The Third Generation (12 page)

Spring affected him physically. He could feel it rising within himself like a great turbulence and when it boiled out, strangely, he was a flower, a deep red flower, or a green whispering tree. He could change himself into a bird, or he could become a yellow-winged butterfly. It was almost all a dream; he could turn everything into a dream.

He turned the hill up to the Pattersons into the Alps and he was Hannibal; behind him stretched his elephant train. Once he was Horatio at the clattering wooden bridge across the bayou beyond the barn. He stood before the wagon teams, frightened but undaunted, until the drivers got down and moved him bodily. Then he threw rocks at them. His father strapped him.

But that didn’t stop him from straying off all day long following a group of students who were searching for strayed sheep. Only he was searching for the Golden Fleece. No one knew where he was.

“We went across the cornfield by the pine grove,” William told his parents at suppertime. “But I didn’t go into the woods. It was dark in there.”

“When was that?” his mother asked.

“This morning.”

“My God!” she cried, rushing from the table.

“Wait a minute, honey,” Professor Taylor called, and to his son, “Where were you all day?”

“I was waiting.”

“Where?”

“By the woods.”

Mrs. Taylor had gone out into the road, walking rapidly up the hill. She met Charles coming down the hill. Professor Taylor had just come out the gate. Charles broke into a run. Wordlessly, his mother seized a broken stick and struck at him. He dodged and ran on home ahead of her and his father let him come inside the house.

“Where’d you so, son?”

“Just walkin’.”

“But where, son?”

“Just walkin’ in the woods.”

“You had your mother worried, son. We were all worried. Now tell me where you went.”

“I was just walkin’,” he replied stubbornly.

“Just walking. But what were you doing? What were you looking for?”

“Nothin’. I wasn’t lookin’ for nothin’. I just felt like walkin’.”

His father couldn’t make him out. Then his mother entered with a freshly cut switch, her face grim and determined. He braced himself for the whipping with relief. Now he wouldn’t have to tell them anything.

She saw that he was waiting for it. She dropped the switch and fell to her knees before him and took him in her arms. Suddenly she burst into tears. Charles was shocked. He wished he could make his mother happy. He wished he could confide in her and make her laugh her tingling little laugh. She was so beautiful when she was happy. It was her grim, unconquerable look he couldn’t bear. She fought so desperately.

On summer days when it rained the children played in the attic. They were entranced by the drumming of the rain on the shingled roof. It was a faraway sound, transporting them to magic lands, and then even William could play Charles’s games of dreaming a new existence. There were mud daubers’ nests to crack and see the larvae. Sometimes a bat flew blindly about, coming within a hairsbreadth of their faces. They rushed recklessly about, trying to catch it. From below it sounded as if they were fighting dragons. Their mother came flying, panting breathlessly from the steep stairs.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Her voice was shrill from strain.

Innocently they looked at her. “We were just trying to catch a little ol’ bat,” William said.

She sat on the top step, torn between laughter and tears. She knew her children were lonely and constrained. Their lack of companions their own age was a constant source of worry. She longed for them to experience a happy childhood, such as she had had. But what was she to do? At times such as this she ached for them. What would happen to them, she didn’t know. It was all their father’s fault, she thought. If he only knew what he was doing to his children, bringing them up in that awful environment.

As they grew older they took their books to the attic to read. Any dream was possible beneath the strangely stirring drumming of the rain.

In the wintertime they curled up before the downstairs fire, their parents sitting in the easy chairs. Mrs. Taylor had her bag of darning and Professor Taylor held an open book. Soon he dozed, his bifocals slipping down his nose, and his head fell forward, open-mouthed. The fire blazed and crackled in the fireplace. William showed his mother the picture of Agni. Charles was lost to it. He was reading Poe’s “The Raven” with complete absorption. The slow, melancholy beat of the repetitious words spun a sharp hurt through his mind. He felt himself tightening slowly until he couldn’t bear it. Suddenly he cried, “Damn! Damn!” His own voice released him from the sinister spell. He looked straight up toward his mother, and cringed from the profound shock that came into her face. She didn’t speak. His father stirred sleepily. “Whassat? Whassat?”

