Track of the Cat - Walter Van Tilburg Clark (28 page)

“
That’ll do," Harold said.

Gwen said scornfully, "Never mind, Harold. I’m
going, and I won’t need any help, thank you."

"You’ll go when the buryin’s done,” the
mother said.

"We’ll go now," Harold said. "Curt
can dig the, grave when he gets back, and finish the coffin too. If
you think . . ."

Gwen turned away suddenly toward the door.

"You better take your things up with you,"
the mother said.

Gwen went on toward the door.

It was Grace’s voice that stopped her. "Mother,
you’re making a nasty, filthy lie out of nothing. It’s you that’s
shaming Arthur, not Gwen. And not Harold either."

They’d nearly forgotten she was there, and even
Gwen stopped and turned, astonished by the sharp voice. They all
stared at Grace. She was standing behind the chair now, gripping the
back of it with both hands so hard her knuckles were white. Her face
was white too, and her eyes were very wide, and dark and shining. She
was staring at the mother.

"What’s Gwen done, anyway?" she cried.
"You, to be always talking as if you were God around here."

The mother slowly let go of her shawl and gripped her
two hands together in front of her. "Don’t blaspheme, girl.”

"Me blaspheme?" Grace cried. She lifted her
face for a moment at the rafters, and laughed shrilly. "Me
blaspheme?" she cried again, staring at the mother, and even
leaning a little toward her, as if about to spring, though still
clutching the back of the chair.

"Grace," Harold said, moving toward her
with his hand out.

"Don’t you touch me," she cried, but
still holding the mother with her staring eyes. "Don’t any of
you touch me. Oh, God, I’ve needed to say this. We all need to.
Even the house needs to. It’s rotten with lies and greed and bad
dreams. Arthur knew; oh, how he knew. But he was too kind-hearted. He
always forgave everything. All he’d do was make little jokes that
told the truth if you listened to them. But you and your God don’t
hear little jokes. And Curt and Father don’t even have a God, not
any kind. Only money. Only self-importance and wanting their own way,
and money, money, money. And there isn’t any use for money around
here, or anything to be important about. So all Father wants now is
to be drunk and pretend he’s not here, and Curt wants to kill
everything; he wants everything in the valley dead but Curt. He was
happy when he found those steers dead. Didn’t you see that, you old
fool? Couldn’t you hear that when he talked about it? They were
dead already, and it gave him an excuse to kill
something
else too.

“
And think how happy he was when he found Arthur
out there. He let him go out there alone, didn’t he? He sent him
out there, so he could come back here and strut around. He knew
Arthur wouldn’t kill anything. He knew he’d get to do that too.
And that isn’t all; that’s just the end of it. He’s been
robbing Arthur for years. He’s taken Arthur’s share time after
time, with your blessing, and your God’s, and Father’s too. To
improve the ranch, he says. Oh, yes, but his ranch, his. You don’t
think he ever means it to be anything else, do you?"

"Grace," the mother said sharply.

"Oh, yes, he has," Grace cried
triumphantly. “You know it, but as long as nobody says it, you can
pretend you don’t. Well, now I’m saying it, and you’ll listen
to it, too. I don’t care what happens any more. What does it matter
what happens now? Arthur’s dead. You don’t even seem. to know
that, any of you. Arthur’s dead." She leaned forward still
more at the mother. "And Curt killed him. He wanted him dead,
and now he’s killed him. Oh, yes, he has, just as sure as if he’d
shot him. And he’s glad of it, do you hear me? He’s dancing for
joy out there. He was afraid of Arthur; Arthur was all that kept him
from selling the whole valley right out from under us. He wouldn’t
fight for himself, but he would for the rest of us, and Curt knew it.
He couldn’t sell us out with Arthur alive, so he killed him. Now he
can do what he wants. There’s nobody he’s afraid of now. Oh, he’s
glad. Don’t you ever think he isn’t. And he can kill his painter
and be a hero, too. He has everything, and all with the blessing of
your wicked, selfish, ugly God."

