Puttering About in a Small Land

“But I peed more,” Stephen said.

  “That don’t count.”

  “Why not? Let’s see who can pee the most.”

  “I peed already,” Roger said. “So did you.”

  “Then let’s go drink something.”

  “It’d take hours.”

  “No,” Stephen said. “It comes right out. If you drink milk you pee milk in around five minutes.”

  The coolness made him sleepy. He felt safe. This was their place; they could give up worrying, here. He threw himself down on gunny sacks, by the remains of a thrasher. Finally Stephen joined him.

  “Let’s go down to the squij,” Stephen said. He meant the open sewer from the outhouse, the trench cut along the side of the beet fields. Yellowjackets hung around the trench and it was something to do to catch them. Or sometimes he and Stephen dammed up the trench and made side trenches. At least it was a place where something was happening.

  While he and Stephen lay on the gunny sacks, a chicken crept through a space between two boards and into the shed.

  “That’s an old hen,” Stephen said.

  “What’s she doing in here?”

  The hen, noticing them, turned and crept back out again.

  “She must have a nest in here,” Roger said. He felt a stirring of interest. “Hey, she must be all the time sneaking in here to lay her eggs.”

  Stephen stood up. “Let’s look for it.”

  Together they looked, without luck.

  “Maybe she’ll be back,” Roger said. “We’ll wait; don’t make no noise.”

  For a long time he and his brother lay in the damp, cool, dark shed, on the gunny sacks. A mouse ran over Rogers foot, once; he shook the mouse off. Above their heads, in the rafters, many mice scuttled and rustled and squeaked.

  Suddenly the hen appeared at the place between the boards, cutting off the sunlight. Stephen dug his fingers into his brother’s arm.

  The hen’s head jerked, turned, lifted. Then the hen crawled through the hole and stepped into the shed once more.

  Hurriedly, the hen settled herself in the corner of the shed, ruffled her feathers, sounded a triumphant rattle, and then hopped up and left the shed the way she had come.

  “Why that no-good old hen,” Stephen said. “Laying eggs in here so nobody’d find them.” He and Roger ran to the corner. The support beam had broken away, leaving a hole in the dirt not much larger than a rat hole. The dirt and bits of wood formed a soft mass; Roger and his brother scooped away the mass—beneath it were eggs, many of them, some cracked, some dark with decay, some fresh-white. He and Stephen dug farther; below the layer of eggs was another layer of eggs, much older, so old that they looked like rock.

  When all the eggs had been gotten out and laid in a row, he and Stephen counted twenty-six of them.

  It was the biggest egg-find either of them could remember. They loaded the eggs into a bucket and carried them into the house.

  By foot, along various sidewalks, Roger Lindahl slowly passed the liquor store and arrived at the house on Massachusetts Avenue in which he had lived from the start to the break-up of his marriage.

  The front room was a mess of packed cartons and suitcases and crated books. His things had been separated from Teddy’s but they had not yet been removed. In the dining room Teddy, under the overhead light, was feeding the baby. A sour smell filled the house; the dining room and kitchen smelled of unwashed dishes and food that had been spilled and left to dry. The bare floor was ankle-deep in trash and the knickknacks with which the baby played. On the couch, Teddy’s two Siamese cats regarded him with hostility, their paws tucked under them.

  “Hello little friend,” Teddy said to him, as she spooned strained peas to the baby, who had already dribbled down her bib and onto her hands and stomach. “Go look at the lamp and the rugs in the other room; I want to know if you want them. Otherwise I have a friend who can use them.”

  The light blinded him and he shut his eyes. The two cats made no room for him on the couch. Their hair had got into everything; in the overhead light the sideboard showed grey streaks in the wood, scratches and hair. Both arms of the couch hung in tatters. Their smell, the stale pungency of the cooped-up animal, underlay the other smells of the house.