“Charles cursed,” William said. “Charles said damn.”

Professor Taylor came awake but he was still groggy and witless. “That right, son? You curse your brother?”

“I wasn’t cursing anybody,” Charles replied.

Mrs. Taylor saw that her husband was confused. She turned to Charles and said sadly, “Go to the kitchen and wash out your mouth with soap.”

He went without a word. William followed to see that he obeyed. Charles rubbed the strong lye soap on the dishcloth and thoroughly scrubbed inside his mouth. He didn’t know why he had cursed. It was the terror in Poe that fascinated him.

One cold January evening, while sitting in the outhouse leafing through the pages of the Sears Roebuck catalogue by lantern light, he came across sketches of birds. He was sucking a straight pin. Both of the children had picked up their father’s habit of picking his teeth with pins. Their mother had tried to break them of it, but they did it secretly.

Suddenly Charles was reminded of the Albatross. The whole sinister world of Poe seemed to envelop him. The dark night closed in, phantoms and murderers crept stealthily through the weeds. He swallowed in terror, and the pin disappeared. He didn’t feel it in his throat, but he couldn’t find it anywhere. If he had swallowed the pin it would puncture his intestines. He sat frightening himself into a trance with thoughts of bleeding inside and dying slowly. No one would know what was wrong with him. He wouldn’t tell them. He would say he couldn’t eat. He’d become pale and weak. He’d nurture his pain in silence. Finally would come the day when he could no longer stand up. He’d lie in bed, dying. His mother would grieve over him. She’d cry. Then he’d tell her how much he’d always loved her. She’d hold him in her beautiful white arms and kiss him.

Then he’d tell her about all his wonderful dreams. He’d say, “You know, Mama, the time I was away all day and wouldn’t tell where I was. I was Jason, Mama, I was looking for the golden fleece. I planted the dragon teeth, too, Mama. And the fields were full of soldiers.” Then she’d say, “Oh, my darling, you tell me and I will go away with you.” And he’d shake his head sadly and say, “It’s too late now, Mama.” And he’d rest his head on her soft breasts while she held him close in her white ivory arms and he’d die. He was so moved by the fantasy he found himself crying. It shocked him back to reality. Now he was certain he’d swallowed the pin. He was terrified. He ran back to the house, holding his pants by his hands. But at sight of his parents and William sitting so serenely about the fire, he lost his nerve.

“Mama,” he faltered. She knew instantly that something was wrong. “I th-think I’ve swallowed a pin,” he stammered.

His parents bolted upright. Professor Taylor ran for his coat and hat. His mother put her arm about him and raised his chin. He could feel the violent trembling of her body.

“Is it in your throat?” she asked, trying to control the rising of hysteria.

William looked at his brother in awe.

“I don’t know,” Charles said. “I can’t feel it.”

“Don’t you feel it at all?”

“No, I can’t feel it anywhere.”

“Then how do you know you swallowed it?”

“I-I had it in my mouth and swallowed and it disappeared.”

He saw her mouth tighten and her face become grim, torn between worry and anger.

Professor Taylor rushed in, carrying Charles’s coat and cap.

“I’ll take him to the hospital, honey. Now don’t you worry.”

“I think he’s just imagining it,” she said.

He looked at his son. Charles had begun to tremble. But he was more frightened by the scene he’d caused than by having swallowed the pin.

“Well, the doctor’ll know,” his father said. “Come, get into your coat, son.”

The hospital had recently installed a fluoroscopy The doctor examined him thoroughly, but could find no sign of a foreign body. Charles was relieved to know that he wasn’t going to die. But now his mother wouldn’t cry and hold him in her arms. She’d think he’d just made it up to get her sympathy and attention. Perhaps she’d whip him. But there’d be no passion in her anger. He dreaded going home.

She didn’t even scold him. On his return she looked at him with contempt and ignored him. It hurt far worse than had she whipped him.

The last time Mrs. Taylor whipped her children was for spying on the women’s toilet behind the women’s dormitory. It stood on the high bank of the bayou and in the summer was almost hidden by the trees and underbrush surrounding it. The children played a game of standing on the other bank and seeing who could urinate the farthest. It was fun to watch the clear arched streams of urine falling into the tiny stream below. A couple of students came up and took part in the game. But they were no match for the children.

