October Light (51 page)

“God
damm
smoke” Lewis said, rubbing his eyes. He turned and looked at her, or, rather, not at her, at the cigarette in her hand. “Whant you fix Dickey some breakfast,” he suggested. He made it sound like an alternative.

“I will,” she said. “Don't I always?” She steeled herself against his tyranny and lit the cigarette.

Suddenly last night came over her, in its full horror, her father gone insane, waving the gun at them, his face a horrible leer above the jack-o-lanterns on the table. “Oh God!” she said.

“What's the matter?”

“I was thinking of last night.” The wallpaper was light-gray and dark-gray, diamond-shapes with roses. She remembered staring at it as a child, when the colors were fresh and it had seemed to her pretty. Christ, what a ruin! Waking up in the living room was like learning you were dead.

“Never mine,” Lewis said. He was fanning the fire with a magazine now. “Yoah dad was drunk, that's ah.”

“He was going to kill her!”

“I wouldn't think too much about it.”

She stood up, sucking hard at the cigarette. It was like Kleenex in her throat, and in her back, just under the shoulder-blade, there was a sharp pain. Oh, Jesus, she thought. Oh, Christ. She started for the kitchen door. “Come on, Dickey.”

“I'm cold,” Dickey said.

“Jump up and down,” she said. “Hurry up! Come on!” At the door she turned her head, raising her hand and running it through her stiff, oily hair. “You had breakfast, Lewis?”

“Not yet,” he said, careful, as if avoiding a fight.

“Jesus,” she said angrily, and hit the door with just the heel of her hand, the cigarette between two fingers. “Dickey, go up and use the bathroom,” she said.

“I don't need to, Mom.”

“Go try! Go on before I clobber you!”

He went, dawdling, and when he returned she had breakfast on.

While they were eating—she wasn't hungry—she went up to the bathroom and the first thing she saw was that damn shotgun. Her cheeks went fiery, mainly because Dickey had just been here and might have killed himself, and if she could have thought of a way to destroy it that instant, she'd have done so. Instead, she sat down to go to the bathroom and while she was seated there picked up the shotgun to see if she could open it and make sure it was empty. It was heavy. She felt an urge to empty it by pulling the triggers
_/
shooting out the little square bathroom window, but it was only a passing thought, not a real temptation, and she continued to study the shotgun looking for a release. She found one on the top, where the barrels began, and the minute she touched it the gun broke, smoothly and silently, sending a shiver up her back—the pure efficiency of the thing. Once when her father had been hunting woodchucks with the shotgun and his dog, they'd cornered one against an old stone wall, and when the woodchuck had tried to attack the dog her father had poked the gun-barrel at it. The woodchuck had bit at the gun—had the barrel in his mouth—when her father pulled the trigger. You could hardly find the pieces.

There were no shells where she knew they should be and she snapped the gun shut again. Perhaps there'd been no shells from the beginning, she thought, but then remembered the explosion when the minister and priest came diving out the door. Another job for Lewis. The pellets had not only demolished the plaster, they'd blasted away the lath.

“Crazy!” she whispered, and felt tears welling up. How would she ever dare face them again, all those people! Again she felt her cheeks go hot with anger, this time at Lewis—superior bastard. But instantly, flushing the toilet, she was ashamed of the feeling. It wasn't his fault. He'd been born that way, a damned saint. He really was! She arranged herself, splashed water on her face, and looked in the mirror. She looked, she thought, like an old village whore—hair sticking up crookedly where she'd slept on it, big circles under her eyes. She heard her father shouting and looked out the window. He was chasing the bull with a pitchfork, slipping and sliding in the mess of the barnyard. Chickens stood watching. He'd kill the damn thing before he knew it and be out a thousand dollars. “Stupid bastard,” she whispered. Tears welled up in her eyes again, and she splashed more water on her face. In the medicine chest above the sink she found an orange plastic comb with half the teeth gone. She held it under the faucet to wet it, then ran it through her hair. She looked as bad as before when she was finished, but gave up and put the comb back and angrily dried her hands. She felt some unconscious, habitual dissatisfaction and remembered she'd left her cigarettes downstairs.

