Bitter Eden (62 page)

"I've heard him too. But it doesn't matter; he has to get up and begin to—unless he makes a future for himself, Callie, he's always going to be trapped by that past. He'll never forget them unless he begins living and has something new to replace those old memories. And it's time he saw Jamie."

"He doesn't want to. It is the only thing he has expressed his own wishes about. He doesn't want to see him."

"Peter doesn't want to do anything. That doesn't mean that's the way it should be."

"Don't be angry with me. I'll take Jamie to see him tomorrow. Then you put off the dinner for a couple of days—all right?"

"All right, but only if he sees Jamie tomorrow," Stephen said, still angry with her, partly because she was so willing to spend the days and half the nights with Peter, and partly because he wanted Peter well, and he would never be until he tried.

The following morning Callie went to Peter after he had bathed to bring him his breakfast. "I want you to see Jamie today," she said as he finished eating.

"No."

"Peter, he's your son. He hasn't seen you since he was a baby. He needs you."

Peter laughed bitterly, but said nothing.

"Mary Anne will be bringing him here any minute now," she said firmly.

When Mary Anne knocked, Callie went to the door without looking at Peter. Jamie stood waiting. She took his hand and brought him fully into the room.

Peter stared at the child as he walked holding fast to Callie's hand. He was tall for his age and straight of body. He looked at Peter through eyes the same dark brown as his father's. His hair was like ripe wheat Tears formed in Peter's eyes as Jamie smiled. And Peter knew Jamie was his son, not Albert's.

"That's Papa?" he asked, looking up to Callie.

"That's your Papa. See what a fine handsome man you'll grow up to be?"

"How do you do, sir?" Jamie asked as he climbed up on the bed with Peter, studying him with the minute attention of a five-year-old child.

"Can you make things like Uncle Stephen can?"

"What sort of things does Uncle Stephen make?"

"Almost everything."

Peter laughed. "I don't know if I can make everything, but perhaps something."

"Well, that would do for a start. Could you make me a new caboose? Mary Anne stepped on mine and-"

"Jamie! Enough of your nonsense. That's very rude to be asking for things."

Jamie looked regretfully at Peter, but slid off the bed. Tm sorry, Papa."

"Don't be sorry," Peter said softly as though he didn't want Callie to hear. Jamie started to leave. "Must you go so soon?" Peter asked.

"Uncle Stephen is waiting for me. I can come back—if you want."

Peter glanced uncertainly at Callie. She was smiling her approval to Jamie.

"He looks just like you," she said in satisfaction as Jamie left; then she turned to Peter, frowning. "And he's just as naughty. I'll thank you not to encourage him to be asking for everything he fancies."

"Is it so wrong to want things?"

"No, but—no, it isn't wrong, Peter, but Jamie has to be taught to value things of value, and not yearn for the worthless."

Peter stared down at his hands, wondering how anyone knew something of value when it came. So many times he thought he had, and never had it been real.

"Stephen wants you to come to dinner tomorrow night. I'll have your clothes laid out for you. We eat at six," she said and stood up.

Peter wasn't listening to her. His eyes were studiously cast down, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. Finally he spoke, his voice tight. "You're angry with Jamie."

"No, I'm not angry . . "

"Will you punish him?"

Callie looked indignant for a moment; then she

went quickly to the bed. "He's already been punished and forgiven/' She took Peter's hand. "I'm sorry, Peter, I keep forgetting that I don't always see things as you do. Jamie has never been harmed in any way. We have no need for switches or paddles, and never will. If you are concerned about your son, the best thing you can do for him is to get well and teach him the things you believe in. I told you Jamie had to leam to recognize value. He will find it in you, if you allow him."

Peter came down to dinner the next night, feeling awkward and self-conscious in the clothes he hadn't worn for so long. They were crisp and fresh, clean and distinguished looking, but they covered a man who was none of these things. He sat nervously at the head seat Stephen had vacated when Peter entered the room. He was unsure as he tried to recall the intricacies of table manners long unused. He almost laughed trying to think when he had last "used a fork, or when he had been allowed so close to such a weapon as a table knife.

