From his first memory Cal had craved warmth and affection, just as everyone does. If he had been an only child or if Aron had been a different kind of boy, Cal might have achieved his relationship normally and easily. But from the very first people were won instantly to Aron by his beauty and his simplicity. Cal very naturally competed for attention and
affection in the only way he knew—by trying to imitate Aron.
And what was
charming in
the blond
ingenuousness of
Aron became suspicious and
unpleasant in the dark-faced, slit-eyed Cal. And since he was
pretending, his performance
was not
convincing. Where Aron was received, Cal was rebuffed for doing or saying exactly the same thing.
And as a few strokes on the nose will make a puppy head shy, so a few rebuffs
will make a boy shy all over. But whereas a puppy will cringe away or roll on its back, groveling, a little boy may cover his shyness with nonchalance, with bravado, or with secrecy. And once a boy has suffered rejection, he will find rejection even where it does not exist—or, worse, will draw it forth from people simply by expecting it.
In Cal the process had
been so long and so slow that he felt no strangeness. He had built a wall of self-sufficiency around
himself, strong
enough to defend him against the world. If his wall had any weak places they may have been on the sides nearest Aron
and Lee, and
particularly nearest Adam. Perhaps in his father’s very unawareness Cal had felt safety. Not being noticed at all was better than being noticed adversely.
When he was quite small Cal had discovered a secret.
If he moved very quietly to where his father was sitting and if he leaned very lightly against his father’s knee, Adam’s hand would rise automatically and his fingers would caress Cal’s shoulder. It is probable that Adam did not even know he did it, but the caress brought such a raging flood of emotion to the boy that he saved this special joy and used it only when he needed it. It was a magic to be depended upon. It was the ceremonial symbol of a dogged adoration.
Things do not change with a change of scene. In Salinas, Cal had no more friends than he had had in
King City. Associates he had,
and authority and some admiration, but friends he did not have. He lived alone and walked alone.
2
If Lee knew that Cal left the house at night and returned very late, he gave no sign, since he couldn’t do anything about it. The night constables sometimes saw him walking alone. Chief Heiserman made it a point to speak to the truant officer, who assured him that Cal not only had no record for playing hooky but actually was a very good student. The chief knew Adam of course, and since Cal broke no windows and caused no disturbance he told the constables to keep their
eyes open but to let the boy alone unless he got into trouble.
Old Tom Watson caught up with Cal one night and asked, “Why do you walk around so much at night?” “I’m
not bothering anybody,” said
Cal defensively.
“I know you’re not. But you ought to be home in bed.”
“I’m not sleepy,” said
Cal, and this didn’t make any sense at all to Old Tom, who couldn’t remember any time in his whole life when he
wasn’t sleepy. The boy
looked in on the fan-tan games in Chinatown, but he didn’t play. It was a mystery, but then fairly simple things were
mysteries to
Tom
Watson and he preferred to leave them that way.
On his walks Cal often recalled
the conversation
between Lee and Adam he had heard on the ranch. He wanted to dig out the truth. And
his knowledge accumulated slowly,
a
reference heard in the street, the gibing talk in the pool hall. If Aron had heard the fragments he would not have noticed, but Cal collected them. He knew that his mother was not dead. He knew also, both from the first conversation and from the talk he heard, that Aron was not likely to be pleased at discovering her.
One night Cal ran into Rabbit Holman, who was up
from San Ardo on his semi-annual drunk. Rabbit greeted Cal effusively, as a country
man
always greets an
acquaintance in a strange place. Rabbit, drinking from a pint flask in the alley behind the Abbot House, told Cal all the news he could think of.
He had sold a piece of his land at a fine price and he was in Salinas to celebrate, and celebration meant the whole shebang. He was going down the Line and show the whores what a real man could do.
Cal sat quietly beside him, listening. When the
whisky got low in Rabbit’s pint Cal slipped away and got Louis Schneider to buy him another one. And Rabbit put
down his empty pint and reached for it again and came up with a full pint.
“Funny,” he
said,
“thought I only had one. Well, it’s a good mistake.”
Halfway down the
second pint Rabbit had not only forgotten who Cal was but how old he was. He remembered, however, that his companion was his very dear old friend.
“Tell you what,
George,” he said. “You let me get a little more of this here
lead in my pencil and you and me will go down the Line.
Now don’t say you can’t afford
it. The whole
shebang’s on me. Did I tell you I sold forty acres? Wasn’t no good neither.”
And he said, “Harry, tell you what let’s do. Let’s keep away from them two-bit whores. We’ll go to Kate’s place. Costs high, ten bucks,
but what the hell! They got a circus down there. Ever seen a circus, Harry? Well, it’s a lulu. Kate sure knows her stuff. You remember who Kate is, don’t you, George? She’s Adam Trask’s wife,
mother of them damn twins. Jesus! I never forget the time she shot him and ran away.
