The Double Hook (8 page)

Greta reached for the matches. She laid the box on the stove and poured kerosene from the tin. The flowers in the stove-box were breathing out fragrance which filled the whole room. They were raising purple faces and lifting green arms into the air above the stove.

She heard Ara’s voice: Tell me what you know about Lenchen.

She wanted to cry abuse through the boards. She wanted to cram the empty space with hate. She wanted her voice to shatter all memory of the girl who had stayed too long, then gone off perhaps to die in the hills. Die suffering so that James would remember the pain of her. Die young so that James would remember the sweetness of her. Die giving so that he’d live in the thought of her.

She picked up the box of matches.

Don’t play with those, Greta.

She turned quickly. Her mother was standing on the stairs.

Don’t play with those, Greta, she said. They’re hard to get. A person has to know how to play with fire.

Greta. Greta: it was Ara’s voice.

Greta lit a match and dropped it into the stove. The flowers raised gold filaments anthered with flame. Greta reached for the tin and emptied it into the fire.

At the other end of the valley Prosper and Angel reached the gate. Angel did not come riding a sleek ass. She walked beside Prosper on her two feet, her children tagging behind her.

She did not come in peace. Her voice lapped and fretted against Felix’s silence.

Why was it Kip came to you? she asked. Just why?

Now we’ve come, she said, we’ve come to stay. There’s nowhere else now.

And what’s for them, Angel asked, looking over her shoulder at the children, except rocks and ground and wild beasts to play with – or themselves – in the empty spaces. I’ve thought sometimes it would be better to take them down below out of the loneliness. But if loneliness is being in one’s
own skin and flesh, there’s only more lonely people there than here.

But how do I know? she asked. How do I know since I’ve never been there. I could guess, she said. One man is one man and two men or ten men aren’t something else. One board is one board. Nailed together they might be a pig-pen or a henhouse. But I never knew men you could nail together like boards.

She had fallen behind Felix. Now she came up to him and beat her hands against the flesh of his shoulder.

Take a man and woman, she said. There’s no word to tell that when they get together in bed they’re still anything but two people.

The hounds had come to the gate. They stood swinging their tails and grinning foolishly at Angel. But the terrier on the step snapped at her as she passed and crowded close to Felix’s ankle.

The house door was shut. Angel put her hand on the knob, but did not open the door. The terrier tugged at the bottom of Felix’s overalls and began sniffing its way forward.

Angel turned. Go off, she called to the children. If there’s food to be had I’ll raise my voice.

The terrier was scratching at the base of the door and pressing its nose against the crack. Angel turned the knob, and the terrier shoved its way in as the door opened.

I suppose there is no food, Angel said. Besides it’s Kip who matters. Bellies. Bellies.

From the room came the sound of the terrier’s voice. Angry. Affronted.

Stop your noise, Angel said. Then she saw the Widow’s daughter standing by the stove.

The girl stared at Angel.

I thought, you’d gone away, she said. I didn’t suppose you would come back. Not really. I didn’t suppose people ever did.

Then she pressed her back against the wall, shut her eyes and began to sob.

There’s no use crying, Angel said. No use at all.

J
ames had simply saddled his horse and ridden through the gate.

Let the world see me now if it cares, he thought.

The world didn’t seem to care. James passed William’s house. He passed Theophil’s. He passed the Wagners’. Smoke was rising from the Wagners’ chimney; otherwise there was no sign of life. James passed Felix Prosper’s.

He felt the quirt which he had shoved under his belt pressing into the soft edge of his ribs. He pulled it out and threw it into the scrub.

He crouched down between his horse’s ears and pressed it into a full gallop. He wanted only one thing. To get away. To bolt noisily and violently out of the present. To leave the valley. To attach himself to another life which moved at a different rhythm.

The horse slowed to a rocking canter. James smelt the sage and the dust. He saw hill roll into hill.

At last he came to the pole fence of the Indian reservation. The cabins huddled together. Wheels without wagons. Wagons without wheels. Bits of harness. Rags and tatters of
clothing strung up like fish greyed over with death. He saw the bone-thin dogs. Waiting. Heard them yelping. Saw them running to drive him off territory they’d been afraid to defend. Snarling. Twisting. Tumbling away from the heels they pursued.

He had covered about half the distance to the town below. Now he came to fenced-off land. Signs of habitation. A flume. A gate. Some horses pastured in a field. Still he had seen no one.

He struck into the highway at last. Here, bordering the road, were the market gardens. Men working among the tomato vines. But he saw only the circle of their hats as they squatted among the plants or bowed down over the shaft of a hoe.

A truck raced towards him. Lace loose. Canvases flapping. Shrouded as it passed in a swirl of dust.

The road twisted and curled as it dropped to the river. James’s horse was dark with sweat. It had been on the road ten hours or more. James leaned forward and ran his fingers down its neck. He felt it tremble under his hand.

Below him on the other side of the river he could see the
town. Houses and sheds set in a waste of sand and sagebrush. A crisscross of streets and alleys leading out to nothing. Leading in to the hotel and the railway station which fronted it.

On the near side of the bridge which crossed over the river into the town he saw a car stopped and drawn in to the bank. Shepherd, the game warden, was asleep at the wheel. Sweat streaking his shirt. Sweat matting the hair on his forehead. James steadied his horse for the bridge.

Over the low railing he could look down to the flowing eddies of grey water. He edged closer to the rail. The horse quivered. Its mouth tightened on the bit. The water moved and stood still. An empty box floating downstream was caught and held suspended beneath him. His eyes searched the river bank and the naked silver bars. And there on a bar at the foot of the pier on which the arch of the bridge rested he saw the dark figure of his mother playing her line out into the full flood.

He pulled the horse up. Then closing his eyes gave it its head. He felt it draw to the centre of the bridge. And heard its feet echoing on the boards until solid earth dulled their beat.