“W’en Ah were yo’ age Ah could piss that fur too,” one of them said disgustedly.

Charles and William looked at one another and giggled. They were proud of their strength.

The men went down and lay in the weeds and looked up at the toilet. The children followed to see what they were looking for. All they could see were the bottoms of several women relieving themselves.

“They’re not doing nothing but going to the toilet,” Charles said.

“What you think!” the student exclaimed. “They be eatin’ dinner or somp’n?” He and the other student laughed.

Charles didn’t know what he’d expected to see—something exciting, like a fight or a game.

William felt uneasy. “Let’s go.”

“Yare, git de hell ‘way frum heah ‘fore you draw ‘tention.”

They got up and started off. Professor Saunders, who patrolled the spot, saw them and came charging. The students jumped like flushed quail and tore off down the bayou. Professor Saunders rah after them. The children followed, tearing through the weeds and underbrush and stumbling along in high glee. This was more like it; this was fun. The students got away. Professor Saunders sat and caught his breath.

“They outran us,” Charles said, dancing with excitement.

“They ran like rabbits,” William echoed.

“Do you know those students?” Professor Saunders asked the boys.

“No, sir.”

“One had a scar on his cheek.”

“He had a copper penny ‘tached to his belt buckle.”

“What were you boys doing there?”

Charles was silent.

“Just looking,” William said.

“Looking at what?”

The boys were ashamed. “Just looking around,” William replied.

Professor Saunders stood and took them by the arms. “All right, come along with me.”

Another professor would have taken them to their father. But he disliked Mrs. Taylor, and he took this opportunity to embarrass her. He marched the boys down the road and up to the Taylors’ front door.

“Good day, Professor Saunders,” Mrs. Taylor greeted him, wondering what the children had got into now.

“Good morning, Mrs. Taylor,” he replied, smiling. He was a tall, thin, dark man with a cone-shaped head and large, yellow teeth. There was always a little matter in the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry to have to report I caught your sons peeking behind the women’s toilet.” He licked his lips as if he relished it. “And there were women students using it at the time.”

Mrs. Taylor flushed crimson. She felt dirtied and humiliated. “I commend you on doing your duty so meticulously,” she said in a tight, controlled voice, “even to the point of ascertaining what the boys were looking for.”

Her condescension wiped the oily smirk from his long, horse-shaped face. “I don’ know what they was lookin’ for,” he said roughly, lapsing into his native talk, “but I know what they was lookin’ at. An’ if you don’ whip ‘em I’ll whip ‘em myself.”

She gathered the boys to her sides. “If you lay a hand on one of my children I’ll horsewhip you,” she said, adding scathingly, “You have the effrontery to call yourself a teacher.”

Infuriated, he reached for Charles. Mrs. Taylor struck him in the face. He turned ashy with rage and instinctively struck back, the blow glancing off her shoulder. Her face blanched. Without another word she turned back into the house, disdainful of him pursuing her, and went in search of her husband’s shotgun.

Maddened by her escape, he turned on the boys, cuffing William on the head. Charles clutched him about the legs and tripped him down the steps, while William fled crying underneath the house.

“You li’l bastard!” Professor Saunders cried as he scrambled to his feet.

Charles kicked him on the shin and fled after William. Professor Saunders followed them, scuttling on all fours underneath the beams. The boys had crawled to the back of the house where there was only a foot of clearance. Looking about for a stick to strike at them, Professor Saunders saw the skirt of Mrs. Taylor’s dress as she rounded the corner of the house, carrying the double-barreled shotgun. He crawled rapidly to the far side, losing his hat in the process, and began running across the truck garden, his suit dirtied and disheveled.

“He’s getting away on the other side,” Charles yelled excitedly.

Deliberately, Mrs. Taylor encircled the house. In his haste, Professor Saunders had stumbled, but he was up, running again, when she came into view. Although he was out of range, Mrs. Taylor, unfamiliar with firearms, raised the gun and fired. The gun kicked her sharply and she uttered a cry of pain. The children dashed from beneath the house to aid her.