Plugged him in the shoulder and just runoff. Well, she wasn’t no good as a wife but she’s sure as hell a good whore. Funny too—you know how they say a whore makes a good wife? Ain’t nothing new for them to experiment with. Help me up a little, will you, Harry? What was I saying?”
“Circus,” said Cal softly. “Oh, yeah. Well, this
circus of Kate’s will pop your eyes out. Know what they do?”
Cal walked a
little
behind so that Rabbit would not notice him. Rabbit told what they did. And what they did wasn’t what made Cal sick. That just seemed to him silly. It was the men who watched.
Seeing Rabbit’s
face under the streetlights, Cal knew what the watchers at the circus would be like. They went through the overgrown yard and up on the unpainted porch. Although Cal was tall for his age he walked high on his toes. The guardian of the door didn’t look at him very closely. The dim room with its low secret lamps
and the
nervous
waiting men concealed his presence.
3
Always before, Cal wanted to build a dark accumulation of things seen and things heard
—a kind of a warehouse of materials that, like obscure tools, might come in handy, but after the visit to Kate’s he felt a desperate need for help.
One night Lee, tapping away at his typewriter, heard
a quiet knock on his door and let Cal in. The boy sat down on the edge of the bed, and Lee let his thin body down in the Morris chair. He was amused that a chair could
give him so much pleasure. Lee folded his hands over his stomach as though he wore Chinese sleeves and waited patiently. Cal was looking at a spot in the air right over Lee’s head.
Cal spoke softly and rapidly. “I know where my mother is and what she’s doing. I saw her.”
Lee’s mind said a
convulsive prayer
for
guidance. “What do you want to know?” he asked softly.
“I haven’t thought yet. I’m trying to think. Would
you tell me the truth?” “Of course.”
The questions whirling in Cal’s head were so
bewildering he had trouble picking one out. “Does my father know?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he say she was dead?”
“To save you from pain.”
Cal considered. “What
did my father do to make her leave?”
“He loved her with his whole mind and body. He gave her everything he could imagine.”
“Did she shoot him?” “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn’t want her to go away.”
“Did he ever hurt her?” “Not that I know of. It wasn’t in him to hurt her.” “Lee, why did she do
it?”
“I don’t know.” “Don’t know or won’t say?”
“Don’t know.”
Cal was silent for so
long that Lee’s fingers began to creep a little, holding to his wrists. He was relieved when Cal spoke again. The boy’s tone was different. There was a pleading in it.
“Lee, you knew her. What was she like?”
Lee sighed and his hands relaxed. “I can only say what
I think. I may be wrong.” “Well, what did you think?”
“Cal,” he said, “I’ve thought about it for a great many hours and I still don’t know. She is a mystery. It seems to me that she is not like other people. There is something
she lacks. Kindness maybe, or
conscience. You can only understand people if you feel them in yourself. And I can’t feel her. The moment I think about her my feeling goes into darkness. I don’t know what she wanted or what she
was after. She was full of hatred, but why or toward what I don’t know. It’s a mystery. And her hatred wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t angry. It was heartless. I don’t know that it is good to talk to you like this.”
“I need to know.” “Why? Didn’t you feel
better before you knew?” “Yes. But I can’t stop now.”
“You’re right,” said Lee. “When the first innocence goes, you can’t stop—unless you’re a hypocrite or a fool. But I can’t tell you any more because I don’t know any more.
Cal said, “Tell me about my father then.”
“That I can do,” said
Lee. He paused. “I wonder if anyone can hear us talking? Speak softly.”
“Tell me about him,” said Cal.
“I think your father has
in him, magnified, the things his wife lacks. I think in him kindness and conscience are so large that they are almost faults. They trip him up and hinder him.”
“What did he do when she left?”
“He died,” said Lee. “He walked around but he was dead. And only recently has he come half to life again.” Lee saw a strange new expression on Cal’s face. The eyes were open wider, and
the mouth, ordinarily tight and muscular, was relaxed. In his face, now for the first time, Lee could see Aron’s face in spite of the different coloring.
Cal’s shoulders
were shaking a little, like a muscle too long held under a strain.
“What is it, Cal?” Lee asked.
“I love him,” Cal said. “I love him too,” said
Lee. “I guess I couldn’t have stayed around so long if I hadn’t. He is not smart in a worldly sense but he’s a good man. Maybe the best man I have ever known.”
Cal stood up suddenly.
“Good night, Lee,” he said. “Now you wait just a moment. Have you told anyone?”
“No.”
