Читать книгу Before the Sun Goes Down - Elizabeth Metzger Howard - Страница 9

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The Catholic church was across from the new public school; the Methodist Church on Maple was across from the Albrights’; the Reformed Church was on Horsechestnut; the Presbyterian on Linden; and the Lutheran on the northeast corner of Linden and Oak streets directly opposite the post office and diagonally opposite the courthouse. The jail and fire house were just behind the courthouse. Every day and every night, year in and year out, the town clock on top of the courthouse struck the hours and half hours, until people became so used to these booming sounds that they were no more apt to hear them than they were the early morning crowing of cocks or the chirping of birds. But the church bells were a different thing.

Come nine o’clock Sunday mornings they began sending forth such a pealing that none save the very deaf could miss the clangor. Nine o’clock was the first Sunday-school bell, nine-thirty the second Sunday-school bell, ten o’clock was the first church bell, ten-thirty the second church bell.

Shortly after nine o’clock every Willowspring street would fairly swarm with boys and girls, teachers and parents, all dressed in their best, and on the way to Sunday-school. Shortly after ten o’clock the streets would again be swarming with some of these boys and girls going home, and more men and women, all dressed up and on their way to church.

The Albright and Sargent children didn’t attend Sunday-school, yet every Sunday, health permitting, all members of the Albright and Sargent family went to church.

Lillian and Prissy loved church. They loved swishing up the aisle dressed in their best, beside their mamas and papas and grammas and brothers, also wearing finery. Even Sammy and Bert looked spick in their Sunday suits, faces soap-shiny and heads sopping wet and smooth. All the townspeople and Alexander, beside his mother in their pew, looked at the Albrights and the Sargents. Prissy would give Lillian a sidelong glance, as much as to say, “Aren’t you glad you’re who you are?”

Once the Albrights and the Sargents were settled—the Albrights in the Albright pew and the Sargents in the Sargent pew—the Rev. Mr. Lanning, a tall, gray-faced man, came into the pulpit. Mr. Lanning always entered the pulpit directly after the Albrights and the Sargents were settled no matter if they were a bit early, no matter were they a bit late.

Then the music began: “Jesus, Lover of My Soul,” “Rock of Ages,” “Just as I Am without One Plea,” or “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” Miss Fisher played the organ, her feet pumping very fast, and the choir sang the first hymn. The choir members were town girls whom Miss Fisher had trained, and Mollie Reynard was one of them.

The music filled Prissy’s soul full of a tremendous longing. She wished she might do something to make the world a better place, the way Mr. Lanning said everybody should strive to do. Prissy wished she could save all the unsaved souls in the world. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen an unsaved soul because ’most the whole town went to church (excepting Uncle Doc, who was excused to look after the sick). Mr. Lanning said townspeople, and perhaps Catholics, who went to church would be saved the same as best families. But Prissy had heard Mr. Lanning describe lost souls so often she knew exactly how they looked: tottering, red-eyed, garments rent, screaming to God for mercy after it was too late. Prissy could see herself, an angel of mercy, wearing flowing robes of white and wings and maybe a crown, floating over the heads of the lost, telling them that she, Prissy, would save them yet. And Alexander would be looking at her, worshiping, and Lillian would be perfectly furious.

The music made Lillian feel the way the smell of roses made her feel, or the stars shining, or a little baby ... warm, tender, giving. She saw herself at the organ, her fingers running up and down the keys, the notes of music falling like raindrops or perfume or the petals of roses onto everybody in the world, including Prissy, but most of all upon Alexander.

When the sermon began Lillian and Prissy sat erect in the stiff pews, even though they didn’t hear all Mr. Lanning said. By and by, however, they’d gradually settle down and almost sleep, although their eyes never quite closed. The way Sammy did must certainly be a sin, they felt.

Sammy, brazenly and unashamed, dozed off the minute the sermon began and slept through its length despite the fact that his father ever so often leaned over his mother to give him a shake.

Bert’s mind was occupied by various subjects during Mr. Lanning’s exhortations—Shad, Red, Lem, Lottie, Duke. He operated upon rabbits, fixed Duke’s sores, trailed Indians and buffalo, joined Uncle Bert on his boat, burned Mr. Lanning at the stake, or cold-bloodedly cut open the front of the reverend gentleman and removed his heart, lungs, stomach, bowels, and such other organs as he was aware of at the time.

Rufe accepted the service casually. He had been attending church so long—twelve years, since the age of three. There was nothing Mr. Lanning could possibly say that he had not heard before. Now he couldn’t keep his mind upon anything anyhow except Mollie up there in the choir.

Rufe during the years had seen many ministers come and many of them go. Only one who had gone had died—Alexander’s father. Others who had disagreed with Papa or Uncle Rufus were dismissed. Rufe remembered the last one—Mr. Yates. Mr. Yates had claimed the part in the Bible about fire and brimstone wasn’t to be taken literally. It was symbolism (whatever that might be). And he went on to explain that a merciful God would not torment His children with actual fire no matter how wicked they’d been.

Papa and Uncle Rufus got rid of Mr. Yates in a hurry. “Heresy,” they called what he’d said. Rufe heard afterward Mr. Yates couldn’t get another church because of his views. Mr. Yates had been an old man and Rufe had pitied him, not only about not getting another church but because what he had said wasn’t true. Rufe thought it would be terrible to believe such a—well, such a beautiful thing when it wasn’t true. Rufe himself wished he could believe that a merciful God would not torment His children with actual fire no matter how wicked they’d been.

“A fine sermon. No nonsense about Mr. Lanning,” Captain George said to Rufus one morning around the middle of September.

