The Disinherited (19 page)

She can see the sun, deep yellow and changing colour through the bare branches of the trees as they walk back to the road, keeping touch with his body, her hand on his back as they walk, or hooked into his pants, or wrapped round the inside of his arm, fingers feeling the play of ligament and muscle. Richard walking with his hands in his pockets so she slides her hand down on his arm, into his pocket, palm against palm, remembering measuring palms that first summer, her own only slightly narrower than his and her fingers longer and thinner, folding over the tops of his nails like a roof sliding over a wall. Richard talking to her about Miranda, already patching things up, everything to return to normal, certainly, they will meet at the church and smile distantly, Richard stepping outside after with the men, what do they ever do, go to the back of the church all of them and drink and piss against the wall, dance at the summer social, one two three, maybe she will be pregnant, and Peter Malone so sure of the accuracy of his failed weapon she could call the child Richard and no one would more than suspect, Richard so solemn beside her, doing his duty seeing her home, God, all those years and he never moved at all, never. Richard saying that they are thinking of adopting a child and went to see some social workers
in Kingston, in confidence of course, you understand, never moved, because she must have been a whore to give herself to Simon, not like Miranda, always on her toes, who would never do a thing like that, oh no, too proper, in Toronto they never fuck on Sundays, no sloppity sounds or other vulgarities from the ladies, oh no, one two three bang, tea service is what you get, yes. “And biscuits too,” her cousin would say, her lace shawl drawn over her bare shoulders: taking lovers when her husband was on his rotation but not, you understand, being foolish, but only taking them in the Spanish style — breeding idiot kings strained through silk panties — “you have to get your blood up; Katherine look at you. And besides its good for the liver you know.” Richard had stopped talking and was quickening the pace, keeping his eye on the horizon, could this be love? she sang, startling Richard who drew away from her, but she chased after him, pushing him to the side of the road, hugging him and kicking at his shins with her rubber boots, fat already, he hadn’t even seen her belly, still doing it in secret. “Look,” she said, stopping and holding open her coat, pulling up her blouse so he could see the scar from the caesarean. Richard bending over, twilight already, the sky winding pink and blue behind them on the road, her scar blue too, and puckered up: small gaps where the flesh had healed right across and at the top, still, needle holes that refused to go away. Took his hand and pressed it into her stomach, so deep now it looked like he could be kneading it. “God,” she said, “I am getting fat.” And hungry too. Knowing Peter would have decided it was his duty to cook supper and prepared his specialty, pork chops and boiled potatoes, the pork chops fried in lard and covered with dollops of brown sugar and applesauce. And Richard, the pig, saying nothing at all in consolation, probably thinking of Miranda, always turned her nose up at the little cakes. The gentleman and his lady will be out this evening. Turned and curtsied to Richard who was still waiting for her to put away her stomach and continue walking, please excuse. Again walking in silence, quicker in the cold, until they came to the place where they had met that afternoon, stopped. In the dark Richard was close again; she could feel his hand exploring her back and neck — they were both looking forward
down the road, side by side, as if this inconvenience was only to be temporary.

“It was nice to see you again,” Richard said.

“Yes.”

“The wine wasn’t that bad.”

“It was passable,” Katherine said, waiting for him to stiffen.

“Well.”

“Maybe you’d better go back,” she said. “It’s getting dark.”

“You won’t get lost.”

“No,” Katherine said. “I think I know the way.” Taking his hand from her back, kissing it, a little bite, then turning him around and moving on her way, why not, quickly, another springtime afternoon, around the first curve and feeling lighter already, not tired at all, it would be good to run, springtime Simon dead and white, Peter Malone.

