Track of the Cat - Walter Van Tilburg Clark (29 page)

The mother stared at him. Her face was gray, and the
grooves of time and labor and war with herself grew deeper while she
stood there. Finally she spoke slowly, and almost as thickly as he
had spoken.

"Is that all it means to you, a lifetime of
slavin’ and lookin’ out for you, and bearin’ you four young
uns?"

The father let the bottle down a little and said
cheerfully, "That’s all," and lifted the bottle and drank
again. Then he lowered it all the way and corked it. He cradled it in
his arm once more and leaned across the rail, twisting sideways.

"You think I’m too drunk to know what I’m
saying. Not though. Everybody saying just what they think, so I am
too. Know what I’m saying. Just what I think." He began the
whinnying laugh again, but broke it off short as his head drooped and
rolled toward his shoulder. He jerked it up after a moment and peered
at the mother. She hadn’t moved from where she’d been standing
the whole time.

All at once Grace stirred herself. She crossed
swiftly to the foot of the stairs and stood right below the old man.

"Father," she said, and then again,
"Father."

Finally the father’s head turned slowly, and he
squinted to see her too. "What you want?"

"You won’t let her send Gwen away, will you?"

"No," the old man said, speaking angrily,
because she asked the question so urgently. "Course not. Stay if
she wants to."

"And she can come down here, can’t she? You
won’t let Mother keep her up there in the bunk-house with Joe Sam?"

"Course not," the old man said. "My
house. Have who I want in it."

Still standing there on the other side of the table,
the mother asked slowly, "You want a woman like that in your
house?"

For a moment the old man didn’t seem to understand
where the question had come from. Then he let his head roll back
again, and peered at the mother. "Eh?" he asked.

"What’s that?"

"I asked do you want that kind of a woman in
your house?"

The father kept staring at her till it seemed he
hadn’t understood, or had already forgotten the question. Then
suddenly he chuckled, and leaned over loosely and pointed at her.
"Clothes-pin," he said. "You damn right," he
said. "Gotta have whore inna house anyway,  have a good
whore. Onlyone around here does anything anyway. Not a damn
clothes-pin."

"If that’s the last word you have ..."
the mother began heavily.

"Father," Grace cried. She put her hand
over his on the rail. "You can’t just say that. She’s got to
apologize. Mother’s got to apologize. Gwen can’t . . ."

"Grace," the mother said, "Ain’t you
heard enough . . ."

"Father," Grace said again.

"Shut up," the father said suddenly and
loudly. "Both of you shut up," he said. "Clothes-pins,
both of you. Not women at all. Not human. Goddam clothes-pins."

The room was very quiet for a moment, save for his
loud, enraged breathing. Then the anger passed slowly from his face.
He appeared to have remembered something which made him very sad.

"Man’s gotta have a drink, anyway," he
said finally, and balancing himself against the rail, began to
struggle with the cork of his bottle. Suddenly he stopped and
frowned. "Yes,” he said to himself. " ’Pologize. You
hear me, old woman," he said, staring at the mother. "You
’pologize. Good girl. Only one around here does anything. Got my
breakfast even. Curt’s intended too. Then you call her names like
that. You ’pologize. Understand?"

The mother just stared back at him.

"You hear me, woman?" he yelled.

"I hear you. Anybody could hear you, up to the
crick."

"All right. You better. You ’pologize. Go
’pologize now. Understand?"

"No," the mother said finally. "You
can do as you please with her. From now on you can all do as you
please about everything. Only I warn you," she said, her voice
rising a little, and the tiny furies beginning to dance in her eyes
again, "don’t you bring her anywheres near me." She came
quickly around the table, not looking at either of them, and stalked
into the bedroom and across it, and stood in front of the north
window. She stood there for a long time, with her back turned to the
door, and her arms down stiffly at her sides.

The father carefully let himself down until he was
seated on the second step, and got his bottle uncorked again, and
drank from it. Grace waited at the foot of the stairs, still clinging
to the newel post.