  His wife—they had not yet arranged the divorce—put out her hand and shut off the radio plugged into the overhead light fixture. “My Devotion” sank away. She moved wearily and he felt sorry for her; she had her job with the Department of Agriculture and after that she had to pick up the baby from the child care center, drive to the stores and do the shopping, fix dinner for herself and the baby, and of course make some attempt to clean up after the cats. The cats, he thought; now she clung to them even more. On the couch the cats glared declaring: Come near us and we’ll massacre you. We know your attitude. The cats, their feet under them, watched and managed their defense. Tirelessly, they guarded their lives.

  “Would you do me a favor?” Teddy said. “Turn on the heater.”

  With a match from the stove he lit the gas heater and opened the door to the hall.

  “Did you change your mind?” Teddy said. “You want to stay here tonight?”

  “I just stopped by about something.”

  “How are Irv and Dora?”

  “Fine.”

  “It’s very nice of them to let you stay with them for a while. Where are you sleeping? Is there really room there?—they only have the one bedroom, don’t they?”

  He thought, at that, of a notice which he had written as a child to a children’s radio show: “Dear Uncle Hank, this is a drawing of my little brother Stephen, he sleeps in the piano.”

  “Can’t you answer me?” Teddy said, with venom. Her beaked face swung in his direction; under the bare light it glared. And then he saw hunger, and then fright.

  “I wish I could stay,” he said.

  “What would you think,” she said in a strained voice, “if I quit my job and came along with you out to California?” Her eyes, with the intensity that had always made him uneasy, flickered and refocussed. But the old hex had lost power over him. Nothing in the world was permanent. Even the stones became dust, finally. Even the earth itself.

  In the beginning she had been the fiancée of his friend Joe Field. Joe and he and Irv Rattenfanger, for years, lived quietly within the W.P.A. At that time none of them had any money. They fashioned a mah-jongg set out of plywood and bathroom tile. Once a month they ate out in an Italian restaurant.

  Teddy said, “I talked to an attorney and you can be arrested for desertion and child support. Any time I say the word.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “How are you going to get to California?”

  “I have some money,” he said. “I’m taking Irv’s car.” With pride he said, “I got hold of a C sticker.” He had already pasted it on the windshield beside Irv’s old B sticker. It entitled him to all the gasoline he needed.

  “Why don’t you go by bus?” she said. “Wouldn’t it be cheaper for just one person? If that old wreck of Irv’s breaks down you won’t be able to get parts or tires—you’ll get stranded somewhere, out in the desert. And you’ll be alone; it won’t be safe. That’s an awful car. I drove it once. It’s ready to fall apart.”

  “I want to take my stuff,” he said.

  “And you can’t ship it?”

  He wanted it with him so that if he found a good deal along the way he could stop and settle.

  “If you write for money,” she said, “I won’t answer.” Wiping the baby’s mouth with a damp cloth she said, “What about after you get there? Are you going to get in touch with me? Maybe after you get a job in one of those aircraft plants around Los Angeles—what about that? You’ll be making plenty of money out there. By then you’ll be lonely; I know you, you’ll be glad to have somebody you can lean on.” She spoke in a quick monotone, her attention still on the baby. “I know you, you slimy little snake. You can’t get along by yourself, you’re like a baby. You never grew up. Look at
you, you’re only two feet tall.”

  “Tall where it counts,” he said.

  “That thing?” she said. “Go find yourself a knot hole; that’s all it’s good for.” She jabbed the spoon at the baby. Rose’s hands lifted in reflexive self-defense; she jerked them away.

  “Don’t take it out on her,” he said. The sight oppressed him and he turned to the rugs and lamp. He was allowing her to keep whatever she wanted. The marriage had lasted five years and in that time they had gathered together almost every variety of thing, a whole house full to its basement and its closets and shelves. Most important to him were his clothes, his sets of wrenches and bits, his oboe which he had played since grammar school days, certain copper ashtrays which his family had given them as a wedding present. And many small items, such as his hairbrush, his pearl cuff links, pictures and mementos. And blankets and cooking utensils, so that he could sleep and eat in the car during the trip.

