Rest and Be Thankful (14 page)

Now, as she came back with her coat round her shoulders, he said, “Sorry to trespass, but the light kind of welcomed me.”

“I’m glad it did. I’m afraid I gave you a poor welcome.”

He smiled. “My grandmother used to hold a gun when she opened the door in the dark. There were some wild customers roaming around then. Trainloads of ex-convicts and gamblers poured into Laramie: the railroad stopped there, you see. It was sort of tough on Laramie.”

“I take it that Laramie attended to its uninvited guests?”

“It had to. And, once the citizens started shooting, you’d be surprised how the lawbreakers faded out.” He steadied her by the arm as she stumbled. “Better wait a moment and let your eyes get accustomed to the night.”

“You keep a very beautiful sky in Wyoming.”

“You miss it when you go away,” he admitted. “I guess cities shut out the sky.”

Then they walked down towards the bridge, and across the creek, to reach the road by which she had first come to Rest and be Thankful.

“How are the guests?” he asked unexpectedly.

“Oh, all right.”

“I see.” He didn’t sound convinced.

They halted by the noisy creek which ran by the roadside. It was none of his business. He couldn’t even suggest that if she needed a man with a few forceful phrases to keep her from being bullied, then he’d oblige. Why they hadn’t chosen to spend a quiet summer here by themselves was still a puzzle to him. But women were puzzling. Men simplified life. Women always seemed to want to complicate it. “I sold the last batch of horses today,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said truthfully, impulsively.

He was grateful for the emotion in her voice, emotion he couldn’t afford. “I’ve kept a few,” he went on, in the same controlled voice. “A ranch isn’t a ranch without horses somehow.”

“And how are the steers you bought?”

“Oh, all right.” His voice was non-committal. He had his worries too. Ranchers whose grazing land was high in the mountains bought their steers in the late spring, fattened them through the short summer, and sold them in the fall. This year he had taken a chance, bringing up the steers to his land about two weeks late. Still, the grazing was good; and they’d fatten up enough before the end of September if there was no drought. He’d ship them east as late as possible. That too depended on the weather. It was a gamble; but stockmen always took a gamble. Drought or disease could wipe them out in a few weeks. A grass fire could wipe them out in a couple of days. He had safeguarded himself in one way: he had kept his herd small this summer. Next year, if everything went well, he would invest in a bigger herd, and hire more hands to take care of it. If all went well... “I suppose,” he said, “I’ll get more enthusiastic about them in time.”

She began to laugh.

“I like a good joke as well as the next man,” he said.

“I was thinking your new steers and our first guests seem to have a lot in common.”

He laughed then. It was the first time she had heard him laugh, and she felt happy. They stayed, watching the night sky, conscious of each other, and all the more consciously avoiding the personal as they talked.

A night wind from the mountains came rustling through the trees. It had a bitter touch, and she shivered.

“Better go home now,” he said. He was quick to notice. He took her arm and led her back along the dark road with its strange shadows, guiding her carefully over the rough surface. Something between them had altered. She couldn’t guess what. But even if her body shivered she was warm. Warm and happy.

When they came to the house she stood for a few moments at its door, reluctant to enter.

“Good night,” she said at last. “And thank you for trespassing.”

He said nothing. He was watching her face. Then he spoke, still holding the hand she had given him. “Why didn’t you go out riding this evening?”

“Oh...” She took her hand away, suddenly embarrassed. “All these guests arriving...it was difficult.”

“I guess so,” he said. But the guests had arrived after she had refused. “Tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Fine.”

“Good night, Jim.”

“Good night, Sally.” He still hesitated, but she went indoors. He waited under the cottonwood-tree until he saw the light go on in her room. Then he turned, walking into the deep shadows, past the silent corral, towards his silent cabin.

Jackson had scythed and then mown the grass in front of the house. It now stretched, as smooth as a bright green carpet, down to the edge of Crazy Creek’s bank where the tall cottonwood trees grew. In the warm afternoons the guests liked to gather there, near enough the shade of the trees to give them the feeling of coolness, while they listened to the chattering creek and perfected their sun tan. Only Prender Atherton Jones sat on one of the garden chairs. The others preferred to stretch out on the soft cool grass. Today, like the three days that had already vanished, found Mimi Bassinbrook the centre of the group. She might not seem to notice that; but she had dressed in the minimum of midriff blouse and brief tight shorts, which were as becoming to her figure as the reclining pose she had adopted.