The horse took him without any sort of direction to the barn where he had stabled it in the fall when he’d driven in the beef. James climbed down and threw the reins to a man who had been sleeping outside the door.

Rub him down, he said. Don’t water or feed him until he’s cooled off.

Then he walked away.

The lane which went past the stable led to the main street. James walked quickly. He had decided what he was going to do.

Outside the hotel two men sat on chairs tipped back against the frame wall. James looked through the window of the hotel. The clock on the wall opposite the door showed that it was almost three o’clock. He quickened his step. The door of the bank was still open.

Inside the building the heat was contracted and tense. James went up to the wicket. Through an open door he saw Bascomb, his coat off, sitting vacantly at his desk.

The teller raised his head from the balance-sheets.

I want all my money, James said.

The teller’s face seemed to be pressing through the bars at him.

I want all my money, James said.

Pardon, the teller said.

James lifted his hand. Then he let it drop heavily on the sill of the wicket.

Bascomb came out of his office. He waved the teller aside.

I’ll see to Mr. Potter’s business, he said.

I want all my money, James said.

Bascomb seemed to be grinning at him.

Did you say you wanted to close your account? he asked.

Could I say it plainer? James said.

Come into the office and sit down, Bascomb said.

I don’t need to sit down, James said. I can do my business standing.

Bascomb fidgeted with the files. The teller had disappeared. James heard him bolting the door.

Tell him, James said to Bascomb, to open that door. I won’t be locked in.

Of course, Bascomb said.

Don’t lock up yet, Tallifer, he called out. We’ll all suffocate.

He had James’s card in his hand. James reached for it.

It’s curious, he said, how little a man adds up to.

It takes time, Bascomb said. You haven’t any cheques out, I suppose, he said.

I don’t ever write cheques, James said.

You’ll leave a few cents in to keep your account open, Bascomb said. It’s more convenient.

It’s more convenient for me to take everything, James said.

Bascomb made out a slip and handed it to him.

How will you take it? Bascomb asked.

In tens, James said. It’s easier to keep track of like that.

Bascomb counted the money across the counter: ten, twenty, thirty. James watched the flutter of each bill as it fell from Bascomb’s hand.

Well, there’s your hundred, said Bascomb. He dropped a five dollar bill on the pile. A hundred and five. His hand reached into the cash drawer. Ten, twenty, thirty, he said as he counted the dimes.

Tallifer opened the door for James and shut it behind him.

Outside the bank the air was less oppressive. James shoved the money Bascomb had given him into his shirt pocket and buttoned the flap. He would go to the hotel and get a room.

As he passed the General Store, Pockett hailed him.

I’ve got business, James said.

There’s no business won’t wait, Pockett said, except cash business, and a man doesn’t see much of that.

James went in. There were a couple of men inside the store already. They weren’t doing business. Just sitting on boxes in the shadow cast by chaps and saddles hung against the window for display.

I might as well pick up a few things I need now I’m here, James said. A wallet, he said, for instance.

One of the men laughed. Imagine a man wanting a wallet, he said.

James was looking at the billfolds which Pockett had tossed out onto the counter. He bent his elbows on the rough surface and raised his shoulders.

I’ll take that one, he said, laying his finger on a yellow-grained folder. It’s proper gear for a man filthy rich, leastwise by some men’s reckoning.

I suppose you want it put down, Pockett said.

I’ll pay for it, James said, since you seem so anxious on cash business. Besides, when a thing’s paid for in money, you’ve got ownership rights on it and can smash it up if you so choose. I’m beginning to see that a man’s always best to deal in cash.

Pockett made a note on the back of a bag. He edged his face across the counter to James.

Anything else you need? he said.

So happens I do, James said. You can hand me down a couple of pairs of socks and one of those green and blue plaid shirts. And one of the small canvas bags with a bar-lock.

Getting out of these parts? asked one of the men.

Pockett looked up. James was standing now with one elbow doubled on the counter, his hand clasping his wrist.

Shut up, Pockett said to the men. Business is business. A joke’s a joke. A place for everything and everything in its place.

Behind him on the shelves crowded tinned meat and pain killer, scent and rat poison, rivets and cords and nails.

This is not your time for being down, Pockett said to James. I was talking to Bill when he was in on the mail. Everything is running smooth up above, I hope.

He reached for the shirt and socks.

Is it all right if I just put them in the sack? he asked without waiting for an answer to his first question.

Better give the boy a new set of drawers too, one of the men called out. Nothing less sporting than a rip in y’r long johns.

If you can’t settle for being civil, Pockett said, you’d best decide on moving off those boxes.

I might as well tell him the truth, James thought. Or as much of the truth as will stop him guessing.

He hunched his shoulders round away from the men.

We’ve had our troubles since William came down, he said, answering Pockett’s first question.

I thought it would be something brought you down now, Pockett said.

Ma, James said.

Sick and brought to hospital? Pockett asked.

No, James said.

Not gone? Pockett asked.

James nodded. Pockett looked across at the men.

There’s some people, he said, who’s got respect for nothing. Man. Nor beast. Nor God Almighty either. Now a man like me, he said, has got sense enough to know when something’s wrong. When I first clapped my eyes on you in the street I said to myself: James Potter and the beef sale not on. There must be trouble above. I said to myself: He looks like a man in trouble. There’s trouble writ in the hang of his
jeans and the drape of his shirt. Yet there’s jokers here who see nothing.

He’d raised his voice. The men on the boxes shifted round and peered out between the legs of the chaps into the dust of the street.

Mrs. Potter, Pockett said, must have been on in years. One of the queer things, he said, leaning across the counter again, is I never had the pleasure of meeting your mother all this time. I guess she never needed anything bad enough to come down.