  “When are you leaving?” Teddy said.

  “As soon as my check comes through.” The Government was slow to make good on its final payment; for months it had been giving him compensation for a back injury suffered in a fall at his job at the Richmond Navy Yard. Now the Government doctors maintained that he was well. He had the choice of going back to work at an essential war job or being drafted.

  “Lets go out,” Teddy said. “Lets have some fun tonight; maybe your check’ll come tomorrow.” She put the baby’s food away in the refrigerator and washed her hands at the sink. “I’ll change and we can go dancing or to a show. Or we can have a good time here; we can make something of the last time we have together, before you go.” Already she had started to unfasten her blouse; she kicked off her low-heeled shoes, coming towards him. Her hair flapped in its usual manner, the long, inert, lusterless hair. She had an elongated, narrow nose and as she approached him she gazed continually down both sides of it, a bird-like habit. Her legs had no grace to them, no lines but those of muscle and bone, and her feet smacked noisily. Her eyes glittered; her breath whistled in her throat.

  “I don’t feel like a party,” he said. “I just came from a party.” He remembered why he had come here and he said, “I want to get them a bottle of wine, something special.”

  “Can I come?” she said, panting. “Let me go back with you.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then the hell with you,” she said. “I won’t give you any money; you want a couple of bucks so you can show up big with the wine, don’t you?”

  He said, “I told them I’d get it.”

  “That’s just too bad.”

  For a moment or two neither of them spoke. Pushed close to him she swelled and ebbed, swelled and ebbed, like a pulse. How much she would have liked to stick him, to spear him with her nails. At her blouse her hands broke loose and snatched at air; they convulsed. And all the time she kept her eyes fixed on him.

  Leaving her, he passed on back into the dining room where the baby sat in the high chair under the light. At sight of him the wan limpness left her and she began to smile. Suddenly he made up his mind to take Rose along with him. Why not? He seated himself beside her at the table, where Teddy had sat feeding her. On the table was a clean spoon and he waved it before her, slowly, until her mouth fell open in wonder. Light flashed from the spoon and the baby shouted. He laughed, too.

  On the couch, the two Siamese cats also watched the spoon; they coveted it with hate. He felt their desire to destroy, and he turned his chair so that his back was to them.

  3

  On the terrace the woman said, “Hello, Gregg. I see you decided to come back and visit us again.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Ant,” Gregg said, still tugging at his father’s arm.

  Descending the steps, Mrs. Alt approached Roger with her hand out. “How do you do. I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Lindahl.”

  He unfastened his son’s grip. “Later,” he murmured to him. His confusion cleared enough for him to get a good look at Mrs. Alt. “I’m sorry,” he said. “He wants to go ride the horse.”

  As they shook hands Mrs. Alt said, “You have a very striking wife, Mr. Lindahl. Everybody was quite impressed by her.” She leaned down to speak to Gregg. “What would you like to do? Do you want to play down on the football field with the other boys? I believe they all went down there. Shall I take you down there?”

  “I know where it is,” Gregg said. “I was there yesterday.” He ran off a few yards, halted, turned, and yelled back, “Good-bye! I’m going down to the football field!” And then he continued on past the trees and was gone.

  “Will he be okay?” Roger said. “Can he get there okay?”

  “He’s there now,” Mrs. Alt said. “It’s just over the rise.”

  Roger said, “I didn’t realize you had all the grounds. It’s more like a farm.”

  “Oh yes. We keep the children outdoors as much as possible. We have animals—actually this was a farm, once. They raised prize cattle. Some retired people together. They owned the property and then one of them died.”

  “Where I come from,” Roger said, “is where the prize hogs are raised.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Alt said. “I lived in Western Arkansas for a year or so. At Fayetteville.”

  “There’s hogs all through there,” Roger said.

  “Did you grow up on a farm?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Then this must seem like—” Mrs. Alt laughed. “I mean, it must seem familiar to you. The buildings and the smell. Some of the parents sniff the air and think What on earth can it be? Some unsanitary thing… I can tell by the way they prowl around.”