Rufus nodded. “None of this modern rubbish in his sermons. Splendid text: ‘God will surely gather the ungodly and the unbelievers together in hell!’ ”

“Give me the good old-fashioned gospel translated literally every time,” George went on. “Boys”—this to Sammy and Bert—“walk like gentlemen. No pushing. See how nicely Lillian and Prissy are walking. Here, Ma, let me help you.”

“Help me? What for?” Gramma Albright chirped. “I don’t need your help. I could walk long before you could and I may be walking long after you’re bedridden.”

Captain George and Rufus laughed indulgently. Gramma Sargent was already holding Rufus’s arm, as they followed Rufe. A little ahead were Pris and Lou and the little girls, who were trying to step exactly as their mothers stepped.

Before the corner was reached Rufe and Bert had disappeared, and at the corner Sammy turned north toward Broad Street.

Walking along Broad Street, Sammy thought how funny the town looked on a Sunday, the stores closed, their steps and pavements swept clean, and hardly any people about. It looked uncomfortable on a Sunday, the town, rather like Sammy felt in his Sunday clothes. Wonder if a boat looks different on a Sunday? Sammy mused.

But no matter how uncomfortable he felt in his Sunday suit he must wear it all day, and if he got it dirty he got scolded, because on Sunday you weren’t supposed to do anything to get a suit dirty—not play or run or anything.

Still, things might be worse than they were. If he was a girl, like Lillian and Prissy, he’d have to go straight home after church and stay all day. Papa wouldn’t even take them out driving; he believed horses, like people, should have a day of rest. Only sometimes if Uncle Doc drove out in the country he’d take Lillian and Prissy along.

But a boy could get off by himself, Sunday or no Sunday, and do what he wanted, so long as he kept his suit clean and got home by dinnertime. (On Sundays the Albrights and the Sargents had the big meal at two o’clock.) Bert, now, was on the way to Mudtown and Rufe was probably walking up and down Linden Street past where Mollie Reynard lived. Lately Sammy had seen Rufe walking down Linden on one side and up on the other. Though what was the sense Sammy couldn’t make out. Rufe never looked toward the Reynard house and if Mollie was in the yard he’d never act like he saw her. They didn’t speak when they met on the street either. It was all beyond Sammy.

Sammy, at this point, stopped to survey the wonders displayed in the window of Carl’s Novelty Shop. This was Sammy’s favorite window. Of course he must disregard trifles like dolls and baby toys and watches and jewelry, but he found a wealth of wonders besides—guns and knives and drums and bugles and fishhooks and balls and what not. The prices were plainly displayed and after figuring some twenty minutes he decided all he needed to make life perfect was four dollars and three cents, and sauntered along.

Mr. Smith sat on one of the chairs before the livery stable. He looked funny, too, Sammy thought, wearing his Sunday suit without a collar. And the livery stable sounded funny—or rather, seemed funny—without the sounds of the hammers and anvils ringing behind in the blacksmith shop.

“Hullo, Sammy,” Mr. Smith said.

“Hullo, Mr. Smith,” Sammy said.

“Been to church?” Mr. Smith inquired, he being a Methodist like unto Sammy.

“Yes sir.”

“Good sermon?”

“Fine sermon.”

“What was the text?”

Sammy wrinkled his brows. “I can’t seem to remember the text, Mr. Smith. But it was a fine sermon. Ain’t none of this modern rubbish ’bout Mr. Lanning.”

“You’re right thar, Sammy.”

“Yes sir.” Sammy nodded. “And give me the good old-fashioned gospel translated lit—let—lit—well, anyhow, it was a fine sermon.”

“Glad to hear it. Couldn’t go myself this morning.” Mr. Smith got to his feet and remarked with forethought, “Likely I better be having a look at my pups.”

“Pups,” Sammy echoed. “You ain’t got pups, honest, have you, Mr. Smith?”

“Bet your life,” Mr. Smith said. “Six of the cutest little houn’s you ever set eyes on.”

“Mr. Smith”—Sammy’s voice had acquired an almost reverent tone—“do you suppose I could look at ’em?”

“Sure.” Mr. Smith thought he might get rid of the bitch.

Mr. Smith went on into the barn. He was so fat and round he appeared to roll instead of walk but now, following him, Sammy wondered how he could have ever thought Mr. Smith funny-looking. Mr. Smith was a mighty kind-looking man.

They passed the stalls, where the five horses comprising the stable stock stood, and moved along through the harness room, which was also the office, to a box stall. Mr. Smith swung the door open, entered, and Sammy stepped behind him. Rolling in the straw were a mother hound and six black and white puppies.

Recalling the scene later, Sammy always grinned gleefully. Why, the very first thing, out of all those pups, Spotty ran to meet him, wagging a little tail. And when Sammy held out a hand Spotty licked it, just like she knew him, not scared a bit.

“Glory Ned!” Sammy exclaimed, a lump in his throat. “Ain’t he a beauty?”

“Spotty’s a bitch,” Mr. Smith informed. “I’d leave her go cheap.”

“Leave her go ... Glory Ned! Mr. Smith, you ain’t selling the pups, are you?”

Mr. Smith nodded his round fat head. “I gotta get rid of ’em. They’s over four months old now. I was astin’ five for the dogs and three for the bitch but I come down to three for the dogs and I’d leave you have Spotty for two dollars, Sammy.”

Two dollars. Sammy’s heart sank. He had no more chance of getting two dollars to buy Spotty than he had of getting the four dollars and three cents to buy what he wanted in Carl’s window. But he’d sooner have Spotty than anything.

