Uncle Garland
She put the paper in her pocket. O my strength, deliver my soul from the sword, my darling from the power of the dog. Save me from the lion’s mouth.
Courageous, she went to Anton. “Simon and me are taking the train to Chicago to visit Uncle Garland for a spell. He’s got married and he wants us to come.”
“You will not.” He ravened. “No.”
“By the law, Simon’s mine.”
The child was coughing; he clutched his chest. But the two who fought over him didn’t see. Their eyes narrowed, and the pale gray irises of father and daughter were glinting in the same way. Ellen said they would leave in the morning. She ordered Simon to his room after the night meal. He went, meek.
Anton strode out to the corn field, tearing off his shirt. He dragged aside the standing shocks just built. Furious sweat drops were forming on the hairs of his chest. He snapped off the soft unseasoned ears, hurling them in great piles until dark engulfed the field. Reaching for the next stalk, he stumbled, falling. He lay panting a moment before getting to his feet, and came to the house to lie emptied and exhausted beside his sleeping wife.
Sam and Ellen milked without him in the morning. They breakfasted and then Ellen went to the door of the bedroom. She was looking across at the unkempt bent figure on the bed under the crucifix, elbows on knees. At length she turned away, taking Simon’s hand. He held his other over the buttons of his shirt. “You’re not afraid?” he queried, timid.
But Ellen was speaking to Maria. “I’ve got to go, Ma. You see that?”
“Where you off to? Is Mester Gaddy going?”
“No. Just us two.” Ellen kissed her. “It’s all I know to do, Ma.”
Maria went to gaze at her husband. “Why’s he setting there?”
Ellen fled with Simon. They were overtaken down the road by Dr. Trumbo, who gave them a lift in his rattletrap Nash to the station at New Hope. A north wind blew up, keening in the corners of the unheated station. It struck down dry autumn leaves and herded them into desolate piles. They boarded the train at noon. Simon mounted the iron stair before her. He turned and peered from the windows at the retreating town.
“Don’t put your feet on the clean seats, Simon.” Ellen did not look back.
* * * * *
Anton had shaken his head at the noon meal his wife proffered him. He stared at the floor. In late evening he arose at last from his position on the bed. Maria was in the parlor poring over her gilded Bible. Anton took a long thin butcher knife from a kitchen drawer. He went onto the half-dark porch, taking down the lantern that hung on a bent nail and lighting it. He was making his way then with measured gait to the woodshed. Wind coming out of the north chattered in the branches of the hackberry. The yellow light was shedding over the pen of goats lying in oat straw. They blinked up at him. Rhodie, who was skittish, arose and snorted. As the man was fumbling with the gate latch the other beasts got to their feet, one at a time, sensing an outsider, Leona’s pair of three-week kids turned to her warm side when she stood, seeking her udder. Feverish, Anton was seeking a peg, feeling with his fingers. He hung the lantern, his breathing quickening.
The first doe he grasped was Penny. When he bent her old neck back by the beard and the red ran down into the fur, she died almost gently. The clever ones saw his game. Rhodie was rearing upon the furthest stone wall; her hoofs made a subdued pattering. Leona’s white throat came next, for she was foolish and made no play at running away. Her two kids were dispatched too, uttering feeble birdlike sounds. And then Jenny and Babs, baaing low, were snared by their shaggy beards. Their taut silken throats were bending to the knife. The hot blood spouted on the straw and the man’s boots. He was lunging for the spotted Pie, powerful and large, catching her by a hind leg. She pulled loose, and bleating, kicked out, striking him on the neck, making a dark bruise. “Haw. Come here now.” He threw his body at her, encouraged the struggle. He took a pleasure in the battle, prolonged its ending, letting her heave, crying in alarm beneath his weight. Then he was dragging her along the straw to the knife he had dropped. Rhodie was the last. In a silent crazed way she was still leaping against the far wall. This doe had always been apt to startle since she had been left untended over a winter and spring as a yearling when his daughter Ellen had been away in Illinois. Rhodie’s small hoofs were beating again and again upon the wall. Anton trapped her by the collar. She made no sound, dropping slowly to the bedding.