As she was about to go down it struck her like a thunderbolt that Aunt Sally's door was open. She stood a moment staring in disbelief, then went striding down the hallway to reach it before Aunt Sally could slam it shut. She saw her aunt asleep on her back, snoring, her flabby brown and light-blue speckled arms outside the covers, and she felt something wrong
—danger!,
her body said, jerking her to a halt. She smelled kerosene smoke and stood perfectly still, or still except that she was tentatively pushing at the door. Suddenly, from nowhere, something heavy and sharp slammed down hard on her head—she felt a flash of unspeakable, splintering pain—and Aunt Sally's eyes popped open. There was a roar like an explosion, a terrible, dark rumbling, the room shone with glittering pinwheels and stars, and she went hurtling, as if at the speed of light, into blackness.

3

Dickey sat motionless, carefully balanced like a bird on a wire, his knife and fork in his fists—he'd been trying to cut his toast and egg—his eyes wide.
(Good boys don't cut their toast like that.)
The dog sat beside him, nose at the edge of the table, begging—he himself had let it in; in that too he knew he was wrong. His father's leaping from the table and running up the stairs when everything went smashing and clattering had left the room dangerous and accusing.
Be a good boy!,
the hole in the ceiling warned.
Be like the girl with the umbrella!,
said the round, blue salt box. He stared at the round thing where once, he'd been told, a stovepipe had gone—there was a picture on it, a red barn, a white house, and a creek (it was winter)—and listened with all his might. There were no shouts, no voices; what had happened he could not guess.

Carefully, eyes still wide, he got down from his chair, looked around to be sure he was unwatched, and went on tip-toe to the foot of the stairs, then up three steps, then up four more. When he was high enough to see into the upstairs hallway through the bannister, what he saw was apples all over the floor and his father kneeling over his mother, who didn't move. Around her head there was blood. Aunt Sally was leaning through her bedroom door, holding her hand over her mouth, silent.

“Ginny, sweet-hot?” his father said softly, as though nothing were wrong, there was no hurry. “Ginny?”

In the kitchen below he heard the plate crash and knew the dog had gotten it. His father showed no sign of noticing. “Ginny?” he said again. He lifted her head with his right hand and felt through the hair with his left. There was blood everywhere, a lake of it. It was all over his father's coveralls and hands and was coming in a slow rivulet toward the stairwell. His father put his mother's head down again and put his two arms under her, bit down with his upper teeth on his lower lip, and lifted her up. He gave a jerk, trying to stand, and slipped in the blood and almost let her head hit the wall. Aunt Sally just watched with her hand over her mouth, not saying a word. His father, holding his mother in his arms, walked on his knees out of the lake of blood and tried again to stand up. He did it this time, the muscles of his face bulging. He leaned on the wall, trying to wipe off the soles of his shoes, holding her—her arms, hung down—then lifted her higher, trying to get her on his shoulder. He grabbed at her seat with his right arm and made a grunting noise, lifting—she was bigger than he was, and heavier—and her skirt slid up so that her underpants showed—but he grabbed again, his arm under her seat, and now he got her over his shoulder. Her head hung over his back, bleeding, and her eyes were open. As if he'd known Dickey was there all along, he said, “Get to the cah. Get the coats.”

Dickey turned like lightning, running down the stairs for the coats. On the table he saw his mother's cigarettes and grabbed them—the dog looked up at him for food—and ran on to the living room where the coats were. He threw them over his shoulder and ran back to the kitchen. His father was down the stairs now, carrying his mother, and he ran to the front door to open it. He kicked away plaster so his father wouldn't trip. His father's face was red and showed nothing but how heavy she was. He was biting so hard on his bottom lip it looked as if it hurt. His father went through the door and as soon as he was down off the stoop, Dickey leaped off and ran ahead of him to open the car door.

“Back one,” his father said.

He widened his eyes as if in horror at his mistake, shut the front one, and opened the back one. He quickly pushed the folded tarpaulin and the paintbrushes off the seat and jumped back out of the way. His father set his mother's rear end against the seat and gently laid her down, then got in and pulled her farther, then bent her knees to make room for the door to close. She made a farting noise. “Get in,” his father said.