Carla Brightjoy had compromised with Breton sailor’s red trousers, rolled almost to the knees but not quite, for her knees were knobbly and her thighs were too thin. Her Hawaiian shirt was loose and full, and looked elegant, she believed, with its tail hanging out. Her small face was made still smaller, thinner, by the large round glasses she liked to wear. She gave little nervous darting glances around her as she sat hugging her knees and moving her neat feet restlessly in their Mexican sandals. She tried not to look too often at Mimi’s figure, stretched with effortless grace on the grass beside her. And she tried to persuade herself that her own clothes were much more suitable for the West. Yesterday Mimi had worn a jade green
maillot,
and never even entered the water. Yet, in spite of her objections, she had to admit that Mimi looked attractive. The men obviously thought so too. Not that clothes or looks really mattered. Still... But even as the wish sprang into her mind that she might look like Mimi Bassinbrook she comforted herself with the knowledge that Mimi would never be a writer. You could feel that, just looking at her. (She’d marry someone rich like Dewey Schmetterling, and have a house like this, only in California, where she could wear
patio
dresses and be photographed at a new angle for
Vogue.)
It really was difficult to understand why she had been included in this house party. Surely Mr. Atherton Jones didn’t think she
could
write? Yet his judgment was said to be so good. Last winter, when he had praised two of Carla’s own short stories, she had walked around for days in a secret exultation of hope and joy. That excitement had made even the dreary hours of standing all day in the Cosy Corner Book Shop seem less tedious. For, whenever she felt exhausted and depressed now, she reminded herself that these hours brought her food and clothes and the little room in Greenwich Village—where she was free (after she cooked her evening meal, and washed out her underwear, and ironed a blouse or sewed a clean collar on to her dress) to write. Free? She looked about her slowly, studying the house placed so peacefully against its background of mountains and blue skies.

Carla sighed, and then frowned in embarrassment as the others lifted their heads from the grass to look at her. She felt she had to say something now. “It must—it must be wonderful to have a house like this. I mean, one could write so well here.” She smiled, thinking how pleasant it was to discover such places in the world.

“Sure,” Karl Koffing said, and his bitterness startled her. “All you have to do is marry a rich man, get him to die young, and then choose the house you want where you want it.” He dropped back on to the grass again, threw his arms out as he yawned, and lay crucified. His brown eyes stared up at the blue sky angrily. He forced his mind away from the bucolic scene around him. This world of trees and flowers and rushing streams was the unreal world, the temptress to lull you to sleep and make you forget. He closed his eyes as he returned once more to the world of his novel—that was real enough. He could smell the stink of First Avenue and hear its snarling city noises; he could feel the bitter chill of the small sordid room where Mike Krinling lived. Then why the hell couldn’t he get on with writing about Mike Krinling? For three days now he had done nothing except try to recapture the mood of the last chapter. Winter—freezing temperature inside the room— Mike’s unfinished manuscript on rickety wooden table—best friend Bill lying on ramshackle, unmade bed—Mike astride wooden chair—a little food, very little, on window sill—half-finished bottle on floor between the two men. Bill is about to accept a job that will take him over to the enemy—trading independence of mind for security of flesh. Bill’s methodology weak. Argument savage. Outside—pulse of the giant city— Mrs. Quacelli next door shouting at her drunken son (victim of environment)—phonograph, playing its only record, from Marianna’s room upstairs, together with man’s coarse laughter (Marianna another v. of e.)—children, dirty and ragged, yelling on side-street, dirty and squalid. Mike’s dialectic wins argument. Bottle finished. What next?

That was where he had stopped writing and packed for the journey west.

Marianna? Or Hoolihan’s Bar round the corner?

Hoolihan’s Bar. Marianna would be coming there, anyway. And that punk of a huckster from Beekman Place would be there too, trying to make her; throwing his money around like his opinions, the phony liberal, afraid of the change in the future, trying to play safe, afraid of the Mike Krinlings, apologising for his earning power, always aiming to be on the winning side, fine example for Bill to see. Argument clinched. All right. Next chapter at Hoolihan’s.