“Not Aron—no, of
course you wouldn’t.” “Suppose he finds out?” “Then you’d have to
stand by to help him. Don’t go yet. When you leave this room we may not be able to talk again. You may dislike me for knowing you know the truth. Tell me this—do you hate your mother?”
“Yes,” said Cal.
“I wondered,” said Lee.
“I don’t think your father ever hated her. He had only
sorrow.”
Cal drifted toward the door, slowly, softly. He shoved his fists deep in his pockets. “It’s like you said
about knowing people. I hate her because I know why she went away. I know—because I’ve got her in me.” His head was down and his voice was heartbroken.
Lee jumped up. “You
stop that!” he said sharply. “You hear me? Don’t let me catch you doing that. Of course you may have that in you. Everybody has. But you’ve got the other too. Here
—look up! Look at me!” Cal raised his head and said wearily, “What do you want?”
“You’ve got the other too. Listen to me! You
wouldn’t even be wondering if you didn’t have it. Don’t you dare take the lazy way. It’s too easy to excuse yourself because of your ancestry. Don’t let me catch you doing it! Now—look close at me so you will remember. Whatever you do, it will be you who do it—not your mother.”
“Do you believe that, Lee?”
“Yes, I believe it, and
you’d better believe it or I’ll break every bone in your body.”
After Cal had gone Lee went back to his chair. He thought ruefully, I wonder
what happened to
my
Oriental repose?
4
Cal’s discovery of his mother was more a verification than a new thing to him. For a long time he had known without details that the cloud was there. And his reaction was twofold. He had an almost pleasant sense of power in knowing,
and he could
evaluate actions and
expressions, could interpret
vague references, could even dip up and reorganize the past. But these did not compensate for the pain in his knowledge.
His body was
rearranging itself toward
manhood, and he was shaken by the veering winds of adolescence. One moment he was dedicated and pure and devoted;
the next he
wallowed in filth; and the next he groveled in shame and emerged rededicated.
His discovery sharpened
all of his emotions. It seemed to him that he was unique, having such a heritage. He could not quite believe Lee’s words or conceive that other boys were going through the
same thing.
The circus at Kate’s remained with him. At one moment
the memory
inflamed his mind and body with pubescent fire, and the next moment nauseated him with revulsion and loathing.
He looked at his father
more closely and saw perhaps more sadness and frustration in Adam than may have been there. And in Cal there grew up a passionate love for his father and a wish to protect him and to make it up to him for the things he had suffered. In Cal’s own sensitized mind that suffering was unbearable.
He blundered into
the
bathroom while Adam was bathing and saw the ugly bullet scar and heard himself ask against his will, “Father, what’s that scar?”
Adam’s fingers went up
as though to conceal the scar. He said, “It’s an old wound, Cal. I was in the Indian campaigns. I’ll tell you about it some time.”
Cal, watching Adam’s
face, had seen his mind leap into the past for a lie. Cal didn’t hate the lie but the necessity for telling it. Cal lied for reasons of profit of one kind or another. To be
driven to a lie seemed shameful to him. He wanted to shout, “I know how you got it and it’s all right.” But, of course, he did not. “I’d like to hear about it,” he said.
Aron was caught in the roil of change too, but his
impulses were more sluggish than Cal’s. His body did not scream at him so shrilly. His passions took a religious direction. He decided on the ministry for his future. He attended all services in the Episcopal
church, helped
with the flowers and leaves at feast times, and spent many hours with the young and curly-haired clergyman, Mr.
Rolf. Aron’s training in worldliness was gained from a
young man of
no
experience, which gave him the agility for generalization only the inexperienced can have.
Aron was confirmed in the Episcopal church and
took his place in the choir on Sundays. Abra followed him. Her feminine mind knew that such things were necessary but unimportant.
It was natural that the convert Aron should work on Cal.
First
Aron prayed
silently for Cal, but finally he approached
him.
He
denounced Cal’s godlessness, demanded his reformation.
Cal might have tried to
go along if his brother had been more clever. But Aron had reached a point of passionate purity that made everyone else foul. After a few lectures Cal found him unbearably smug and told him so. It was a relief to both of
them when Aron
abandoned his brother to
eternal damnation.
Aron’s religion
inevitably took a sexual turn. He spoke to Abra of the necessity for abstinence and decided that he would live a life of celibacy. Abra in her wisdom agreed with him, feeling and hoping that this phase would pass. Celibacy was the only state she had known. She wanted to marry Aron and bear any number of his children, but for the time being she did not speak of it. She had never been jealous before, but now she began to find in herself an instinctive and perhaps justified hatred of the Reverend Mr. Rolf.
Cal watched his brother
triumph over sins he had never committed. He thought sardonically of telling him about his mother, to see how he would handle it, but he withdrew the thought quickly. He didn’t think Aron could handle it at all.