Quickly Dickey jumped in in front and closed the door while his father walked around to his side. His father opened his door and slid in and turned a little sideways to get his keys from his pocket, then put them in the switch. He turned the keys and the car made a little grunt, but nothing happened.

“You better stot,” his father said quietly, as if, if it didn't start, he was going to shoot it.

He turned the keys again. There wasn't even a grunt.

“Go to the bahn and get your grampa,” his father said.

The car smelled of blood, the exact same smell as when Aunt Sally cut the heads off chickens. He opened the door and jumped out, shut the door, and ran toward the end of the house, heading for the barn. He smelled the doodie in the bushes from Aunt Sally's bedroom. Suddenly the car made a roaring noise behind him, and white smoke rolled up, a huge cloud of it. He spun around and ran back.

“Lock your door,” his father said, as soon as he was in. While his finger was still on the lock button, the car began backing toward the road, not fast but definite, like the charge of a bull.

His father drove no faster than usual, saying not a word. Dickey got up on his one knee to look back at his mother. Her eyes were still open, and there was blood all over the seat. He wanted to ask if she was dead.

“Sit down,” his father said.

He lowered himself again and put his hands in his lap.

When they were coming down into the valley he looked over at his father and said, “It's because of that book.”

His father said nothing.

He squeezed his hands together. “I found a dirty book in the pigpen,” he said. “I put it in my pocket, but my pocket's got a hole.” He reached his hand through the pocket and lining of his overcoat, showing his father how it was all torn away.

“Who told you it was dutty?” his father said.

“It had a dirty picture.” He plunged on: “I couldn't read it. It had big words and little tiny printing.”

“How you
know
it was a dutty pitcha?” his father asked.

“It just was.” He added: “I lost the book up in Aunt Sally's room.”

His father glanced down but said nothing. He looked back at the road.

When they'd driven on a little farther, Dickey said, “I lost the book the same night Grampa and Aunt Sally had the fight.”

His father went on looking through the windshield. He sighed. “Your mother was hit by an applecrate,” he said. “It want your book.”

4

A little after noon Estelle called Ruth Thomas at Putnam Hospital. “How is he?” she asked.

Ruth's voice had no spunk. “He's in the oxygen tent,” she said. “Dr. Phelps says we'll just have to see.”

“Oh dear. Oh dear,” Estelle said. “Oh, I feel so awful!”

“Well, he's got the best care in the world. We can be thankful for that.”

“I feel as if it's all my fault,” Estelle said.

“Well it isn't,” she said. “You can put that right out of your mind.” Her tone had an edge like a butcher knife, and Estelle said, understanding:

“Oh, Ruth!”

“I don't care,” Ruth said. “I blame him, and that's all there is to it.”

“You can't, dear! You mustn't! Think what poor James had been through!”

“Through a whole lot of liquor, that's how it smelled to me.”

“Oh, but dearest, that's not fair!”

“Fair!” Ruth said.

Estelle could see her in her mind, eyes bugging, head drawn up in righteous indignation. You couldn't blame her, heaven knows; she'd be the same herself, probably, if it had been Ferris and not Ed. She thought of how wonderfully everything had gone before James got home—how pitiful and apart from them all he'd looked when he'd got there, not himself, all banged up and not in his right mind. “I'm so sorry,” she said, the palsy coming over her, making her head jiggle. “It makes me just sick. Is there anything I can do?”

“You can pray,” Ruth said. “That's all any of us can do.”

“I will. You know that. I've been praying all morning.”

There was a pause. Estelle said, thinking in sudden distress of more difficulties, “Are the boys still there with you?”

“They've gone home, thank goodness,” Ruth said, and sighed. “Chief Young was there, at the hospital. He drove them over to the bus station for us. He'd come in with a boy had an accident in the graveyard by the old First Church. Beaten up, it seems. It was the youngest Flynn boy, or Porter, whichever they're calling themselves now. Ethain's son?”