He had difficulty eating, he was so tight and apprehensive. Nothing was the same here as it was in the warm little world of the sickroom. Callie was bright and cheerful, laughing and talking of people and hops and her dairy in a way that invited crisp, easy repartee. Stephen responded as he always did. But Peter, as he had realized while he lay in bed listening to that outside world go on, could not. He was silent throughout the meal, speaking only if addressed directly.

After supper he went upstairs. He stood in the hall for several minutes, wanting to enter his son's room as he heard sounds of childish laughter and questions. He went several steps in the direction of his own room, then turned back and entered Jamie's nursery.

He watched quietly as Mary Anne gave the little boy his bath and prepared him for bed.

"Why don't you talk much, Papa?" Jamie asked as he got into bed.

Peter smiled, shrugging. "I haven't much to say, I guess."

"How'd you get those scars on your hands?"

Peter's stomach tightened as Mary Anne stared at his hands along with Jamie. "Felling trees," he said.

"You felled trees?"

"Yes."

Tell me . . ."

Peter glanced at Mary Anne's disapproving face and saw what neither Callie or Stephen would ever understand. Mary Anne didn't see Peter Berean when she looked at him; she saw the convict, and only a man like Peter could recognize that look. He stepped back nearer the door and spoke softly, "In the morning. You come wake me up."

"But Callie makes me go to lessons," he groaned. Then: "I'll come before school."

Peter nodded, hesitated, then quickly reached out, tousling Jamie's hair.

Peter's early mornings with Jamie became a habit. Those hours were the heart of his days, holding no threat or barrier of fear that he couldn't overcome. Beyond that nothing was easy for him.

The more he tried to please Callie and Stephen, the more they demanded of him, accepting each new thing as a sign of progress, never knowing that it took Peter half a sleepless night to calm himself enough to even try to do as they asked. Stephen tried to tempt him with books from the library in his study. Callie asked his assistance with small chores around the house. These things he could accomplish. He was used to working, but what was impossible for him was the

lighthearted conversation, the laughter, the ideas they expected from him. Those things were too bottled up inside, driven too far by fear for him to retrieve. Once more the hard-learned habits of protection slipped back into place. He couldn't accept normal anger or irritation without reacting to the threat it implied. Refusal translated itself into disapproval and deprivation. No matter how hard or often he reasoned through the range of emotions that occurred in any given day, he couldn't break away from the constant expectation of punishment.

In his room was a mass of small items he had stolen from all over the house. Mostly they were worthless little things—pencils, quill pens, handkerchiefs, nap^-kins, silverware. In one of Callie's large butter molds he kept food he pilfered from the pantry. He had not known a hungry day since his return home, but the dread of that day lingered. Each time the food in the butter mold spoiled he threw it out, replacing it immediately.

One afternoon, months after he had come home, Peter looked at the spoiled food in the butter mold. He didn't need it. He knew he didn't need it As Callie had told him repeatedly, he was home and safe.

For the next few days he took the butter mold out every afternoon, repeating these assurances to himself, until finally after a week he emptied the mold, washing it in the marvelous bathing room that had been installed while he was in prison. He put the mold on the rear shelf of his closet, promising himself never to refill it. But he kept the mold.

After lunch that same afternoon, Stephen looked at him long and pensively. "You feel up to taking a look at the new field we're clearing?"

Peter looked away, then thought of the empty butter mold upstairs in tiis closet. He was inordinately

proud of that empty container. Then he thought of Jamie. If he had taken one step, he could take two. Stephen would be with him. He was home and he was safe. "Yes," he said finally.

"Good! I'd like your opinion. It's not as good a soil as the rest. I'm not so certain we should even try putting it in hops. I've been thinking of making it the home garden, but no one knows soil better than you. I'd like you to tell me what it's best to plant."

The field lay just beyond the east boundary of the original tract of land Peter had bought. It was in the process of being cleared.

"Doesn't look too bad, do you think?" Stephen asked, waiting, hoping, half expecting to see Peter bend down to feel the soil and work it in his hands, smelling it as he used to.