Sammy shook his round yellow head. “I never could get that much money, Mr. Smith. Two dollars is a mighty lot of money, Mr. Smith.”

“Not for a dog like Spotty.”

“I know that, Mr. Smith. A dog like Spotty mighty likely’s worth a lot more’n two dollars. A dog like Spotty mighty likely’s worth a hundred dollars. ’Cept I ain’t got two dollars, Mr. Smith.”

“Your papa’s rich, Sammy,” Mr. Smith informed.

Sammy shook his head sorrowfully. “The most he ever did give me was a quarter, and that only special times.”

“Too bad, Sammy, too bad,” Mr. Smith sympathized. “I’d like to see you own Spotty. You could see yourself how she took to you aplenty.”

“I could see all right, Mr. Smith.” Sammy rubbed Spotty’s soft little ears between his fingers. “Spotty she run to me like she knows me, like she’s my dog, licked my hand and everything. Mr. Smith, ain’t there some way I could get Spotty ’out paying money? Ain’t there any favor I could do, like currying the horses, or cleaning stalls, or something?”

“Mighty likely, Sammy,” Mr. Smith speculated. “My nigger, Harry, he went off for a couple months. That lazy Ben he won’t do a thing to help his papa out. Boys ain’t what they was in my day. I tell you what, Sammy, if’n you’ll come here around four-thirty mornings and scrape stalls—you can get home ’fore seven—after Harry gets back I’ll give you Spotty.”

Sammy could hardly believe his ears. “You mean—do you honest mean, Mr. Smith, if I’d do a little thing like scraping stalls you’d give me Spotty?”

Mr. Smith nodded. “Sure, Sammy. Sure.”

“Glory Ned! Mr. Smith ...”

A lump filled Sammy’s throat. He threw himself flat on the straw, his face rubbing against Spotty’s little cold nose. Spotty wiggled and wagged and bounced and barked joyously. Spotty, his dog, his dog. His Spotty. Something must have got in his eyes, Sammy thought, wiping away the tears with a sleeve.

Mr. Smith’s corpulent body was fairly bursting from suppressed laughter. Of course Sammy wouldn’t keep the job. He’d not come more than a morning or two. But what a story to tell—Ralph Pettigrew would split his sides—one of George Albright’s boys shoveling hoss shit. Such a story would be better than a sale.

Even as Captain George, most of Willowspring’s people believed horses, like people, needed a day of rest, and on Sundays hardly a rig was to be seen on the streets except around the Catholic Church. But Catholics drove dozens of miles to mass and from six o’clock in the morning until past noon all along Maple and Linden streets buggies and wagons stretched before hitching posts, with oxcarts to boot.

Maggie and Nellie attended six o’clock mass because the Sargents and Albrights had their big meal at two o’clock on Sundays, and Mr. and Mrs. Beamer (whom Gregory called “Papa” and “Mama”) also attended early mass. But times the Beamers and Gregory would stay on for late mass. They had stayed this certain Sunday around the middle of September, and, coming out of the church door after service, Gregory had seen Bert Sargent trudging toward the bridge.

Gregory Beamer was eleven years old in 1880. Two years later a visionary artist was to have him pose for what was to be the beginning of a long succession, by many artists, of paintings portraying a revolutionary-looking Christ child. Gregory’s soft hair, almost colorless above the high forehead, fell back to rise in a golden crest. His brows, a bit darker than his hair, were slightly arched, and his fawn-colored eyes were actually luminous under lashes that, like his hair, were seemingly colorless at the base but curled into a chestnut fuzz. His nose was straight, his lips curved, and his chin piquant. His face and neck were sun-browned, as were his forearms and hands, but where the tan ended the skin was milk-white and his shoulders sloped as smoothly as a lovely girl’s.

However, there was nothing feminine-looking about Gregory Beamer. His chest was deep and his arms and legs were strong. Nor was he considered beautiful by his family and their friends (excepting perhaps by Maggie, who never expressed herself upon the subject). His appearance was too great a departure from the accepted standards of what a farm boy should look like to be admired.

Gregory climbed into the buggy between the Beamers, and Mr. Beamer turned the horse’s head toward Four Mile Run. But Gregory continued thinking of Bert, and of Prissy too. When Maggie said she could keep him Saturday nights Gregory’s first thought had been how he’d be able to play with Bert and Prissy. Maggie had talked about them many times and of course he’d often seen Bert and Prissy. Now he would know them.

The first night after supper he’d asked Maggie if he mightn’t go into the rest of the house, or ask Bert and Prissy out in the kitchen to play.

Maggie fairly snapped at him. “No, you mightn’t ever go into the rest of the house. And you can’t ever ask them out in the kitchen. And you mustn’t ever play with them. Do you understand?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t understand. Why mustn’t I ever play with them?”

Maggie hadn’t answered. She’d taken his face between her hands and looked and looked, until he squirmed away.

Going home this Sunday, Gregory still didn’t understand. But there were plenty of things Gregory Beamer had not been able to understand during his short life. He had never been able to understand why his mama and papa seemed so much older than the parents of other children his age; nor why they never spoke to each other and seldom to him; nor why Maggie made his clothes and was nicer to him than Nellie. And lately Gregory couldn’t understand why Father Callahan made him walk to town every Saturday afternoon to take Latin lessons.

Sammy hadn’t come home for dinner and Mama was worried and Papa was mad and Lillian was glad enough to get out of the house and see Prissy coming across the lawn. They sat down under the trees and Lillian wondered where Sammy could be and Prissy wondered why Mama never scolded Bert if he wasn’t home for meals, while if she was a minute late it was a sin.