He breathed loud, threw his hand as if he had spoken and were justifying himself to someone. He walked out of the shed leaving the gate ajar, the lantern flaming. He strode to the bedroom and knew his wife. In the frost of the following morning Sam would come upon the stiffened bodies of the animals and bury them in a near field.
18
While the wind of late September hurled in dreary gusts about them, the two stood in the chill of the next morning before the brownstone front of the house on Redding Street. They were walking up wet granite stairs strewn with blown leaves. Ellen rang the bell. The woman who opened the door was tall and narrow-shouldered. Her eyes were dark, and like a dog’s seemed to beg. Her hair was a brown mane, piled sleek. She put her hands on her hips. “Hi. You must be Chicken’s niece. I’m Violet. Come out of the wet.” She was preceding them into the living room. The old green carpet was shoddy. The trivia of ornaments that had burdened the mantle and end tables had been taken away. The oval dining room table had been moved into this room and the drapes replaced with white ruffled curtains that drooped as the starch wore out.
“This room’s bright now,” Ellen said.
“I like ruffles and trimmings. Is this Simon? Chicken told me about you. I’m Aunt Vi. Sit down. I’ll get some lunch.” She bustled out.
“I’m tired, Ma.”
“So am I, Simon.”
“Are we e’er going back to Granddaddy’s?”
“Maybe some day.” She was pushing aside the curtains, looking down into the street where traffic moved.
“Will we live in this rich house?”
“For a spell, I reckon.”
“How do I call that lady?”
“Aunt Violet, you say. And be mannerly.”
“I’m not hungry, Ma.”
“Take off your shoes. I’ll give you dry socks from the bag.” They waited until Garland’s wife returned with a tray of hot milk and coffee, slices of poundcake and a plate of bananas.
“You like bananas?” she asked. “I do. I feel like one of the quality when I have bananas around.”
“Where’s Uncle Garland?”
“He’s at one of the restaurants. He’s got two, you know. He gets home about four-thirty and goes back till late at night. Have a banana, Simon. They’ll rot before you can snap your fingers.”
“I don’t want any. Go away.”
“Simon.”
The boy began to weep softly, laying his head on the arm of the chair. “I’m hot.”
“He doesn’t look good, Ellen. Let’s put him to bed.”
“Pay no mind to his talk, Aunt Violet.”
“I don’t,” she said cheerfully. “Nerts, I forgot to make up your beds. Wonder where I stored the sheets this time?”
Upstairs in a little room, Simon was undressed and put to sleep. He drowsed uneasily. The bedstead was of black-enameled iron. There was a battered wood bureau and a cane-bottom chair. Simon awoke, whimpering, “Ma? Did Anse take back his ball?”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know, Ma. What did I say?”
She felt the dry heat of his forehead. Violet came in the doorway. “Hi, Simon. Brought you some ice cream.” She offered him the little dish.
He sat up, his blue eyes darkening. “I ne’er meant what I said, lady.”
“I don’t mind, Simon. Eat before it melts.”
“Do you have any tonic in the house?” Ellen whispered.
“I think Chicken would say call the doctor.”
“My pa ne’er had one. Only satchel doctor I knew let a friend of mine die.”
“Didn’t you have one when he came?” Violet was nodding at Simon.
“No.”
The boy finished the ice cream, laid the dish on the faded bedspread. He stroked the sheet, closing his eyes. “Sing about that William, Ma.”
She waited until Violet had gone.
It was in the merry merry month of May When the meadows were fresh and gay Sweet William hung his bugles round about his neck And he went riding away
He slept. Ellen went downstairs to help with the housework. Violet knew little about it, made simple chores tedious, and in her careless way laughed it off. “Chicken says, I’ve got a niece at least that’s a model housekeeper.”
“I like things to be in the place they live.”
“You take last night. The soup was ready but I forgot and put the potatoes in late. They weren’t done. Nerts. Good thing Chicken brings things home from the restaurant.”
While she was talking, Ellen busied herself. She boiled starch for the wilted curtains. “How long have you and Uncle been married?”
“I’m what they call a common-law wife. I guess I can tell you, being Chicken’s family so to speak. We’ve lived on the east side ever since thirty-two. Or was it thirty-three? Last year Chicken gave me a box of stationery with Mrs. Garland Gaddy on it. He says, we’ve got a checking account, you and me, the National Trust.”