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Arlette.

Yes.

Because it was she who left those two bills inside her red whores hat for me to find. And do you see how fiendishly clever she was? Because it wasnt the 40 that did me in; it was the money between that and what Cotterie demanded for his pregnant daughters tutor; what he wanted so she could study Latin and keep up with her triggeronomy.

I thought about the money he wanted for the tutor all the rest of that week, and over the weekend, too. Sometimes I took out those two bills-I had unfolded them but the creases still remained-and studied at them. On Sunday night I made my decision. I told Henry that hed have to take the Model T to school on Monday; I had to go to Hemingford Home and see Mr. Stoppenhauser at the bank about a shortie loan. A small one. Just 35 dollars.

What for? Henry was sitting at the window and looking moodily out at the darkening West Field.

I told him. I thought it would start another argument about Shannon, and in a way, I wanted that. Hed said nothing about her all week, although I knew Shan was gone. Mert Donovan had told me when he came by for a load of seed corn. Went off to some fancy school back in Omaha, he said. Well, more power to her, thats what I think. If theyre gonna vote, they better learn. Although, he added after a moments cogitation, mine does what I tell her. She better, if she knows whats good for her.

If I knew she was gone, Henry also knew, and probably before I did-schoolchildren are enthusiastic gossips. But he had said nothing. I suppose I was trying to give him a reason to let out all the hurt and recrimination. It wouldnt be pleasant, but in the long run it might be beneficial. Neither a sore on the forehead or in the brain behind the forehead should be allowed to fester. If they do, the infection is likely to spread.

But he only grunted at the news, so I decided to poke a little harder.

You and I are going to split the payback, I said. Its apt to come to no more than 38 dollars if we retire the loan by Christmas. Thats 19 apiece. Ill take yours out of your choring money.

Surely, I thought, this would result in a flood of anger but it brought only another surly little grunt. He didnt even argue about having to take the Model T to school, although he said the other kids made fun of it, calling it Hanks ass-breaker.

Son?

What.

Are you all right?

He turned to me and smiled-his lips moved around, at least. Im fine. Good luck at the bank tomorrow, Poppa. Im going to bed.

As he stood up, I said: Will you give me a little kiss?

He kissed my cheek. It was the last one.

He took the T to school and I drove the truck to Hemingford Home, where Mr. Stoppenhauser brought me into his office after a mere five-minute wait. I explained what I needed, but declined to say what I needed it for, only citing personal reasons. I thought for such a piddling amount I would not need to be more specific, and I was right. But when Id finished, he folded his hands on his desk blotter and gave me a look of almost fatherly sternness. In the corner, the Regulator clock ticked away quiet slices of time. On the street-considerably louder-came the blat of an engine. It stopped, there was silence, and then another engine started up. Was that my son, first arriving in the Model T and then stealing my truck? Theres no way I can know for sure, but I think it was.

Wilf, Mr. Stoppenhauser said, youve had a little time to get over your wife leaving the way she did-pardon me for bringing up a painful subject, but it seems pertinent, and besides, a bankers office is a little like a priests confessional-so Im going to talk to you like a Dutch uncle. Which is only fitting, since thats where my mother and father came from.

I had heard this one before-as had, I imagine, most visitors to that office-and I gave it the dutiful smile it was meant to elicit.

Will Home Bank amp; Trust loan you 35 dollars? You bet. Im tempted to put it on a man-to-man basis and do the deal out of my own wallet, except I never carry more than what it takes to pay for my lunch at the Splendid Diner and a shoe-shine at the barber shop. Too much moneys a constant temptation, even for a wily old cuss like me, and besides, business is business. But! He raised his finger. You dont need 35 dollars.

Sad to say, I do. I wondered if he knew why. He might have; he was indeed a wily old cuss. But so was Harl Cotterie, and Harl was also a shamed old cuss that fall.

No; you dont. You need 750, thats what you need, and you could have it today. Either bank it or walk out with it in your pocket, all the same to me either way. You paid off the mortgage on your place 3 years ago. Its free and clear. So theres absolutely no reason why you shouldnt turn around and take out another mortgage. Its done all the time, my boy, and by the best people. Youd be surprised at some of the paper were carrying. All the best people. Yessir.

