Chapter Five

It rained during the night and it was still misty in the morning. But Pa was off for town the minute he’d gulped his breakfast. He knew that Matthew Ontime would have too much pride to put the law on us for what had happened, so he couldn’t get into town fast enough. He could go around crowing about how we’d beaten up one of the richest men in Oklahoma, and he’d be perfectly safe.

I set off for school earlier than I usually did, almost looking forward to the trouble I’d find there. You know—or maybe you don’t. Maybe you don’t know how it is when you’re so sick inside, sick and hopeless-feeling, that you want someone to cross you a little; just enough so’s you’ll have an excuse to make them feel bad, too.

Ordinarily, at least in the winter when the land was fallowing, I cut across fields to the county road. But this morning I had to go around by the plantation road, the one Donna’d brought me home on. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind that Matthew Ontime’d meant just what he said about trespassing. As far as that plantation went, he was the law; in fact, both of his overseers had deputy sheriff commissions. They wouldn’t haul you into court unless they caught you stealing or some such thing. But they were apt to make you wish that they would take you to court.

I walked along in the mist, my sweater dampening.

Down near the intersection of the county, Nate Laverty whistled at me; and he and his brother Pete came running down the path from their shack. They were big, thin, bucktoothed kids, about my age but several grades behind me. Pete asked me why’n hell I was all bundled up in a sweater. I didn’t see him and Nate wearing sweaters, did I? What kind of a sissy was I? he laughed.

“You haven’t got a sweater,” I said. “You haven’t got anything but those ragged-assed overalls and your mealbag shirts.”

Nate’s face fell. Pete tried to spit, easy like, like he hadn’t heard me; and his teeth got in the way, spilling it over his chin.

“Shucks,” I laughed. “Don’t you know when a man’s kidding? Why, if I hadn’t made the football team I’d have been worse off’n you guys.”

“What you mean, worse off’n us,” said Pete. “We’re doin’ all right.”

“Goddammit!” I yelled; and they stopped, startled. They knew I’d never cursed before. “Goddammit”—it was easy now—“stop picking me up on everything!”

“Hey,” said Pete, “someone been steppin’ on your tail, boy?”

“I—Pa and I had a run-in with Matthew Ontime. He’s takin’ our acreage away from us.”

“Yeah?” Their eyes got wide. “How come?”

“Because he’s a no-good son-of-a-bitch, that’s why!”

“Mr. Ontime? You must be talkin’ about someone else, fella.”

“Goddammit, I’m talkin’ about . . .”

“Yes, sir,” said Pete, firmly, “you sure must be talkin’ about someone else. There never was a fairer man than Mr. Ontime nowheres!”

The school doors were open, because of the drizzle, and we went on in. They left me on the first landing, since their homerooms were on that floor. I went up the stairs to the second. And there was Miss Trumbull, waiting for me.

She smiled and spoke, her pince-nez glasses sparkling so’s you couldn’t see her eyes. She was a prim, pretty strict old lady, and a lot of the students didn’t like her. But she’d always been awfully nice to me.

“Will you step into Mr. Redbird’s office with me, Thomas? I told him we’d be in as soon as you arrived.”

“What for?” I said. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Certainly you haven’t. Mr. Redbird knows it and I know it.”

“Well, then . . .”

“Come along, Thomas.” She took me by the arm, and I went along.

We went into the principal’s office, and she closed the door. He smiled at her and winked at me, and we sat down on the other side of his desk.

He was dark, of course; dark-haired and dark-eyed. He taught my science class, along with being principal, and we’d always got along real well.

“Well, Tom,” he grinned, “we have a terrible accusation against you. Our esteemed custodian, Mr. Toolate, tells us . . .”

“I know what he told you. Why’n’t you have him here to tell me?”

“Well, now . . .”

“That awful man!” Miss Trumbull clucked her tongue. “I really can’t blame Thomas for being annoyed.”

“He’s not worth getting annoyed,” Mr. Redbird shrugged. “We have to put up with him, it seems, but— Tom, just what was the trouble? There’s been some light-fingered work around here in . . .”

“Yes, and you know who’s behind it!”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea, yes. Tell us what happened. Were you teasing Abe—trying to get a rise out of him?”

“He tried to get smart with me,” I said, “and I threw a scare into the dirty half-breed!”

“Thomas!” said Miss Trumbull. And her face went all tight and funny.

But Mr. Redbird kept on smiling. “Tell me you didn’t put anything in your pocket, Tom,” he said. “That’s all you need to do.”

“I suppose you’d take my word against his!”

“Of course I would.”