Pretty soon the little girls saw Uncle Doc’s buggy coming up the street drawn by Nervy. They both loved Nervy (short for Minerva, the Goddess of Wisdom, Uncle Doc said) and enjoyed nothing better than a trip behind her shafts. Nervy was the smartest horse in the world. She never had to be tied and Uncle Doc didn’t have to tell her to go—the minute she should, Nervy would start on her own.

“There’s Uncle Doc,” Lillian said.

“I see him,” Prissy answered.

They sprang up, ran across the lawn, and stood on the front walk waiting hopefully. And Uncle Doc didn’t have to tell Nervy to stop; she drew up along the curb herself.

Dan Field saw the two eager little faces. “I don’t suppose any amount of coaxing could persuade you young ladies to take a ride.”

“Please, could we, Uncle Doc?” Lillian gurgled.

“Could we, please, Uncle Doc?” Prissy gurgled.

“Run tell your mothers.”

They scampered off. When Lillian reached the porch Pris and Gramma Albright were coming down the steps. Dan Field knew where they were bound. Every Sunday afternoon, following the hearty two o’clock meal, George slept an hour or so, and Pris and Gramma Albright took themselves over to visit Gramma Sargent and Lou.

Dan Field crossed the yard to meet Pris and Gramma Albright. “Mrs. Albright, you’re radiant today.” He smiled. “And you, my dear Pris, look like a hag.”

Both women laughed. Dan Field chuckled to himself, imagining what they might do if they knew what his eyes upon Pris really saw—naked lovely golden breasts, round slim golden loins. Darling, darling, he thought.

Lillian and Prissy skipped back, wearing absurd little bonnets, or so Dan Field regarded them.

“Uncle Doc, please may I drive first?” they both chirped.

Pris and Gramma Albright started across the lawns.

“I never could understand why Dan never married,” Gramma Albright said.

“Some men don’t,” Pris answered.

She had often contemplated the possibility of Dan’s marrying. She always told herself she wanted him to marry: he would make such a wonderful husband and father. Still, she knew if Dan did marry she would feel that she had lost something very precious. What she couldn’t imagine. If Dan married it wouldn’t interfere with his being her doctor and George’s and her friend.

She glanced along the road to where Dan’s buggy had become a speck. I wish, Pris thought, I could be Lillian’s age once again and Dan would take me driving out in the country.

Entering the coolness of the Sargent house from the summer outdoors, Pris drew a deep breath. Home. Lou and Gramma Sargent were waiting in the sitting room. Pris kissed her mother. She wished she were small enough to crawl into her lap.... Why, Pris wondered, must I worry over the children? Now, Sammy not coming home to dinner ... She often felt she’d like to discuss her worries with Ma (or Ma Albright) but their ideas and opinions were so old-fashioned.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Albright,” Gramma Sargent said.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Sargent,” Gramma Albright said.

Those two, during forty some years, had lived side by side, their lives and destinies as intertwined as the roots of the sugar maples under the sod. There had been days they had loved each other, minutes they had hated each other. They had clung together in happiness and in sorrow, in sickness and in health. They had loved each other’s children in the way they loved their own, and if Gramma Sargent were grandmother to them all, Rufus’s two also considered Gramma Albright their own. Yet the grandmothers always had and always would address each other as Mrs. Albright and Mrs. Sargent, and they always referred to their husbands as Mr. Albright and Mr. Sargent.

Gramma Albright and Pris seated themselves.

“Hot, isn’t it?” Lou said. “Doesn’t seem possible it’s the middle of September.”

Gramma Albright nodded. “That’s right, it is the middle of September. I’d like to go to Philadelphia earlier this fall. About the middle of October.”

“It would be a good idea,” Gramma Sargent agreed.

Ever since the grandmothers had been brought as brides to Willowspring they had returned to Philadelphia twice a year, a week in the fall and a week in the spring. At first, of course, their husbands had accompanied them, and now George, Pris, Rufus, and Lou went along. At first there had been many relatives and friends to visit, but one by one these had died or become lost and now they all stayed at a hotel, “doing the town,” Captain George put it, and shopping. Not one member of the Albright or Sargent family had ever worn a stitch bought or made in Willowspring, so the shopping took considerable time.

And almost to the days of their deaths the grandmothers walked as pridefully as when brides and took the same interest in wearing “the right clothes.” They were inclined to be disdainful of any new family which came to Willowspring and was accepted. But there were a number of their old friends left in 1880—Mr. and Mrs. Harley (whose father had entertained President Washington), Mr. and Mrs. Kimbell (who had inherited the iron and ore lands over half the county), Mrs. Dr. Berkley (the death of whose husband had been the reason George had urged Dan Field to come to Willowspring), and so on. All of this “older crowd” enjoyed a hand of whist and the younger folks joked, saying the grandmothers attended far more parties than they.

Now Gramma Sargent said, “Seems to me Prissy and Lillian are pretty near big enough to take along to Philadelphia. You couldn’t have been more than twelve when we first started taking you, Pris.”

“She was fourteen, Mrs. Sargent.”

“Was she really, Mrs. Albright?”

Dan Field sat between the two little girls, letting them take turns flapping the reins over Nervy’s dapple shanks, although Nervy turned her head every so often to make certain he was still there.

Lillian giggled. “She’d not go a step if she didn’t know you were here. Would she, Uncle Doc?”

Prissy giggled. “Of course Nervy’d not go a step if Uncle Doc wasn’t here. Would you, Nervy? Wouldn’t you think, smart as Nervy is, that she could talk, Uncle Doc?”

“Maybe that’s the reason she doesn’t talk, because she is smart.”

