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was over the phone. I wonder—”
“I’ll go along with you,” said her brother, promptly. “Wonder what it could be, anyhow?”
They entered the bank, together, their curiosity thoroughly aroused. Courtland greeted them with pleasant reserve and led them over to his desk, out of earshot of the cashier’s cage.
“I stepped out of the bank a few moments ago,” he began softly, “to get some cigars. While I was gone, young Higgins over there cashed a check for two hundred dollars—for Grant.”
Edie drew in her breath. Sherman snorted, “Why, he ought to’ve known Grant wouldn’t—”
“The check was on Lincoln, Sherman. I mean, it had your father’s signature on it. It’s a pretty good signature and Higgins thought it was all right to pay on it.”
“Pa would never give Grant two hundred cents,” said Edie decisively.
“I’ll show you the check. It might—”
“Hell,” said Sherman, “there’s no use looking at the check. I can tell you it’s a forgery.”
“I was fairly sure it was, myself,” Courtland nodded. “But I hardly knew what to do about it. I knew Lincoln was sick, and I didn’t want to disturb him, and…” He spread his hands, inviting their solution.
“Why, goddam his hide,” said Sherman. “I didn’t think he was dumb enough to pull anything like that. Knew he was awful damned dumb, too. I wonder how he figured on getting away with it?”
From far up the valley the long blast of the train whistle floated eerily across the town. And Sherman, a curse on his lips, kicked back his chair.
“That’s it! The son-of-a-bitch is skipping out!” he roared, and he hurled his thickset body toward the door.
“Sherman!” cried Edie. “Don’t do anything you’ll be—”
“I’ll settle him!” Sherman shouted, and in the next instant he was halfway down the block.
He leaped into his buggy, clucking to the horse even as he cut the lines. The bay laid back his ears and seemed to leap. The wheels rolled up on the sidewalk and for a precarious moment the buggy stood on edge. Then the bay leaped again, broke into a gallop, and they went tearing out of town toward the depot.
From where he paced the station platform, Grant Fargo saw the cloud of dust racing up the road. But he did not identify it for what it was until it had crossed the tracks, and there was nothing he could have done anyway. The train was still a mile or two off.
Too frightened even for profanity, he watched his brother alight, remove the buggy whip from its socket, and roll leisurely toward him. His knees trembled; his whole body shook as with the ague. He licked his lips, and his tongue was harsh and dry against them.
“Going somewhere, was you?” said Sherman, in his choked explosive voice.
“W-why, no,” Grant stuttered. “N-no, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Just come down to watch the train, I ’spect,” Sherman nodded. “Don’t mind if I watch it with you, do you? If you do, just say so. Y’know I ain’t the kind to force my company.”
Grant shook his head miserably. “I don’t mind,” he whispered.
“Well, I’m proud to hear you say so,” Sherman declared. “Don’t know when I’ve heard anything that cheered me up so much.” His pipe cocked in the corner of his weather-beaten mouth, he flexed the whip, studying it critically. “What do you think about that whip?” he inquired, as he snapped the tip to and fro. “Figure it’s any good?”
“Sherman! You aren’t—”
“Never had a chance to use it,” Sherman explained. “Never was much of a hand to hit a horse, and the old lady’s got her blacksnake for the boys. Well, I’ll probably be breakin’ it before long and then I won’t have to worry about it.”
Grant was on the point of collapse. His lips moved, but no words came forth.
“What was you sayin’?” said Sherman jovially, putting a hand to his ear. “Never mind. Let’s just watch the train and pleasure ourselves.”
With false comradery, he dropped a hand upon his brother’s shoulder as the train steamed into the station, dwelling in hideous innuendo upon the advantages of travel and the possible—nay, the probable—discomforts of home. And Grant shivered and shook and was wordless.
The conductor alighted and went into the station, coming out, after a moment or two, with several slips of paper. He looked coldly at the two men, and Sherman rendered him a polite howdy-do. He assumed a stance at the vestibule, gripped the handrail, and shouted “Bo-oo-ard!”
The train jerked, and rolled away.