But when to begin it? This evening P. A. Jones, Esq., was holding forth on Existentialism. Tomorrow morning there was riding. Tomorrow evening, then? But that was what he had said yesterday. And the day before. Those damned birds, he thought, suddenly sitting up and glaring at the linden-trees where the robins liked to sing, didn’t they ever shut up? “Hell of a row,” he said angrily.

“Relax, Karl,” Earl Grubbock said. “I’m trying to think.” He rubbed his chest, stretched his leg muscles, and tightened his diaphragm. Still too much weight there. He turned over on his stomach, partly to hide the extra inches, partly to let his back get equally roasted. He had been getting out of shape ever since he had got his discharge. A protest against Army discipline probably. He’d been as lean and tough as any of these wranglers only three years ago. Well, he’d start toughening up again: it wasn’t too late. And he’d start a programme of work, too. Keep to it, this time. He’d settle down to work tonight. His new idea for a short story wasn’t bad—not at all bad. A house like this one, only in the South—two elderly women living in dreams of their own faded world—a lynching at their door... What then? He must talk more to Mrs. Peel and get an idea how she would face violence and injustice. Suicide? Insanity? Or deeper retirement into her dream world? Yes, he’d start on that story tonight, when the idea was still hot, when he felt full of energy and strength. He closed his eyes and pillowed his cheek on the grass. The warm sun, the firm earth: energy and strength. Then he remembered Prender Atherton Jones and the lecture on Existentialism. Hell’s bells, he had forgotten the flaming good-will hour.

Carla Brightjoy, still watching Karl Koffing, still looking at the house, summoned her courage to say, “But couldn’t you
earn
the money—I mean,
not
marry it—to buy a place like this? After all, there are lots of writers with farms in Connecticut and Pennsylvania.” She smiled, but the smile froze as Koffing turned his eyes away from the linden-tree and gave her a look. Then he settled back on the grass again.

He could be so handsome, she thought—a strong face, with its high cheekbones and well-set chin and large eyes; brown eyes, the sort of eyes you might expect to be kind. But at the moment they were contemptuous, and the face was hard. He was so difficult. She looked nervously round at the others. Fortunately, Mimi hadn’t seen anything: she was pretending to be asleep. Earl Grubbock had his face buried in the grass. Mr. Atherton Jones, over in the cushioned armchair, was too busy talking to that awful Esther Park. And
she
was practically kneeling at his feet, her head turned to him as she listened. That left only Mr. O’Farlan, sitting in the shade with his back against a tree, reading a newspaper. Had he noticed? Yes, he was looking at her, and then at Karl Koffing, and then at her again. But, of course, he didn’t get on with Karl. That might explain why he smiled to her now. She looked down at her clasped hands.

Robert O’Farlan had seen Carla being put most thoroughly into her place again. He smiled, partly to cheer her up, partly because she looked like a timid little marmoset, crouching nervously, frowning to keep herself from crying. He saw her hesitate, look down at her hands clasped tightly round the knees; and then she looked up and smiled so wholeheartedly that he was still more sorry for her. He lowered the newspaper. To his alarm, she rose suddenly and came across to the trees.

“Have you really done much work here?” she asked, trying hard to please. “I do admire the way you plan your day.” He was the only one of them who had seemed to do any writing at all since he arrived. She smiled, and then she sat down beside him, slipping into an imitation of Mimi Bassinbrook’s reclining odalisque.

He had asked for this, O’Farlan realised. He gathered the newspaper together and folded it up philosophically.

“Does anyone want the
New York Times?”
he asked.

“Four days old,” Karl Koffing said contemptuously to a small white cloud sailing through the blue sky. “And the radio is almost as bad—nothing but firecrackers being let off whenever you want to hear anything. God, no wonder these people out here were isolationists. How can they live?”

“They do,” O’Farlan said crisply, “and very nicely without our help, too. And what makes you think they were isolationists? As far as I can learn from Mrs. Gunn, there were no punctured eardrums out in this district when the War started.” He eyed Koffing’s Army-surplus pants contemptuously. O’Farlan was wearing them too—as all the men were, except Jones, who preferred well-cut riding-breeches—but he had, at least, been in the First World War. He would have been in the second one, too, if he hadn’t been rejected when he volunteered. He would have been in it, not because he liked war (as Koffing tried to make out), but because he hated the whole damned thing so much. And to volunteer, to hope that you’d be taken was one way of atoning for all the damned politics you had preached before the War, for misleading yourself and misleading others.