“What do you mean?” Lillian asked.

Prissy cocked her head. “You’re teasing, Uncle Doc.”

“I am not teasing. If you know how to talk you have to talk and there are some people it’s much better not to have to talk to.”

Both the little girls thought this remark excruciatingly funny and burst into peals of laughter.

Dan Field loved having them with him. They chatted all the time but he could answer them mechanically and have his own thoughts. Strange he never grew weary of his own thoughts when they were always with him and they were about all he could call his own, except Nervy and the house and Ackley. How different his life was from the one his youth had anticipated—research and travel, money and fame, a wife and children. Then George had got him here and he had seen Pris. She was pregnant with Rufe, although he’d not suspected the fact until she’d come to him that day ... that day ... when his hands first touched the golden flesh and his eyes first saw ... She had come to him because he was the doctor, of course, but she had come to him, and she didn’t tell George about her condition, but let him find out himself.

Yet Dan Field’s hands had never touched her in any other than a professional way. Not that he held scruples; in his thoughts and dreams he was forever possessing her. Though he felt certain he could make her love him, that sort of romance would bring only unhappiness to Pris. Still, ever his heart held a hope, if a faint hope, and a damn fool hope, Dan Field told himself over and again. The only solution possible would be George’s death, and he certainly didn’t want George to die. George’s death would be an irreparable loss to the town not to mention the family, and Dan Field himself was genuinely fond of George. Besides, Pris was happy enough with him (she’d never heard a word concerning the Vi Larsen episode) and Pris adored her children.

Prissy was driving and Lillian sat on Dan Field’s left, patiently awaiting her turn. He looked down and her eyes, shadow-filled like her mother’s, met his.

“Uncle Doc,” she chirped, “I can understand how you could bring one baby in your little black bag. But, Uncle Doc, you brought Mrs. Beemiller two babies at the same time and I can’t see how you could bring two babies in such a little bag.”

Dan Field smiled. “When I took you out of that little black bag you were all folded up like a rosebud and hardly a whit bigger than one, either.”

But he thought tenderly that she had looked more like a little purple monkey than anything he’d seen before or since.

Prissy flapped the reins. “Lillian, you know Mama and Auntie Pris said we weren’t to talk about how Uncle Doc brought us in the little black bag.”

Lillian shrugged. There went Prissy again.

Aloud she asked, “Uncle Doc, isn’t it my turn to drive now?”

“I think it must be.”

Prissy released the reins reluctantly. Dan Field noticed the intensity of the little face. God, how she’s going to suffer! he thought with a twinge. This child was also dear to him as were so many of Willowspring’s people.

It wasn’t only Pris who had held him. There was something about the valleys and hills which had seeped into him like a drug. Here today was the country road winding through the fields, with their goldenrod and haystacks and buckwheat stubble and corn shocks, and the farms and the barns and the cattle grazing, and the mountains forever. And the smell of it all—you forgot the smell when you were here all the time, except at intervals—clean air and rich sod and damp moss and sweet fern, with always something else floating through—dust now in September. Dan Field smiled. Dust, even the dust, seemed sweet in his nostrils. And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground....

“Where are we going, Uncle Doc?” Prissy asked.

“Don’t you know?”

Both little girls piped, “To Mrs. Miller’s.”

“That’s right.”

He couldn’t help Mrs. Miller’s rheumatism much. But the old soul lived alone and every so often Dan Field paid a friendly visit and left a new paper of pills. Mrs. Miller always inquired how much she owed him and Dan Field always said he’d let her know later. Perhaps his practice continued outstripping Brown Walsh’s because he never pressed a bill and often didn’t send one. But sometimes Dan Field felt he received far more than his services were worth.

Today, reaching Mrs. Miller’s place, Nervy would stick her nose into the mountain brook flowing across the road and thereafter nibble sweet clover along the fence. Mrs. Miller would be glad to see him and glad he’d brought Lillian and Prissy along—the two little princesses, she called them—and they’d all sit on the front porch and chat, and pretty soon Mrs. Miller would hobble on her rheumatic legs to the kitchen and come hobbling back again, bringing cool milk and gingerbread or cookies.

“Sammy, where have you been?”

“Why—why—why, Papa?”

“It’s almost six o’clock. Why weren’t you home for dinner?”

“I must have forgot dinner, Papa.”

Pris came upon the scene. “Sammy, look at your best suit, all over hay. And the smell. You haven’t been playing in a stable on Sunday, have you?”

“No, Mama, I wasn’t playing in a stable. I wasn’t playing at all.”

“Well, you get along upstairs, young man,” George instructed, “and take off those clothes and go to bed. And perhaps next Sunday you’ll remember your dinner.”

Climbing the stairs, Sammy sniffed. They would spoil it, the very best time he’d ever had in all his life. Playing, huh; Sammy sniffed again. Anybody what had any sense’d know training a dog wasn’t playing. And he wouldn’t tell them a word about Spotty until she was his and then they couldn’t not let him keep her. But he’d have to get overalls or something or the stable smell on his clothes would give him away; Papa and Mama would never let him work in a livery stable.

He went into his room. Sammy’s room opened off the back porch. He went through the room now, onto the porch, for no particular reason. But he saw Bert coming along the street from Mudtown and it occurred to Sammy that Shad wore overalls and maybe Bert could borrow a pair.

He slid down the porch post and dropped on the grass. “Bert,” he called softly.

Bert turned and Sammy motioned him to make no noise, by putting one hand over his mouth and pointing toward the house with the other one.

Bert came close and Sammy whispered, “Could you get me the loan of a pair of Shad’s overalls?”