She paused, breathing hard and quickly, and none of
them could speak after the sound of her flying voice. After a moment,
though, the father’s deep voice spoke from the landing above.

"What’s going on down there?"

The others were freed a little, and even in Grace
herself the frightened hatred was checked. She was about to go on,
but didn’t. They all looked up at the old man, the mother moving
out of the doorway to see him. He appeared huge up there in the
shadow. His hair was on end in the little flame shapes and his
clothes were creased and twisted from his restless sleep. He was
holding himself steady with his left hand on the rail, and cradling a
new whisky bottle in
his right arm, like a
baby.

"You all deaf?" he asked. "What’s
going on? I want to know. All this screaming?" He stared down
through narrowed eyes at Grace.

"Don’t ask me," Grace cried. "Ask
Mother." She pointed at the mother. "Ask her. She’s the
one that started it."

"Your daughter has been screaming blasphemous
nonsense," the mother said stiffly. "But we’ve listened
to about enough of it now, I think." She turned to Grace. "You
get back in that bunk-room and stay there till you can keep a decent
tongue in your head."

"Screaming nonsense, have I?" Grace cried
at her. She looked up again at the old man on the landing. "She’s
sending Gwen home. And she’s sending her up to the bunk-house to
wait. She’s sending her up there where she’ll have Joe Sam for
company, and he’s drunk, and God only knows what he’ll do. And
then. . ."

The mother’s voice came over hers, saying fiercely,
"Grace, you get back in that bunk-room. You hear me?"

"Lettie," the father said angrily, "have
you gone crazy? She can’t stay up in that bunk-house with that old
fool. Nobody knows what he’ll do when he’s got one of these idiot
spells. What on earth gave you such a notion?"

Nobody answered him. Nobody could answer that
question when he asked it from up there, like a chairman on a
platform.

"What did she do? I asked you."

"Yes, ask her," Grace cried. "She’s
the eye of God. She’s the one that saw it."

"Saw what?"

"Awful things," Grace cried. "She saw
them from the window."

Gwen made a little, choking sound, and turned
suddenly toward the door again.

"No, Gwen," Harold cried. She was already
struggling blindly with the latch when he caught her. She wrestled to
free herself, but kept working at the latch too, and crying, "Let
go of me. Let go of me, I tell you." Finally, breaking
half-free, she struck at him, so that he had to let go. She got the
latch to work then, and pulled the door open and stumbled out,
beginning to weep so they could hear her.

Outside, on the snow, Harold caught her again,
pleading, "Gwen, Gwen."

The others, watching through the open door, saw her
face turned up at him furiously, her eyes blind with tears, and heard
her cry, "You God-Almighty Bridges. There’s nobody good enough
for you, is there? To hell with you all too, then. I’ll get my
dirty, foreign muck out of here so fast. . ." Her voice broke,
choked off by a sob, and Harold, holding her with both hands now,
said something they couldn’t hear, still pleading with her.

"No," Gwen cried, twisting harder to get
free. "No, you won’t. I’ll go by myself. Let go of me, will
you? Even a whore wouldn’t take any help from you now, not any of
you."

The mother crossed to the outside door and closed it.
With her back against the door, she said, "We’ve heard about
enough of that, I guess. What decent woman would be screaming things
like that?"

Grace cried up at the father, "She was only
saying what Mother called her, and you. Mother
called
her a whore."

"I saw them," the mother said in the deep
voice.

"Eh?" the old man said. "Saw who?"
he asked.

“
Those two out there. That little easy woman, and
your son."

The father lurched against the rail, bending
dangerously far over it, but then pushed himself up again. "Easy
woman?" he asked.

"That Gwendolyn Williams. You get back to bed
now, Pa. You ain’t fit to be up. I’ll take care of this
nonsense."