Peter was rigid, holding firmly to the fence rail. 'It seems all right," he said tensely. He shook his head, biting his lower lip. Perspiration stood out on his brow and lip.

Stephen put his hand around Peter's tight, cramped shoulders. "Are you all right? You're not ill?" He followed the direction of his brother's gaze, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. In the center of the new field Dick Adams drove a team of horses as they took a large tree stump from the cleared land. "Peter?"

"I'm all right," Peter said, then repeated it under his breath.

"Mr. Berean!" Stephen turned as one of the men from the brewery rode up. He dismounted and handed Stephen a sheet of paper.

Stephen read the message his foreman had written; then he smiled grimly. Tom Baker was waiting for him at the brewery. "I wondered how long it would take that greedy son of a bitch to show up." He folded the note and stuck it into his shirt pocket "A little

business matter has come up," he said to Peter. 1*11 be back in fifteen or twenty minutes. This will be short and to the point."

Peter shook his head woodenly, still watching the team of horses struggling in the wet earth.

Stephen went back to the brewery with the messenger while Peter stood for nearly half an hour gripping the fence rail until his hands hurt and he was trembling. Dick Adams drove the team, cracking his whip behind their heads as he shouted, urging them on. The smaller of the two animals went down on its knees in the mud, snorting as it struggled to regain footing.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, then put his hands over his ears to block out the sound of the man shouting commands to the horses. He began to walk away, fighting the feelings that were rioting inside of him. He kept saying to himself that this was normal. It was the way of things. They were horses, not men. This was home, not prison. But he couldn't keep his eyes off the sight in the field, and he couldn't help but flinch and feel all his muscles tighten every time a command was shouted, every time he heard Dick Adams's whip snap. He looked back to the field.

Adams brought his whip down on the small horse's flank, and the animal whinnied, struggling for footing in the mud. Peter leaped the fence, running across the field. He threw himself at Dick Adams.

As Stephen rode up, Peter was on the ground, hitting Dick with the handle of the whip. The horses pawed and pranced in fear, making more headway with the stump than before.

Stephen turned his horse, giving it room to make a run at the fence. He was beside the struggling men in seconds. He leapt from the saddle shouting Peter's name. Peter paid no attention. With clenched teeth he

muttered, "No beast . . . man is no beast . . * each time he struck Dick. Stephen tried to pull him away without success. Then with one hard motion, carrying all his strength and weight, he hit Peter, knocking him off Dick.

Stephen got Dick to his feet, groggily shaking his battered and bloody head. "Tha' mans a killer. He come outta nowhere, Mr. Berean. I'm tellin' you I was mindin' my own business an here he comes a flyin at me. I never seen him till he had me on the ground beatin the hell outta me. I'm sorry about this, Mr. Berean, 'cause I alius liked workm for you, but I'm not stayin* here as long as he's around. Find yourself a new man."

Stephen talked to Dick, trying to calm and reassure him. He made little headway. Dick stalked from the field, leaving the horses where they stood.

Stephen turned angrily to Peter still sitting on the ground. "What the hell got into you? You've lost me the best man I have."

Peter kept his eyes downcast.

"Get up on your feet, damn it! Help me with these horses. They can't be left out here in harness."

Peter hesitated, and Stephen yelled at him. "Get up!"

Peter got to his feet, the whip still in his hand. He held it out, handle end to Stephen.

Stephen stood staring at the whip, then he looked at Peter. Peter stood with his eyes cast down, looking at the ground. "Don't use the whip on them," he said so softly that Stephen wouldn't have heard him if he hadn't just realized what had caused Peter to attack.

He wanted to reach out and comfort him as Callie had done, but knew for him it would be wrong. That was Callie's place, and as he looked at Peter he knew that was where she ought to be. Callie would remain

with Peter, and Stephen would do as he had always done—be there, love her, love them both.

For Peter he couldn't change a threatening world, but he could keep safe the small world of the farm. It was becoming clear to Stephen that Peter would never leave here. This farm, a safely contained and protected world, was the only possible world Peter might ever be able to handle, if that.