“Yes,” Bert said.

“I got to have ’em ’fore five o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll get ’em,” Bert promised.

Sammy knew Bert would bring the overalls if he said he would. He climbed up the post and, back in the bedroom, started undressing. Suddenly his stomach began turning around. He wished he hadn’t forgotten his dinner. Then the door opened softly and Pris entered, carrying a tray. There was chicken and bread and butter and milk and ice cream. Sammy smiled gratefully.

Pris put the tray on a table. “Here, dear, give me that filthy suit. And go wash before you eat.”

She took the suit onto the porch and gave it a thorough brushing. When she returned to the room Sammy had about finished his supper. She saw his face and hands.

“Sammy, did you wash before you started to eat?”

“Oh, Mama, I forgot.”

“Oh, Sammy! Won’t you tell Mama why you didn’t come home to dinner?”

“I wasn’t doing anything bad, Mama. Honest.”

“Of course you weren’t, darling.”

She ran her fingers through his yellow curls and bent to kiss him but he wiggled away. All right, she thought, all right, Sammy. She picked up the tray.

As she went out the door he smiled. “Good night, Mama.”

Pris returned the smile. “Good night, darling. My darling. And please go wash right away before you forget again.”

He trotted toward the bathroom.

Why do I love them so utterly? Pris pondered, taking the tray down the back steps, the way she had come up. George had an idea it wasn’t punishment to send the boys to bed unless they were hungry. But in the kitchen Pris saw, through the window, that George already had begun his Sunday evening stroll around the grounds. During many years she had accompanied him on the strolls. She began wondering at what point and for what reason she had stopped and if walking about the Albright place now made George remember a long ago, dear like the nostalgia she experienced over home. Then suddenly it dawned upon Pris; the times she kept longing for of late were not her childhood years but the months when she was merely biding time until she and George would be married.

George had been in her dreams forever, of course, but he had hardly noticed her until she grew up. It was Tim who loved having her play with him (little thin dark Tim, so unlike the handsome yellow-haired, blue-eyed George), little Tim who had wanted to be a poet. Wherever could Tim be now? Ma Albright had answered his letter but she had never heard another word. Pris wondered how she would feel if Rufe or Sammy ran away. Here Pris gasped, amazed—certainly she had always known it but never before had the fact struck her that Tim was only fifteen when he ran away, Rufe’s age.

Well, thank goodness! Rufe had stayed home all afternoon. Directly after dinner she had heard him going up to the third-floor playroom and he was still there, probably drawing; he was really clever at drawing. But Rufe wasn’t drawing. He had found a book hidden in Papa’s closet, and in the playroom, where he’d not be disturbed, he’d been reading. The book was The Scarlet Letter, by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Pris put the tray down. Nellie would wash the dishes later. Nellie and Maggie had Sunday evenings off. Pris often wondered what the girls did during their time off. They didn’t seem to have any friends. But every Sunday afternoon they dressed themselves all up and out they’d go. And good girls as they were, they couldn’t have beaus because they were so homely. Still, there was that boy Gregory. People said he was Maggie’s son. Poor soul, Pris thought about Maggie, I suppose she worries about Gregory too.

Pris remembered Rufe again. She fixed a snack if anyone wanted a bite Sunday evening.

She went into the hall and called, “Rufe, don’t you want some supper, dear?”

“No, thanks, Mama,” he answered.

“Hadn’t you better light the lamp, dear, if you’re going to stay up there?”

“It’s not dark, Mama.”

No, it wasn’t dark, only shadowy. Twilight, and twilight of a Sunday.

“Pris.” Gramma Albright spoke from the sitting room.

“Yes, Ma?”

“Would you mind lighting the lamp?”

Pris entered the sitting room and lighted one of the big lamps.

Gramma Albright was reading her Bible. “My eyes aren’t what they once were,” she said.

“Would you like a bite to eat?” Pris asked.

“After that dinner I should say not.” She rested the Bible on her knees. “Oh deary me, I often wonder if Tim has enough to eat.”

“He said he was doing just fine in the letter, you know.”

Gramma Albright nodded and returned to her reading. Pris wondered again what George could be thinking, out there walking around the place. She began reminiscences—about the beautiful year she had spent at the Boston Conservatory of Music and how handsome George had looked, and how envious the other girls had been, the time he came on to see her. She thought of how splendid he had appeared wearing his captain’s uniform and of that night he had said, “Pris, I might not come back again and I’m going to marry you before I leave this time.”

Then it came to Pris, why, George had never said, “I love you.” Not when he was asking her to marry him nor in all the years they had been married. Of course he loved her, truly and deeply, the way she loved him, but never once had he said so. And come to think of it, Pris realized, she had never once told George she loved him either. She wondered what Dan Field would say to a girl whom he wanted to marry. What the girl might say to him....

Entering the parlor, Pris sat down before the big square piano. She began playing Chopin’s Opus 48 in C minor, Dan’s favorite. He called it the nocturne because he said there was never another by comparison worth considering. Perhaps if Dan heard her playing when he brought Lillian home he’d stop a few minutes.

There was just one season of the year wherein Lem Stoddard really worked and that was springtime. As soon as the air began growing mild and the earth softened, something entered Lem’s soul and he became sober and industrious. For Lem truly had green fingers and he loved making not merely his own garden but those of a number of townspeople as well; everybody said, “Lem Stoddard can make anything grow.” The rest of the year, however, the family sustenance depended upon Myrtle, who took in washing, and he deviled the life out of Myrtle for money to buy liquor. Although once in a blue moon she liked a swig herself and would send Ray over town to buy a jugful. At such times Lem’s attitude toward his wife was affable and gracious, after his own fashion, of course.