The old man wiped the trickling liquor from his chin
with his sleeve and then corked the bottle again. "Curt’s
intended," he said mournfully. "Talk about her own son’s
intended that way. Be Curt’s wife."

Grace closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against
the post for a moment. In the bedroom the mother let herself down
into her chair and took the big Bible into her lap, but then did not
open it, but only sat staring across the bed and out the west window.

Grace opened her eyes and sighed, and came around to
the foot of the stairs. She knelt below the old man, and put a hand
on his knee. "Father," she said softly.

"Eh?"

"We mustn’t let Mother send Gwen away. She has
to apologize, or Gwen’1l go, Father."

“
Course,” the old man agreed. "Said so,
didn’t I? Curt's intended."

"Harold’s, Father."

"Eh?" said the old man. "What?"
He thought about it.

“’
Sright," he said finally. "Harold’s."
He seemed cheered by the discovery. "Better," he said,
nodding. “Much better, Curt marry some decent American girl now,
not little foreign whore."

Slowly Grace took her hand from his knee and stood
up. She stood for a minute staring down at him, and then turned and
started toward the bunk-room. Halfway there, between the table and
the stove, she stopped and began to turn around, but then changed her
mind again. Very slowly, like one feeling her way, she went to the
table and stood with her hands on the back of the mother’s chair.
Finally she leaned over and picked up Arthur’s little carving of
the sheepherder, but listlessly, as if it didn’t matter to her.
Then she turned and went on into the bunk-room and closed the door
very slowly and quietly.

The old man sat alone on the stairs, cradling his
bottle. A long time passed, with only the clock and the fire sounding
in the room. Then he spoke.

"Not going upstairs," he said stubbornly.

He hoisted himself to his feet and worked down the
last step and around the post carefully. He made his way to the table
in one tack, and then, keeping a hand on the table, got around to his
place and pulled out his chair. He sank into the chair suddenly, and
sat there brooding and wheezing, the bottle still in his arm, his
chin sunk into the folds of his neck.

A long time later, he suddenly aroused himself, and
looked about as if someone had spoken. "That you, Curt?" he
asked.

“
Damn clock," he said finally. "Goddam
clock, always tickin’."

He tried to uncork his bottle again, but gave it up
this time. He lowered the bottle slowly onto the floor beside his
chair. Then he let his arms slide out onto the table in front of him
and pillowed his head on his right arm. Once in a while, after that,
he muttered something, a protest or a lament, to the empty kitchen,
but most of the time there was only his heavy breathing and the clock
and the fire. Toward dusk the snow really began to come down again
outside, thickly and silently, in big flakes.

16

It was nearly dark when Harold came in. He stopped in
the doorway to shake the snow from his cap and coat, and kick it
gently off his boots. Then he stood there peering into the shadowy
room. Only the little worms and butterflies of light from the stove
moved and were distinct, but he made out the bulk of the father
asleep on his arms on the table.

"Come in, Joe Sam," he said. "And
close the door."

He crossed to the stove and got matches. The old
Indian entered silently and closed the door and remained there
against it. Harold lighted the lamp and slid it up again. Then he
looked back at Joe Sam. The old man had on a coat that was much too
big for him, and a black sombrero with a flat crown. There was a blue
bandana tied around his head under the sombrero. His braids hung down
from it, and the loose braid was all unbound now and spread over his
shoulder. The new snow still clung to him, and was thick on his
shoulders and hat.

Harold started to speak to him, but heard steps in
the north bedroom and turned back. There was a quick scratching in
there, and a white light showed through the open doorway and grew
stronger and steadier. He took a deep breath and straightened
himself, and crossed to the doorway. The mother was bending over the
lamp, slowly bringing the wick up to where she wanted it.

"We’re going now," Harold said.

The mother waited until she had the wick set. Then
she drew herself slowly erect, and turned to face him.

"Going where?"