I hesitated. But I was so sick inside, and what was the use anyway. “Sure you would! You’d side against one of your own kind! Why do you try to cover it up, anyway? Why’n’t you spell your name right—Red Bird—instead of pushin’ yourself off as a white man? Why . . .”

“Get out,” he said, “get out, get out, g-ggg . . .”

Miss Trumbull jumped up in front of me. She jerked me up and whirled me around and shoved me out the door, and she sure moved fast and strong for a little old lady.

“Get your books, Thomas! You’re on indefinite suspension.”

“Shove the books,” I said. “I’m not coming back.”

And I ran down the stairs and out of the building. I heard her faintly, calling after me, “Thomas! Thomas Carver!” Then the bell for the first class started ringing; and I couldn’t hear anything else. The sound followed me down the road, and I had to bang my ears with my palms to drive it away.

I came to the draw under the willows where Donna usually parked. I walked back in under the trees and hunkered down against a rock, thinking if I sat there awhile, maybe until noon, she’d show up. Because she had done that several times. She’d drive by the school, just before twelve, signaling with the horn. And I’d run down at noon, and we’d have as much as a half-hour together. But—but I didn’t reckon she’d be here today.

Not today or any other day.

I walked on toward home, and the mist turned into a hard, chilling rain. I was soaked in no time, and I hardly seemed to notice. It just didn’t matter.

Donna. Donna . . .

“Huh-uh, boy. Never again.”

“But I could! I could slip up there at night . . .”

“Yeah. And maybe get your tail shot off!”

“I got to try! She’d listen, anyway, wouldn’t she? She’d at least listen. Wouldn’t a woman listen to the only man that . . .”

“Listen? What’d you say to her? And suppose you could smooth over last night—after she’d bragged you up to him? What’ll you say then? To hell with Pa? I’m my own man? You name it and I’ll do it?”

“I—maybe.”

“Not you, boy. Huh-uh.”

“You wait!” I yelled. “Maybe I will.”

I shook myself. It was like coming out of a bad dream and I felt kind of rested and eased. I brushed the water, rain, I guess it was, out of my eyes. I started running, and I ran the rest of the way home.

I stopped on the porch, and kicked the mud off my shoes. I wiped them solewards and sideways against the sacking Mary had laid out. I went into the kitchen.

“Well,” said Pa. “What you doin’ home?”

He was sitting down with his jeans’ legs rolled up and his feet in a pan of water. He looked mighty sour. I figured he hadn’t had such a good time bragging about Matthew Ontime getting his come-uppance.

“What you doin’ home?” he repeated. “Why ain’t you in school?”

I looked at Mary, but of course, there wasn’t any help there. She looked like she was about to keel over herself.

“You get into some trouble? Is that it?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“They kicked you out?”

“What’s the difference?” I said. “What difference does it make, Pa? We can’t stay here on ten acres. We’ll have to find a new place to crop, and . . .”

“They kicked you out. You got kicked out. I brought you up out of nothing, and pushed you up into something to be proud of, and now you’ve went and pushed yourself back. Almighty God writ His will as plain as day, an’ you set yourself against it. You flouted His will.”

“Pa,” I said. “I couldn’t help it. All I did was . . .”

“He gave me a stone, an’ I was to bring bread in return. An’ you set yourself against Him.”

He held his hand out, and Mary scurried forward with a towel. He took one foot, then the other, out of the pan, drying them carefully, wiping between each toe. He got up, dropping the towel on the chair, and went into his bedroom. He came out with a long, thick harness strap.

“Face up to that wall,” he said.

Mary moaned softly and threw her apron up over her face. Pa shot her a glance, flexing the harness strap. He jerked his head at me.

“You better do what I tell you, boy,” he said. “You better do it fast.”

I had a mind to do it. He couldn’t hurt me much more than I already was, and maybe it would give me the push away from him that I needed. Maybe it would take away the maybe about what I was going to say to Donna. If I got to see her.

But—

But I couldn’t let him go ahead. It would be mean spite to let him, because I knew how he’d feel afterward when he found out the truth. I knew how bad he’d feel: If I was going to make a break, all right, but it was my job to make it. I couldn’t spite him into making it for me.

“Pa,” I said, “I didn’t . . .”

“Face up there!”

“But I didn’t.”

His arm went up in a swift looping motion, and the harness strap zinged and popped. It whipped around my neck, and he jerked on it, and I went down. I toppled forward, going down on my hands and knees. The strap uncoiled and he swung it again.

And it did hurt. It always hurt. And this time it did something worse than hurt, something evil and sickening. And I knew I’d better stop him fast. It came to me that what I was feeling must be hate, and it sickened and scared me. Because despite all the put-on, I’d guess I’d never known what it meant to hate until then. Somehow I’d never learned how to hate.