On the certain Sunday afternoon around the middle of September Bert, Shad at heel, arrived and found Lem and Myrt in one of these unusual friendly moods. Sprawled upon the porch, tin cups in hand, the jug between them, they chatted pleasantly. The children gathered around were almost quiet, too, because if Myrt bought herself a swig she had Ray purchase enough licorice sticks to keep their big mouths shut a spell, as she put it.

“Here you, Ray, give Bert a licruse stick,” Myrt instructed.

“Please give Shad one, too, Mrs. Stoddard,” Bert said.

“Sure.” Myrt nodded agreeably. “Give Shad one, Ray. Give Shad two, Ray. Give Bert three, Ray.”

Ray followed the biddings.

Lem shot a spiral of brown juice at the porch’s one step, missed, filled his cup again, and beamed benignly toward his wife.

“Give the God damn shirt off’n yer God damn back, wouldn’t yer?” He took a drink, which he adroitly let slip over the quid down his throat. “Bighearted Myrt. Some likes ’em fat and some likes ’em thin, but me, I likes ’em jest like Myrt.”

Bert fixed his eyes upon Myrt. She’d got fat, all right. He wished he could see a baby getting born. He would, someday.

Beaming toward Lem, Myrt filled her cup again. “Yer ol’ bastard yer. Yer God damn ol’ bastard. Ray, give everybody another licruse stick. Give everybody two licruse sticks.”

The current baby, who was eleven months old, stretched beside her and she pulled the licorice stick out of his mouth and flung it across the porch. “Ray, give Teeny ’nother licruse stick. He’s been a-chawin’ that un plenty long. Why don’t yer think ’bout yer lil brother oncet in a blue moon?”

Ray, whose life this day might be likened to Gunga Din’s, dashed here and there, obeying instructions. Harry and Rita, their stomachs already chock-full of licorice, were trying to emulate their father’s proclivity by emitting long spirals of licorice juice across the porch.

The next three—Maggie, seven, Lista, six, and Bud, four—were drawing licorice pictures on the floor. While Sonny, three, and Tiny seemed content enough merely to suck and drool licorice.

Myrt continued instructing, “Ray, give yer pap a licruse stick. Why don’t yer think ’bout yer pap oncet in a blue moon?”

“I don’t want no licruse stick,” Lem said, taking another swig and still beaming toward Myrtle. “Give the God damn shirt off’n yer God damn back, wouldn’t yer?” He turned to Bert. “Jesus Christ! Was my family refined.” Here, Harry, Rita, and Ray set themselves to burst into laughter but today their father’s story took a new twist. “Yer know, Bert, family ain’t everythin’. Now thar’s Myrt. I wouldn’t trade Myrt fer the Queen of England.”

“God damn black liar,” Myrt responded affectionately.

“Th’s right, Bert.” Lem nodded. “It ain’t all refinement. It’s w’a’s here.” He tapped his heart. “An’ here.” He tapped his forehead. “An’ they sumpin else, Bert. Gold! Gold! Whar’d yer folks ’a’ got ’out’n money, Bert?”

Bert shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr. Stoddard, where my folks would have got ’out money.”

“Listen, Bert! I gonna tell yer sumpin. That gang hangs round Jake Smith’s Livery Stable—Jake an’ Floyd Shires an’ Fat Hubbard an’ all of ’em. See, Bert, last ’lection they thinks as how they gonna ’lect Ralph Pettigrew mayor o’ Willerspring. And Ralph he makes some pretty God damn fine speeches. Yer hears them speeches, Myrt. What was it Ralph Pettigrew says?”

Myrt nodded amiably, pouring another drink. “Tha’s right. Tha’s ’zactly right. Tha’s ’zactly wha’ the God damn ol’ bastard says.”

Lem refilled his cup. “God damn fine speeches.”

Ray spoke. Ray Stoddard at nine years and ten months of age had never known a day’s schooling and could not read or write his own name. His straight, black, unkempt hair hung to his shoulders. His face was so thin it appeared cadaverous despite the dirt. But his black eyes were alert and his bony shoulders square.

“I kin tell yer what Mr. Pettigrew said, Pap.” Ray spoke. “But we jest hears Mr. Pettigrew make one speech, Pap, last May, the night ’fore ’lection. And Mr. Pettigrew he says, says he, this here givern—givern—givernment of the United States was found—found—foundered by the people fer the people. But here in Willerspring—”

Ray stopped and looked at Bert.

“What else did Mr. Pettigrew say, Ray?” Bert asked.

“I wouldn’t go fer ter hurt yer feelin’s, Bert,” Ray said.

“I ain’t got feelings, Ray,” Bert informed.

“Wall,” Ray continued, “Mr. Pettigrew he says, says he, the reason Captain George Albright and Mr. Sargent is al’ays ’lected mayor is ’cause they got gold fer ter buy votes. And he said it is a sin fer ter buy votes.”

Lem bellowed, “If’n tha’ ain’t the God damnedest talk I ever hear. If’n I kin git five dollars fer ter vote fer George Albright it’s a sin fer ter take it.”

Now came wafting across Limestone Avenue a medley of voices singing, “Wash Me and I Will Be Whiter Than Snow.”

It was four o’clock. During the past fifteen minutes, from every Negro shanty men, women, children, and babies, dressed in their Sunday best, had been pouring and strolling past the Stoddards’ toward Mr. Williams’s shanty. (At the approach of Mr. and Mrs. Stanwick and the five other young Stanwicks, Shad had momentarily disappeared under the Stoddard porch.) Willowspring as yet boasted no colored church but at four o’clock every Sunday afternoon service was held in Mr. Williams’s shanty.

