The Long Valley (8 page)

Harry walked slowly over to her and picked her up. “I didn’t mean to kill it,” he said to himself. “I just wanted to scare it away.” He looked at the white bird in his hand. Right in the head, right under the eye the BB shot had gone. Harry stepped to the line of fuchsias and threw the quail up into the brush. The next moment he put down the gun and crashed up through the undergrowth. He found the white quail, carried her far up the hill and buried her under a pile of leaves.

Mary heard him pass her door. “Harry, did you shoot the cat?”

“It won’t ever come back,” he said through the door.

“Well, I hope you killed it, but I don’t want to hear the details.”

Harry walked on into the living room and sat down in a big chair. The room was still dusky, but through the big dormer window the garden glowed and the tops of the lawn oaks were afire with sunshine.

“What a skunk I am,” Harry said to himself “What a dirty skunk, to kill a thing she loved so much.” He dropped his head and looked at the floor. “I’m lonely,” he said. “Oh, Lord, I’m so lonely!”

About fifteen miles below Monterey, on the wild coast, the Torres family had their farm, a few sloping acres above a cliff that dropped to the brown reefs and to the hissing white waters of the ocean. Behind the farm the stone mountains stood up against the sky. The farm buildings huddled like little clinging aphids on the mountain skirts, crouched low to the ground as though the wind might blow them into the sea. The little shack, the rattling, rotting barn were grey-bitten with sea salt, beaten by the damp wind until they had taken on the color of the granite hills. Two horses, a red cow and a red calf, half a dozen pigs and a flock of lean, multicolored chickens stocked the place. A little corn was raised on the sterile slope, and it grew short and thick under the wind, and all the cobs formed on the landward sides of the stalks.

Mama Torres, a lean, dry woman with ancient eyes, had ruled the farm for ten years, ever since her husband tripped over a stone in the field one day and fell full length on a rattlesnake. When one is bitten on the chest there is not much that can be done.

Mama Torres had three children, two undersized black ones of twelve and fourteen, Emilio and Rosy, whom Mama kept fishing on the rocks below the farm when the sea was kind and when the truant officer was in some distant part of Monterey County. And there was Pepé, the tall smiling son of nineteen, a gentle, affectionate boy, but very lazy. Pepé had a tall head, pointed at the top, and from its peak, coarse black hair grew down like a thatch all around. Over his smiling little eyes Mama cut a straight bang so he could see. Pepé had sharp Indian cheek bones and an eagle nose, but his mouth was as sweet and shapely as a girl’s mouth, and his chin was fragile and chiseled. He was loose and gangling, all legs and feet and wrists, and he was very lazy. Mama thought him fine and brave, but she never told him so. She said, “Some lazy cow must have got into thy father’s family, else how could I have a son like thee.” And she said, “When I carried thee, a sneaking lazy coyote came out of the brush and looked at me one day. That must have made thee so.”

Pepé smiled sheepishly and stabbed at the ground with his knife to keep the blade sharp and free from rust. It was his inheritance, that knife, his father’s knife. The long heavy blade folded back into the black handle. There was a button on the handle. When Pepé pressed the button, the blade leaped out ready for use. The knife was with Pepé always, for it had been his father’s knife.

One sunny morning when the sea below the cliff was glinting and blue and the white surf creamed on the reef, when even the stone mountains looked kindly, Mama Torres called out the door of the shack, “Pepé, I have a labor for thee.”

There was no answer. Mama listened. From behind the barn she heard a burst of laughter. She lifted her full long skirt and walked in the direction of the noise.

Pepé was sitting on the ground with his back against a box. His white teeth glistened. On either side of him stood the two black ones, tense and expectant. Fifteen feet away a redwood post was set in the ground. Pepé’s right hand lay limply in his lap, and in the palm the big black knife rested. The blade was closed back into the handle. Pepé looked smiling at the sky.

Suddenly Emilio cried, “Ya!”

Pepé’s wrist flicked like the head of a snake. The blade seemed to fly open in mid-air, and with a thump the point dug into the redwood post, and the black handle quivered. The three burst into excited laughter. Rosy ran to the post and pulled out the knife and brought it back to Pepé. He closed the blade and settled the knife carefully in his listless palm again. He grinned self-consciously at the sky.