I thank you very kindly, Mr. Stoppenhauser, but I dont think so. That mortgage was like a gray cloud over my head the whole time it was in force, and-

Wilf, thats the point! The finger went up again. This time it wagged back and forth, like the pendulum of the Regulator. That is exactly the rootin-tootin, cowboy-shootin point! Its the fellows who take out a mortgage and then feel like theyre always walking around in sunshine who end up defaulting and losing their valuable property! Fellows like you, who carry that bank-paper like a barrowload of rocks on a gloomy day, are the fellows who always pay back! And do you want to tell me that there arent improvements you could make? A roof to fix? A little more livestock? He gave me a sly and roguish look. Maybe even indoor plumbing, like your neighbor down the road? Such things pay for themselves, you know. You could end up with improvements that far outweigh the cost of a mortgage. Value for money, Wilf! Value for money!

I thought it over. At last I said, Im very tempted, sir. I wont lie about that-

No need to. A bankers office, the priests confessional-very little difference. The best men in this county have sat in that chair, Wilf. The very best.

But I only came in for a shortie loan-which you have kindly granted-and this new proposal needs a little thinking about. A new idea occurred to me, one that was surprisingly pleasant. And I ought to talk it over with my boy, Henry-Hank, as he likes to be called now. Hes getting to an age where he needs to be consulted, because what Ive got will be his someday.

Understood, completely understood. But its the right thing to do, believe me. He got to his feet and stuck out his hand. I got to mine and shook it. You came in here to buy a fish, Wilf. Im offering to sell you a pole. Much better deal.

Thank you. And, leaving the bank, I thought: Ill talk it over with my son. It was a good thought. A warm thought in a heart that had been chilly for months.

The mind is a funny thing, isnt it? Preoccupied as I was by Mr. Stoppenhausers unsolicited offer of a mortgage, I never noticed that the vehicle Id come in had been replaced by the one Henry had taken to school. Im not sure I would have noticed right away even if Id had less weighty matters on my mind. They were both familiar to me, after all; they were both mine. I only realized when I was leaning in to get the crank and saw a folded piece of paper, held down by a rock, on the driving seat.

I just stood there for a moment, half in and half out of the T, one hand on the side of the cab, the other reaching under the seat, which was where we kept the crank. I suppose I knew why Henry had left school and made this swap even before I pulled his note from beneath the makeshift paperweight and unfolded it. The truck was more reliable on a long trip. A trip to Omaha, for instance. Poppa,

I have taken the truck. I guess you know where I am going. Leave me alone. I know you can send Sheriff Jones after me to bring me back, but if you do I will tell everything. You might think Id change my mind because I am just a kid, BUT I WONT. Without Shan I dont care about nothing. I love you Poppa even if I dont know why, since everything we did has brought me mizzery. Your Loving Son, Henry Hank James

I drove back to the farm in a daze. I think some people waved to me-I think even Sallie Cotterie, who was minding the Cotteries roadside vegetable stand, waved to me-and I probably waved back, but Ive no memory of doing so. For the first time since Sheriff Jones had come out to the farm, asking his cheerful, no-answers-needed questions and looking at everything with his cold inquisitive eyes, the electric chair seemed like a real possibility to me, so real I could almost feel the buckles on my skin as the leather straps were tightened on my wrists and above my elbows.

He would be caught whether I kept my mouth shut or not. That seemed inevitable to me. He had no money, not even six bits to fill the trucks gas tank, so hed be walking long before he even got to Elkhorn. If he managed to steal some gas, hed be caught when he approached the place where she was now living (Henry assumed as a prisoner; it had never crossed his unfinished mind that she might be a willing guest). Surely Harlan had given the person in charge-Sister Camilla-Henrys description. Even if he hadnt considered the possibility of the outraged swain making an appearance at the site of his lady-loves durance vile, Sister Camilla would have. In her business, she had surely dealt with outraged swains before.