Thomas Williams, addressed as Mr. Williams by practically everyone both black and white, including his wife and eleven children, was a patriarchal-looking old Negro somewhere around sixty. He was not only the colored preacher but Willowspring’s one policeman. In his “pulpit”—a small platform he’d erected at one end of his “parlor”—Mr. Williams wore a stiff collar, a long-tailed coat, tight pants, and a high silk hat. Some believed this raiment had been acquired at a point in Mr. Williams’s career when he was coachman for rich Pittsburgh people. On the beat Mr. Williams wore no collar and a simple coat and pants, while upon his white wool perched a red helmet with “Police Chief” across its front. No one had any idea where this feature had originated and there was no subsidy provided by Willowspring to uniform the law.

The singing, which drifted across Limestone Avenue, was surely loud and sweet, but because Mr. Williams’s congregation lacked hymnals the words seldom conformed to text. Also the congregation overflowed the parlor and was scattered through the kitchen and bedroom. And now came the words, if loud and sweet on different keys, from different rooms:

“Wash me and I will be whiter than snow,

Whiter than snow, whiter than snow,

Wash in the blood, yes, wash in the blood,

Wash me and I will be whiter than snow,

Whiter than snow, yes, whiter than snow.

Wash me and I will be whiter than snow.”

The singing in Mr. Williams’s shanty ceased but Myrtle took up the refrain:

“Whiter shan sho, yesh, whiter shan sho,

Wash me and I will be whiter shan sho.”

Lem nodded approvingly. “Purty, Myrt, purty. God damn if’n I ain’t gonna take yer dancin’ sometime. ’Member how we uster dance, Myrt? Look....” Lem pointed toward the Tatems’ shanty.

Red was sitting on the porch smoking his corncob pipe, and Dolly, his younger daughter, was walking along Limestone Avenue toward the woods. Once Red had possessed a wife and thirteen children. But when the youngest child was a year old Red’s wife ran off with another man. The other man was a tramp who’d ambled along the track and stopped a few days in Mudtown. Of course everybody on Limestone Avenue who ever heard the tramp talk knew he was crazy as a loon, yet what he’d wanted with Daisy Tatem couldn’t be imagined. Still more, he let her take the five youngest children along. They were never heard of again and they had last been seen walking along the railroad track, Red’s wife carrying the baby, the tramp holding the next smallest on a shoulder, and the other three children trudging behind. After their mother left, one by one other children wandered away, until now at home were only Dolly, fifteen, and Belle, sixteen.

Where Red’s hair was brick-colored, Dolly’s and Belle’s was like living flames and both had deep, deep blue eyes shaded like purple pansies (or so Ralph Pettigrew thought) and skins whiter than milk, if their mouths were wide. Red had raised a terrible row over his wife’s elopement, got himself drunk, and sworn to use his musket upon both miscreants if they ever showed up again.

When he finally calmed down, however, Red felt more than pleased at being relieved of the six who had fled. Not that responsibility had ever rested on him heavily, but his wife’s constant nagging had kept one shoulder, anyhow, under the wheel. And the last year Red had been more satisfactorily situated than he’d been since his marriage. Dolly and Belle were waitresses at the Grand Central Hotel, earning three dollars a week, half of which Red made them give to him. All he had to do was put a bead on bottles, or pot rabbits, or sit on the porch smoking and dreaming of the days when a mighty hunter of Indians and buffalo was he.

“Look,” Lem guffawed, pointing to where Dolly was disappearing into the woods. “Know whar ’at slut ish a-goin’, Bert?”

“Seems like Dolly she’s going to the crick, Mr. Stoddard.”

“Tha’s right, Bert. Tha’s ’zactly right. Tha’s ’zactly whar she’s a-goin’. Know wha’ fer, Bert? Dolly she’s a-goin’ down in them bushes by the crick fer ter meet tha’ big black buck nigger Gabe Williams, and his own pap over thar preachin’ the gospel. Yer knows Gabe, Bert, yer uncle George Albright’s hired man?”

“Yes, Mr. Stoddard, I know Gabe.”

“Bert, wash yer s’pose yer uncle’d say if’n he knowed tha’ God damn big black buck nigger wash a-layin’ down in the bushes by the crick wif a white slut?”

Again Bert shook his head. “I couldn’t hardly tell what Uncle George would say, Mr. Stoddard.”

Now from the shanty of Mr. Williams the voice of Mr. Williams could be heard shouting, “... eternal hell,” and then was lost again. But across Limestone Avenue once more Myrtle’s voice wafted.

Whiter shan sho, yesh, whiter shan sho,

Wash me and I will be whiter shan sho....

“And thar gosh Floyd Shires, reg’lar ash clockwork,” Lem guffawed.

Floyd Shires was the one customer who did not sneak into the Widder Woman’s shanty. Floyd, Jake Smith’s hack driver, had a wife, three married daughters, and seven grandchildren. But every Sunday afternoon, rain or shine, Floyd ambled across Limestone Avenue at exactly half past four.

“Mr. Shires’ clock must keep mighty good time,” Shad said, rolling his round eyes.

“Bert,” Ray Stoddard went on as if there had been no intervening conversation since his last remark, “even if’n Captain George and Mr. Sargent do buy votes Mr. Ralph Pettigrew gittin’ ’lected mayor wouldn’t have did no good. It’d take a mighty sight more’n Mr. Ralph Pettigrew gittin’ ’lected mayor of Willerspring fer ter make him the likes of Captain George and Mr. Sargent.”