“Ya!”

The heavy knife lanced out and sunk into the post again. Mama moved forward like a ship and scattered the play.

“All day you do foolish things with the knife, like a toy-baby,” she stormed. “Get up on thy huge feet that eat up shoes. Get up!” She took him by one loose shoulder and hoisted at him. Pepé grinned sheepishly and came half-heartedly to his feet. “Look!” Mama cried. “Big lazy, you must catch the horse and put on him thy father’s saddle. You must ride to Monterey. The medicine bottle is empty. There is no salt. Go thou now, Peanut! Catch the horse.”

A revolution took place in the relaxed figure of Pepé. “To Monterey, me? Alone?
Sí
, Mama.”

She scowled at him. “Do not think, big sheep, that you will buy candy. No, I will give you only enough for the medicine and the salt.”

Pepé smiled. “Mama, you will put the hatband on the hat?”

She relented then. “Yes, Pepé. You may wear the hatband.”

His voice grew insinuating. “And the green handkerchief, Mama?”

“Yes, if you go quickly and return with no trouble, the silk green handkerchief will go. If you make sure to take off the handkerchief when you eat so no spot may fall on it....”

“
Sí,
Mama. I will be careful. I am a man.”

“Thou? A man? Thou art a peanut.”

He went into the rickety barn and brought out a rope, and he walked agilely enough up the hill to catch the horse.

When he was ready and mounted before the door, mounted on his father’s saddle that was so old that the oaken frame showed through torn leather in many places, then Mama brought out the round black hat with the tooled leather band, and she reached up and knotted the green silk handkerchief about his neck. Pepé’s blue denim coat was much darker than his jeans, for it had been washed much less often.

Mama handed up the big medicine bottle and the silver coins. “That for the medicine,” she said, “and that for the salt. That for a candle to burn for the papa. That for
dulces
for the little ones. Our friend Mrs. Rodriguez will give you dinner and maybe a bed for the night. When you go to the church say only ten Paternosters and only twenty-five Ave Marias. Oh! I know, big coyote. You would sit there flapping your mouth over Aves all day while you looked at the candles and the holy pictures. That is not good devotion to stare at the pretty things.”

The black hat, covering the high pointed head and black thatched hair of Pepé, gave him dignity and age. He sat the rangy horse well. Mama thought how handsome he was, dark and lean and tall. “I would not send thee now alone, thou little one, except for the medicine,” she said softly. “It is not good to have no medicine, for who knows when the toothache will come, or the sadness of the stomach. These things are.”

“Adios, Mama,” Pepé cried. “I will come back soon. You may send me often alone. I am a man.”

“Thou art a foolish chicken.”

He straightened his shoulders, flipped the reins against the horse’s shoulder and rode away. He turned once and saw that they still watched him, Emilio and Rosy and Mama. Pepé grinned with pride and gladness and lifted the tough buckskin horse to a trot.

When he had dropped out of sight over a little dip in the road, Mama turned to the black ones, but she spoke to herself. “He is nearly a man now,” she said. “It will be a nice thing to have a man in the house again.” Her eyes sharpened on the children. “Go to the rocks now. The tide is going out. There will be abalones to be found.” She put the iron hooks into their hands and saw them down the steep trail to the reefs. She brought the smooth stone
metate
to the doorway and sat grinding her corn to flour and looking occasionally at the road over which Pepé had gone. The noonday came and then the afternoon, when the little ones beat the abalones on a rock to make them tender and Mama patted the tortillas to make them thin. They ate their dinner as the red sun was plunging down toward the ocean. They sat on the doorsteps and watched the big white moon come over the mountaintops.

Mama said, “He is now at the house of our friend Mrs. Rodriguez. She will give him nice things to eat and maybe a present.”

Emilio said, “Some day I too will ride to Monterey for medicine. Did Pepé come to be a man today?”

Mama said wisely, “A boy gets to be a man when a man is needed. Remember this thing. I have known boys forty years old because there was no need for a man.”

Soon afterwards they retired, Mama in her big oak bed on one side of the room, Emilio and Rosy in their boxes full of straw and sheepskins on the other side of the room.