And if it was like this, I didn’t want to learn any more. I knew I hadn’t better.

The strap came down on my back again—the third, the fourth time. And he swung it again. I started to get up, and he’d shifted ends; and the buckle whipped around my shoulders, nicking me in the corner of my mouth.

I stood up.

He looked at me, and he took a step backward, and his hand trembled when he pointed to the floor.

“Y-you better get down there, boy.”

I started to shake my head. Then I nodded. “All right,” I said, “if that’s the way you want it.”

“I seen it coming on. I seen you settin’ yourself up . . .”

“Go ahead,” I said. “Don’t bother talking yourself into it. It ought to be easy for you by now.”

“I”—he backed away another step. I guess he’d had to because I’d edged toward him. I’d done it without knowing it, my eyes fixed on his, the blood welling across my lips— “what’s wrong with you, son?”

“Go ahead,” I said. “Go on, Pa. You know what’s wrong. Everything’s wrong, and always was. That’s how you get your exercise, takin’ it out of me. Go on. What’s the sense in stopping now?”

“I’m tellin’ you, boy. You better . . .”

“Make me,” I said. “Make me tell you, Pa.”

He brought the strap up fast. It whistled and popped as he swung it up above his head. And I grinned at him, feeling the bad feeling that was now good to feel. It was like a coon must feel when a trap gets him, and he has to chew off a leg to get out.

I laughed, and the strap came down.

It fell from his hand to the floor.

“Tell me, Tom. I’m asking you to . . .”

I told him, watching what happened to his face, and for a little, I guess, it felt good. But I knew it wasn’t good, so I stopped looking at him. I talked as fast as I could, and still make it clear, so’s it would be over with fast for him.

I finished, and he stood clenching and unclenching his hands, his head sagged lower than I’d ever seen it on his turkey-gobbler neck. Then he pushed it back, so’s he could look at me, and his lips moved.

“That—that’s just the way it was, son?”

“You know I wouldn’t steal anything, Pa.”

“No—what I meant—I mean you didn’t tell ’em? You didn’t tell ’em you—we—was hungry?”

“No,” I said, “I didn’t shame you, Pa. I just let ’em think I was a thief.”

He nodded, and some of the pain went out of his face. It seemed to leap from his to mine. And I turned quickly, before he could see it, and went out the door.

I ran across the yard, ducking under the clothes lines, and into the old cowbarn that we used as a woodshed. I sat down on the chopping block and buried my face in my hands. And I tried to work up into tears. I tried as hard as I could, and the tears wouldn’t come; and it was worse than learning what hate was.

I guess it’s the worst thing there is when you lose everything you’ve lived by, and you can’t even cry about it. Because it’s not even worth that much, a single solitary tear.

And it never was.

I didn’t look up when I heard him coming. He hesitated in the doorway—I knew he was there because he was between me and the light—and he cleared his throat. Then he came in, stumbling a little as he stepped over the lintel. And after a minute or two he put his hand on my shoulder.

“Tom,” he said. “Tommy, boy . . .”

I moved my shoulder a little. His hand fell away.

His feet scuffled in the wood chips, and pretty soon I could sense the semi-darkness and I knew he was standing back in front of the door. He was staring off across the long broad fields, raising his eyes above the red clay soil to the horizon, looking across the fiery-red plains of Hell with its endless gauntlet of dead-brown imps—the cotton, the cotton, cotton, cotton—closing his eyes to them and seeing only the horizon and its towering ranks of derricks. Steel giants, snorting and chuckling amongst themselves; sneering wonderingly at the cotton and the bent-backed pigmies amidst it. Huffing and puffing and belching up gold.

“Look, Tom,” he said, softly. “Come an’ look at ’em.” And I stayed where I was.

“You hear me, boy?” he said. And I got up.

You do things out of habit. You keep on for a little while.

I went to the door and stood with him.

“Look at ’em,” he whispered. “Just lookit that.” Then he said, “Tuh-wenty-fi-uhv thousand dol-lars!” He said it just like the oil scout had said it. He repeated it a second time, and he started to do it a third. But his voice was dragging, and he gulped and swallowed midway of the twenty-five, and he didn’t finish.

“God damn his eternal soul,” he said.

And I said it after him.

“It’s his fault! Everything’s happened is his fault! He ain’t fitten to live!”

“No,” I said, “he isn’t.”

He started to look at me, but I reckon those oil derricks were a sight prettier; and habit was strong in him, too. Anyway, if he had an idea that we weren’t goddamning the same person, he didn’t show it.