My only hope was that, once accosted by the authorities, Henry would keep silent long enough to realize that hed been snared by his own foolishly romantic notions rather than by my interference. Hoping for a teenage boy to come to his senses is like betting on a long shot at the horse track, but what else did I have?

As I drove into the dooryard, a wild thought crossed my mind: leave the T running, pack a bag, and take off for Colorado. The idea lived for no more than two seconds. I had money-75 dollars, in fact-but the T would die long before I crossed the state line at Julesburg. And that wasnt the important thing; if it had been, I could always have driven as far as Lincoln and then traded the T and 60 of my dollars for a reliable car. No, it was the place. The home place. My home place. I had murdered my wife to keep it, and I wasnt going to leave it now because my foolish and immature accomplice had gotten it into his head to take off on a romantic quest. If I left the farm, it wouldnt be for Colorado; it would be for state prison. And I would be taken there in chains.

That was Monday. There was no word on Tuesday or Wednesday. Sheriff Jones didnt come to tell me Henry had been picked up hitch-hiking on the Lincoln-Omaha Highway, and Harl Cotterie didnt come to tell me (with Puritanical satisfaction, no doubt) that the Omaha police had arrested Henry at Sister Camillas request, and he was currently sitting in the pokey, telling wild tales about knives and wells and burlap bags. All was quiet on the farm. I worked in the garden harvesting pantry-vegetables, I mended fence, I milked the cows, I fed the chickens-and I did it all in a daze. Part of me, and not a small part, either, believed that all of this was a long and terribly complex dream from which I would awake with Arlette snoring beside me and the sound of Henry chopping wood for the morning fire.

Then, on Thursday, Mrs. McReady-the dear and portly widow who taught academic subjects at Hemingford School-came by in her own Model T to ask me if Henry was all right. Theres an an intestinal distress going around, she said. I wondered if he caught it. He left very suddenly.

Hes distressed all right, I said, but its a love-bug instead of a stomach-bug. Hes run off, Mrs. McReady. Unexpected tears, stinging and hot, rose in my eyes. I took the handkerchief from the pocket on the front of my biballs, but some of them ran down my cheeks before I could wipe them away.

When my vision was clear again, I saw that Mrs. McReady, who meant well by every child, even the difficult ones, was near tears herself. She must have known all along what kind of bug Henry was suffering from.

Hell be back, Mr. James. Dont you fear. Ive seen this before, and I expect to see it a time or two again before I retire, although that times not so far away as it once was. She lowered her voice, as if she feared George the rooster or one of his feathered harem might be a spy. The one you want to watch out for is her father. Hes a hard and unbending man. Not a bad man, but hard.

I know, I said. And I suppose you know where his daughter is now.

She lowered her eyes. It was answer enough.

Thank you for coming out, Mrs. McReady. Can I ask you to keep this to yourself?

Of course but the children are already whispering.

Yes. They would be.

Are you on the exchange, Mr. James? She looked for telephone wires. I see you are not. Never mind. If I hear anything, Ill come out and tell you.

You mean if you hear anything before Harlan Cotterie or Sheriff Jones.

God will take care of your son. Shannon, too. You know, they really were a lovely couple; everyone said so. Sometimes the fruit ripens too early, and a frost kills it. Such a shame. Such a sad, sad shame.

She shook my hand-a mans strong grip-and then drove away in her flivver. I dont think she realized that, at the end, she had spoken of Shannon and my son in the past tense.

On Friday Sheriff Jones came out, driving the car with the gold star on the door. And he wasnt alone. Following along behind was my truck. My heart leaped at the sight of it, then sank again when I saw who was behind the wheel: Lars Olsen.

I tried to wait quietly while Jones went through his Ritual of Arrival: belt-hitching, forehead-wiping (even though the day was chilly and overcast), hair-brushing. I couldnt do it. Is he all right? Did you find him?

No, nope, cant say we did. He mounted the porch steps. Line-rider over east of Lyme Biska found the truck, but no sign of the kid. We might know better about the state of his health if youd reported this when it happened. Wouldnt we?

I was hoping hed come back on his own, I said dully. Hes gone to Omaha. I dont know how much I need to tell you, Sheriff-