  “It smells fine to me,” Roger said.

  Folding her arms, Mrs. Alt said, “I have your wife’s check inside. You can have it back whenever you want.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Did your wife tell you that she and I got into a quarrel and kept at it all the time she was here? We started right out. On every conceivable subject.”

  Roger said, “I’m sorry to take off again, but I have a store. If you want to give me the check I’ll round up Gregg and start back.” He did not want to hang around; the school, the smell of hay and animals and manure, the sight of the barn, the dirt and dried grass, had too much effect on him.

  “Suit yourself,” Mrs. Alt said, immediately starting up the stairs towards the building.

  His hands in his pockets, he followed after her. The woman moved rapidly, and he lost her; he found himself in a deserted hall, facing a desk and lobby. In a chair a small girl was reading a book; she did not look up or notice him.

  “Here’s your check,” Mrs. Alt said, appearing. She handed him the check, and he accepted it and stuck it in his shirt pocket. Her tone was brisk.

  “Does this happen very often?” he asked.

  “Once in a while. I think we can take it in our stride.” She did not seem angry, only impatient. He got the impression that she had learned to suspend judgement; she did not wish to approve or condemn. Probably she had a great many things to worry about; her head was full of details and items to be attended to. She was willing to stand here talking to him, but now that the business between them had been concluded she was anxious to get on to other work.

  “I won’t keep you,” he said. “Thanks a lot for not—” His thought was unclear. “For letting me off the hook.”

  “Next time,” Mrs. Alt said, “you and your wife perhaps should talk it over in advance.” She smiled at him, the friendly but controlled smile. “It’s been nice meeting you,” she said. “Your little boy is a very sweet child. I hope his asthma goes away. I’m sure it will. He seems quite alert and curious about things; he enjoyed watching them shoe the horse. He asked an unusual number of questions.”

  They shook hands, and then he walked out of the dark lobby, onto the front steps of the building. The sunlight hurt his eyes and he shut them. When he was able to see he headed in the direction Gregg had gone.

  The shock. Smells, so identified with his
brother; terrible false shocking sense of his brother’s nearness, end of loneliness. The rotting hay, the sight of the barn, the dry, crumbling soil…right by him, at his hand.

  “Stephen,” he said.

  Broken eggs, calcified. The black cracks, leaking smells and slime; he carried the bucket.

  “Oh good heavens,” his mother said in her clear, firm voice. “What in the world is that? Get that out of the kitchen; don’t you bring that in here.”

  We kept the eggs. Twenty-six eggs.

  Two smashed.

  In the yard the old hen running: searching in and out of the shed. Popping in and out, between the boards.

  Ha-ha.

  An adult, a man, got to his feet, said something to the woman beside him, walked out onto the field to take the football. He elaborately arranged the children in formation.

  “Jerry, you stand over there. Walt, there. What’s your name? Gregg? You stand there, Gregg. Mike, you stand there. Okay, now. Get ready.” The man prepared to fire the football between his wide-apart legs. “Here!” he shouted. The football sailed a few yards and fell into the grass; screaming, the children sprinted towards it, arms extended, fingers grasping.

  The man, grinning, sauntered from the field and sat down again with his companions.

  A trail traveled down the slope, to the football field. After a time Roger started along it. He came out not far from the adults, and they noticed him; one of the women craned her neck to see him and the row of faces turned his way.

  Ignoring them, he watched the children. Teachers, he decided. His position was not good, here. He was trespassing. Gregg had no right to be scampering around on their football field, playing with their football. The situation made him uncomfortable. He wanted to get Gregg and get right out.

  But it’s a swell place for a kid, he thought. Nobody could deny that.

  He continued watching the children, standing restlessly by himself, until at last one of the adults arose, exchanged a few words with the others, and then approached him. “You’re Mr. Lindahl, aren’t you? Gregg’s father?”

  “Yes,” he said.