Sherman had played long enough. He had exhausted his meager supply of humor.
“You got a satchel cached somewhere?” he demanded.
“N-no, Sherman.”
Sherman pointed with the whip. “Git!”
Head hanging, Grant tottered off and Sherman swaggered along behind him. Reaching the buggy, he looked around quickly to see whether anyone was watching them. Then he hauled off and kicked his brother with all of his stocky might.
Grant yelled and went sprawling headlong into the rig. Sherman stepped in over him, on him, and clucked to the bay. They went sailing down the road away from town.
From her vantage point behind the grain elevator, Bella Barkley cursed long and bitterly. The jellyfish! she thought, as she cranked the Chandler and backed it out into the road. The weak-spined shrimp! If he’d had any nerve, if he’d stood up to Sherman at all, they could have got away. By now, they would have been miles away on the train.
She headed the car toward home, wondering how she could get her bags into the house without being seen.
Damn Grant! Oh, damn damn damn him! She wished she could kick him herself.
20
Lincoln Fargo was feeling mean and frisky again. Just as he had claimed his son’s going to work had brought on his stroke, he now declared that Grant’s adventure into forgery, and its aftermath, had revived him. He said that the cursing he had given the dandy had cleansed his system of the last of its paralytic bile. He said that the urge to use the horsewhip on his son had been so strong that mind had overcome matter, said matter being his stubborn muscles.
He did not whip Grant, as he had promised, because he believed the youth had suffered enough, and because (or so he said) he had no whip that he could discard and he would not boost his son’s esteem by later using the same one on an animal. (There was, too, the animal’s pride to be thought of.) At any rate, the old man was up and around again. And, today, he swaggered through the living room of his home, dressed in his best pants, his shiniest gaiters; and his big black hat was cocked venturesomely low over one scalene eye.
He paused in the kitchen, cane swinging, champing at his long black stogie, giving his wife time to look around from the stove and protest.
She looked around and her sullen brow furrowed.
“Now where you think you’re going?” she demanded.
“Goin’ to hell. Want to go along?” Link swished his cane with savage delight.
“You ain’t going strollin’ off to town. Y
ou know what Doc Jones told you.”
“To hell with Doc Jones. I reckon you think he knows more about how I feel than I do.”
He snorted with pleasure at his irrefutable logic, and stared longingly through the screen at a passing chicken. The chicken paused and looked in at him. Involuntarily, his fingers twitched.
“Well, here I go,” he announced.
“I know what you’re goin’ to do. You’re going in to throw your money away playing poker.”
“No, I ain’t, either,” Lincoln denied. “I’m going to give it to God.”
Snorting and coughing, he went out the door. The chickens had grown careless during the months of his convalescence and some, even, had never seen him before; he nailed six of them with the crook of his cane before they learned that the days of peace were over. He swaggered out the gate to the tune of their squawking. Merrily he cursed them, jeered them as they fled, their bare red butts exposed in the nest of their terror-spread tail feathers.
“Pretty goddam sights, you are,” he jeered. “All ass and no brains.”
He decided that he’d like a mess of the goddam things for dinner one of these Sundays. He’d teach them what was what, all right.
He decided that it was one hell of a fine day.
As he passed Doc Jones’ place, he was compelled to stop and lean against the fence for a few minutes. And at Rory Blake’s house, he stopped again.
Well, hell, though, it was the first time he’d been out in months; and here he was right on the edge of town. Hell, anyone was liable to want to stop and rest once in a while. He gripped his cane again and strolled on, but more slowly; and he was secretly grateful when he saw his grandson, Robert Dillon, loitering on the courthouse lawn.
“Hi, there!” he called, bracing his back against a building. “What you doin’ over there?”
Bob came scuffling across the road, kicking up choo-choo puffs of dust with his bare feet.
“Hi, Pa,” he said. “Where you going?”
“Where you going?” the old man retorted. “Why ain’t you up to the hotel helping your mother?”
“She don’t want me around there,” the boy said truthfully. “She says I’m just a nuisance and to go on and keep out from under her feet.”