The moon went over the sky and the surf roared on the rocks. The roosters crowed the first call. The surf subsided to a whispering surge against the reef. The moon dropped toward the sea. The roosters crowed again.

 

The moon was near to the water when Pepé rode on a winded horse to his home flat. His dog bounced out and circled the horse yelping with pleasure. Pepé slid off the saddle to the ground. The weathered little shack was silver in the moonlight and the square shadow of it was black to the north and east. Against the east the piling mountains were misty with light; their tops melted into the sky.

Pepé walked wearily up the three steps and into the house. It was dark inside. There was a rustle in the comer.

Mama cried out from her bed. “Who comes? Pepé, is it thou?”

“
Sí,
Mama.”

“Did you get the medicine?”

“
Sí
, Mama.”

“Well, go to sleep, then. I thought you would be sleeping at the house of Mrs. Rodriguez.” Pepé stood silently in the dark room. “Why do you stand there, Pepé? Did you drink wine?”

“
Sí,
Mama.”

“Well, go to bed then and sleep out the wine.”

His voice was tired and patient, but very firm. “Light the candle, Mama. I must go away into the mountains.”

“What is this, Pepé? You are crazy.” Mama struck a sulphur match and held the little blue burr until the flame spread up the stick. She set light to the candle on the floor beside her bed. “Now, Pepé, what is this you say?” She looked anxiously into his face.

He was changed. The fragile quality seemed to have gone from his chin. His mouth was less full than it had been, the lines of the lips were straighter, but in his eyes the greatest change had taken place. There was no laughter in them any more, nor any bashfulness. They were sharp and bright and purposeful.

He told her in a tired monotone, told her everything just as it had happened. A few people came into the kitchen of Mrs. Rodriguez. There was wine to drink. Pepé drank wine. The little quarrel—the man started toward Pepé and then the knife—it went almost by itself. It flew, it darted before Pepé knew it. As he talked, Mama’s face grew stem, and it seemed to grow more lean. Pepé finished. “I am a man now, Mama. The man said names to me I could not allow.”

Mama nodded. “Yes, thou art a man, my poor little Pepé. Thou art a man. I have seen it coming on thee. I have watched you throwing the knife into the post, and I have been afraid.” For a moment her face had softened, but now it grew stem again. “Come! We must get you ready. Go. Awaken Emilio and Rosy. Go quickly.”

Pepé stepped over to the comer where his brother and sister slept among the sheepskins. He leaned down and shook them gently. “Come, Rosy! Come, Emilio! The mama says you must arise.”

The little black ones sat up and rubbed their eyes in the candlelight. Mama was out of bed now, her long black shirt over her nightgown. “Emilio,” she cried. “Go up and catch the other horse for Pepé. Quickly, now! Quickly.” Emilio put his legs in his overalls and stumbled sleepily out the door.

“You heard no one behind you on the road?” Mama demanded.

“No, Mama. I listened carefully. No one was on the road.”

Mama darted like a bird about the room. From a nail on the wall she took a canvas water bag and threw it on the floor. She stripped a blanket from her bed and rolled it into a tight tube and tied the ends with string. From a box beside the stove she lifted a flour sack half full of black stringy jerky. “Your father’s black coat, Pepé. Here, put it on.”

Pepé stood in the middle of the floor watching her activity. She reached behind the door and brought out the rifle, a long 38-56, worn shiny the whole length of the barrel. Pepé took it from her and held it in the crook of his elbow. Mama brought a little leather bag and counted the cartridges into his hand. “Only ten left,” she warned. “You must not waste them.”

l caballo,
Mama.”

“Put on the saddle from the other horse. Tie on the blanket. Here, tie the jerky to the saddle horn.”

Still Pepé stood silently watching his mother’s frantic activity. His chin looked hard, and his sweet mouth was drawn and thin. His little eyes followed Mama about the room almost suspiciously.

Rosy asked softly, “Where goes Pepé?”

Mama’s eyes were fierce. “Pepé goes on a journey. Pepé is a man now. He has a man’s thing to do.”

Pepé straightened his shoulders. His mouth changed until he looked very much like Mama.

At last the preparation was finished. The loaded horse stood outside the door. The water bag dripped a line of moisture down the bay shoulder.