Richard swinging his legs

Swinging down to the floor

Waiting for

the skin on wool: friction skin grip stands and stretches on the braided rug. Hearing her tell about Simon Thomas’s proposal. And asking him to say nothing. As if this night is only a minor misunderstanding, traffic confusion, something that will be forgotten. Outside the snow is still falling slow and warm. A full moon, diffuse, casts an indefinite grey light and now there are three paths, each pressing down the other, one of his and two of Simon Thomas. Five miles and he knows that Simon will be sitting up and waiting for him, sitting in the identical wicker chair in his own kitchen, (he and Henry Beckwith bought them together in Kingston, spent half their winters together, those two and old Mark Frank, drinking and planning their nonsense trips), rocking back and forth, drinking tea and playing with his knife, waiting. Standing with Simon in the barn and Simon telling him that there are, in each man’s life, only a few crucial moments and that these must be recognized, that a man who fails to rise to them will never forgive himself and will be marked, fork thrust forward sheepshit flying off the cold tines, ricocheting and falling out the special wooden manure hatch. Following the path, down the centre of the road and then through the bush,
black, branches layered with wet snow swaying sluggishly when hit, dumping their loads behind him. So warm it threatens to rain; Richard took off his toque and stuffed it in his pocket, letting the branches comb across his wet hair and his ears, still feeling wooldamp and hot. The path came out of the bush and into the valley that led down the centre of the fields, interrupted by a marshy spot where they skated earlier in the winter, snowed over now and going to be ruined by the wet snow which would freeze in a thick crust over the rink, too much work to clear. Here Simon had stopped too, most way home, and tromped about the rink, stamping down the snow, maybe considered waiting here or even going back, no, Simon would fight on his own grounds. Coming to the house finally and seeing that the lights were on, upstairs and down, two o’clock in the morning. Richard had a sudden premonition that all this time he had been mistaken, that his mother had been dying and that Simon had come over to get him, fornicating with the Beckwith girl while his own mother died. And Katherine had said nothing, even told Simon to go away, that greedy for him. Then came upstairs with her story, why not. Remembered how his mother had resented Katherine Beckwith’s presence in the house, said it was unnecessary and that while everyone else was out the girl tormented her, refused to bring her anything in bed and got in her way when she tried to go to the kitchen herself. Stopping in the barnyard, looking at the path carefully to see if Simon had branched off, was hiding in one of the buildings. Then followed the path the rest of the way, to the house, unsure of what Simon was going to force him to, not wanting to have to do it, so tired now, his body hollow and exhausted. His brother’s huge shadow against the upstairs window, his mother’s window, any bigger and they could send him to a circus Simon would say, puzzled at the size of this prodigal offspring who threatened to outweigh both his parents at once. And as he swung open the door and began to kick the snow off his heels he could see through the kitchen window, made wavy by condensation, Simon rocking in his wicker chair, back and forth, his head turning round to meet the noise, waiting. Richard pushed off his boots and came into the house, stripping off his coat, soaked with melted snow, and his sweater.
plunging the dipper into the bucket of cold well water that stood by the kitchen sink, feeling the flares shooting off in his stomach, barely interrupted by the water, keeping his eyes on Simon who now had piled up on his lap the framed photographs of his parents, Richard’s grandparents, the poet William C. Thomas, other assorted relatives, and was going through them ostentatiously, as if to say to Richard that this was the absolute all-time greatest betrayal of history, a case of Brutus stabbing his own father in the lowest possible place, seducing his own father’s bride-to-be while his mother, fatally weakened bearing this ungrateful son, died of neglect.

“Your mother is asleep,” Simon said. “And your brother Steven is upstairs with her, doing his duty.” On the stove, still hot, was a thick soup left over from supper. Richard ladled some into a bowl for himself, sat down at the table to eat. Simon pulled his chair forward so he was sitting opposite Richard, spread the pictures on the table in front of him. Included was a picture of Simon and Leah Thomas, taken at their wedding: Simon in a striped suit and a high starched collar that pushed up his chin, standing straight and thin, a cane hooked over one arm and Leah’s gloved hand resting on the other. Beside him she looked short and squat, durable. She wasn’t smiling at all but held on to her bouquet grimly, as if afraid that the camera might release invisible dangerous rays. “So,” Simon said, “I hope you had an enjoyable evening.” He had picked up a piece of kindling and was carving it, as was his habit, not making anything but just reducing it to a pile of shavings, the knife sharp and quick in his hands. Richard got up and sliced himself a piece of bread, buttered it and brought it back to the table, dipping it into the remainder of his soup as he ate it.