The old man still stood there above them, though,
searching in the mist of his mind, repeating Gwen’s name twice in a
question to himself. At last he said happily, "Oh, the little
dark one. Curt’s intended." After a moment, he frowned and
said heavily, like a man who is very patient but pushed near his
limit, "And what’s she done now?"

"There’s no need to bother now," the
mother said. "She’s took care of it herself. You heard her.
You go finish your sleep."

"What’s she done? I asked you," the
father said loudly.

"What would you expect a whore to do?"

"Don’t you believe her," Grace cried.
"She says she saw them. All right, then, make her tell you what
she saw, not just keep calling her names."

"Grace," the mother said, starting away
from the door, "did you hear what I told you? I ain’t gonna
say it again."

"Make her tell you," Grace cried.

"Yes, by God," the father said. "Hiding
things from me again. Always hiding things, Well, not this time, not
after all this uproar. You tell me now, you hear?"

The mother stopped by the table, and turned up at him
the knife face her will made in anger. "You want to know? You
want to make me talk about such things? All right, then. They was
actin’ up right up by the bunk-house, in broad daylight. I seen ’em
myself, from the bedroom window. And Arthur lyin’ right there
beside me, not a day dead. Is that the kind of a woman you want in
your house? Is that the kind you want your own son marryin’?"

"No, by God," the father began.

“
She’s lying again," Grace cried. "Can’t
you see she's lying? Acting like what?" she cried at the mother.

"Acting like what?" the father repeated.
“Yes," he said, with sudden rage, "lying to me. All the
time lying. I won’t stand any more of this goddam lying, you hear
me?"

"I’1l get Harold," Grace cried
triumphantly. "He’ll tell you."

But the father had come upon something sure in his
own mind. He chuckled. Grace and the mother both stared up at him. He
leaned over the rail and grinned at the mother, blinking slowly, and
shook his head three or four times.

"No, they wouldn’t," he said. He chuckled
again. "Not in all that snow, they wouldn’t."

"If Harold hadn’t seen me watching them . . .”
the mother began.

“
You see?” Grace cried at the father. "
‘If,’ she says. She didn’t see anything."

“
She was kissing him," the mother declared,
“and the way no decent woman . . ."

"Kissing," the father said loudly. He
lurched again, and again caught himself on the rail, and hung there,
staring down at her. "Kissing,” he said again, his head
jerking from the violence with which he said the word. "Now, you
listen to me, old woman." He worked himself around and started
down the stairs, taking them one at a time and with the help of the
rail, but as fast as he could. He was breathing hard through his
nose.

"And for that she calls her a whore," Grace
cried.

"Grace," the mother said, the little furies
dancing behind her eyes, "I told you to keep out of this, and I
ain’t gonna tell you again. You’ve made trouble enough already."

"I’ve made trouble?" Grace cried.

The father didn’t seem to hear either of them. His
anger had already sunk into a muttering petulance against the stairs.
He’d heard the words, though. At the foot of the stairs, leaning
against the rail, he said. "All women are whores at heart."

He was pleased at having mastered the stairs, and now
his own words pleased him too. He repeated them. "Yessir, all
women are whores at heart." He chuckled.

"Harold," the mother said.

“
Only," he said, "some’s honest whores,
and some gets religion." He made a foolish, thin little laugh.
"You got a good enough place yourself, old woman," he said,
grinning. "The best of them would have settled for clothes and a
carriage, but what did you charge me, huh? I’ll tell you what you
charged me. My life, that’s what you charged me, my whole damn
life. And no fun for my money either."

"I ain’t gonna stand here . . ." the
mother began.

"Oh, yes, you are," he said. He lurched a
little, and thrust his head forward. "It’s a fact," he
said grinning. "Most expensive whore in the whole damn world,
and no damn good. A clothes-pin in bed, a goddam, ’normous, wooden
clothes-pin. There." He nodded happily, and uncorked the bottle
and lifted it to his lips with his head tilted back. “Gotta keep
drinkin’," he burbled around the bottle, "just to forget
the goddam, ’normous wooden clothes-pin."