"To Williams’."

The mother just stood there, dark against the light
of the lamp.

"The coffin’s finished," Harold said,
"and the grave’s dug. We dug it up back, on the hill. But it’s
too late for the funeral now. I’1l be back tomorrow, if I can make
it."

"You’ll be back?"

"For the funeral."

Finally the mother said, "You don’t have to
go."

"We can’t stay here, that’s sure."

The mother waited even longer this time, but finally
said, "You can’t go now, not with it snowing again."

"You didn’t leave us much choice," Harold
said. "Gwen’d go without me. You don’t think I’d let her
do that, do you?"

"You could wait till morning, anyway."

"In the bunk-house?"

The mother was silent for a long time again, but he
just waited. At last she said, "You’d leave us with everything
this way?"

"There’s not much choice, is there?"

"No," the mother said slowly, "I guess
there ain’t." Then she said bitterly, "Seems like I’m
always the one that’s wrong."

Harold’s mind flared, but he thought, No more of
that, and just waited again. After a minute, the mother turned away
from his stare and stood looking down at Arthur. He could see then
that she was twisting her hands together.

"I’m half out of my mind," she said. “I
been thinkin’ all day somethin’s happened to Curt too. Could be I
spoke too quick."

Could be, Harold thought grimly, and still wouldn’t
help her.

The mother let her hands down to her sides, and
turned back to face him. "I don’t guess it matters much what I
say now. Bring the girl down here, if that’s what she wants."

Harold stared at her. At last he said softly, "It’s
not what she wants. All she wants is to go home. She wasn’t even
going to let me go with her."

"You needn’t of been too much afeared of that,
I guess."

When Harold spoke this time, it was even more softly.
"All right, then, if that’s the way you like it." He
turned, and saw Grace standing by the table in the kitchen, watching
them.

"Harold," the mother said.

He waited, with his back to her.

"I said more than I should of, I guess,"
she said. "Do you want I should go up and tell her
that?"

He turned to face her again, but then Grace was
beside him, saying, "You’d better let Harold go, Mother, or
me."

"You’ll have to beg her pardon," Harold
said.

"Oh, she will," Grace said quickly. "You
will, won’t you. Mother?"

"I’m not the only one around here that said
too much."

"I know, I know. I said terrible things, Mother,
and I’m sorry. But you’ll say that much to Gwen too, won’t you?
That you’re sorry? We can’t let her go like this, Mother."

"No," the mother said slowly, "seems
like we can’t."

"You’ll tell her you’re sorry, Mother?"

The mother nodded.

"I’ll go get her to come down." Before
either of the others could speak, she ran over to the pegs by the
door and took down the first coat she got hold of, and struggled into
it. It was Curt’s red mackinaw, and it was much too big for her.
She had trouble getting her hands out of the sleeves far enough to
open the door. Harold started toward her, saying, "Grace, wait,"
but before he could get to her, she had the door open.

"Grace," he said again.

“
N0, Harold, you better let me," she said, and
slipped out into the snowy darkness, and closed the door.

Harold opened the door and called after her, "Grace,"
but she didn’t answer. He went outside and called, "Grace,
take it easy." She didn’t answer this time either, and he
cou1dn’t see her out there. He started toward the corner of the
house, but then stopped. After a moment he went on again, more
slowly, and stopped at the corner, and stood there looking up at the
lighted bunk-house window. He saw the angle of light when the door
opened, and Grace’s small, dark figure go in, and then there was
only the window showing again. He waited there, staring up into the
darkness, until a gust of wind full of snow blinded him. He bent his
head against it, and when it eased off, turned and went back slowly.
The kitchen door was still open. He went in and closed it behind him.
He was startled, then, to see Joe Sam looking at him out of the
shadowy corner between the bunk-room door and the stove. He had
forgotten that the old Indian was in there. He was half-sitting on
the wood-box, with his hands hanging limp between his knees, and he
still had on the big coat and the black sombrero.