“I thought I should tell you,” Simon said, “that tonight I asked Katherine to move in here again, to help take care of your mother.” He licked his lips and put down the piece of wood and his knife, took a cigar out of his shirt pocket, wet it, cut off the tip, put it in his mouth and lit it. When it was going he picked up the knife again, flipped it from hand to hand. “She said she would come, Richard, but she asked me to make you promise that you would leave her alone.”

“Fuck you,” Richard shouted. Then nonsensically turned back to his soup. Simon’s hands, back and forth; Richard saw the flash of metal, could hear it moving by his head, whistling like a slow train, jerked spastically, upsetting the soup and then breaking the bowl as his hand came down, turning and drawing the knife from the wall with one hand, the other sweeping the table clean, claiming one half of the bowl, springing forward, the table pressed against his thighs and then yielding, into Simon Thomas, Simon Thomas going down, one leg taking the full weight of the thick elm table and Richard Thomas, the sound of bone snapped; and Richard moving in with the knife in one hand and in the other, swinging forward and above his father’s head a broken cup, down into Simon’s face and now the knife follows, arcing down to where Simon’s hands already cover his face. A sudden noose on his wrist and Richard’s shoulder feels like it is being torn from its socket, his knife arm thrown high in the air and then his body finally follows, slumped into the wall and slides to the floor. Richard sees Steven looking back and forth, Richard to Simon. Steven lifts up the table like a feather in his giant hand, lifts up Simon too and sets him in the chair. Steven looking back and forth. Face large and bulging. Shrugs. The knife in his hand and he gives it to Simon. Simon’s face beet red, a small jagged cut on his head already white and thin, his scalp showing red through his hair, the blood falling from his cut in long slow drops, breathing hard, flipping the knife in his nervous hands, back and forth, looking at Richard who moves his arm and feels it with his good hand, nothing torn or broken. Back and forth, they are all looking back and forth and waiting, watching the knife’s reflection flash in Simon’s nervous fingers, flashing back and forth like a magician’s coin, Leah Thomas’s voice has been shouting from upstairs and now they hear it coming closer and she is in the doorway, standing with her arms folded across her chest and her hair sprung out at the sides, black and wiry still, her hands buried under her arms so she is standing unaided, barefoot and flushed in this winter kitchen. “Simon Thomas,” she says, “Simon Thomas you old fool. Get upstairs, and wash your face.” And Simon doesn’t answer or indicate even that he has seen
her. The knife moves in his fingers and then is gone again, the point buried in the wall, right beside Richard’s head. “Simon Thomas,” she says again, “Simon Thomas you’re just a jealous old man.” And she looks at Richard’s brother, Steven, the second son. And he takes the knife from the wall and hands it again to his father.

“You do as mother says.”

“Get out of the way,” Simon Thomas said. Then the knife flashes one more time, sinking into the wood in the exact same place, just above Richard’s ear and he can feel his skin tingling so it is impossible for him to know at first if he has been startled or cut. Steven takes the knife again. This time he slides it in his belt, making the knife look like a child’s toy next to his massive body, some kind of freak Simon Thomas always said, descended from his wife’s family, but with his disjointed walk and gentle manner resembling no one at all but Frederick Thomas, the poet’s son.

He stood in the middle of the room, circling this centre uncertainly, the knife in his belt, waiting for instructions from Leah Thomas. “It’s time to go to sleep,” he finally said.

“Simon first,” Leah Thomas ordered, pointing up the stairs. Simon sat still, waiting. “Take him,” Leah Thomas said. Looked from Leah to Simon, back to Leah again. Standing in the doorway with her arms folded over her chest, wearing her stained and faded pink housecoat, a wedding present, barefoot and coughing lightly every few seconds, her hand moving by reflex to her mouth, always anticipating the cough by a slight movement of the shoulders, a last-second concession that never worked, stepped back from the doorway and nodded her head to her son. Who lifted the table away from Simon, placed it at the side of the room, and then stepped towards him, to pick him up, stopped, looked at his mother again, then bent over to lift him, chair and all. Simon out of the chair and his hand snapped like a snake, the knife red in the kerosene light, pirouettes noiselessly in the Cloth of his son’s shirt.