The Sound of the Trees (33 page)

You son of a bitch, the boy said.

Oh, the Englishman said, easing back in the rocker. It is not wise to take such a tone. Didn't your father ever tell you that it's not wise to insult a man who is holding a gun to your face?

If he did I don't recall nor do I care.

My, my, the Englishman said. The youthful spirit.

The boy made to stand and hit him but the Englishman spun and locked the pistol down on the boy's eyes. The boy slumped back into the chair again. He put his hand over his face. Then he looked up at the man again.

Why? he said.

The Englishman pressed the boy with a stare. Necessity, he said. That is why. Necessity. The Englishman sat and leaned out of the chair and put the pistol into the boy's chest. If it wasn't my doing, it would have been someone else's. I could have killed her before as well, you must know. But I spared her. I thought perhaps she'd let it pass and I would locate some job for her and she could try and have a go at it for herself. Very generous of me, you must agree. But she did not let it pass. He paused and withdrew the pistol and began again to rock. She had to go and steal that rake. Had to go and try to discredit my name before I even got settled in. Now how is a man to make a good name for himself with such fanfare surrounding him? Quite impossible, I assure you. This, at the very least, your simple mind understands.

She stole a rake, the boy said with the same lack of animation that stared out at him from the Englishman's eyes.

A rake, a car, a lock of hair. What is the difference among those things? I think you should be able to see it. It is not the object, it is the intent. The Englishman went on rocking. I am an indispensable figure for the mayor, he said. He needs me. He needs my reasoning. He is sometimes swayed by sentiment. In a business such as ours there is no room for sentiment. You, for example.

He waved the gun at the boy again, as if in offer of some trivial council.

The mayor should not have let you go. He knows this now, but here you are. Prepared to kill me, I'm sure. No, he should not have let you go but as I said, sometimes he is swayed by sentiment. He likes you, I believe. To a certain degree at least. He thinks you are foolish but he does not condemn you for it. Perhaps because in many ways, as in this case, he is foolish too. But you see, there must be some amount of condemnation for those who are foolish, just as there must be for those who aspire beyond their place or those who don't seem to have any sense about them at all. People like this are reckless and certainly dangerous and they have no regard for the way things are set up around them.

The boy sat very still. The Englishman kept rocking steadily as if he meant to torture the boy with the monotony of it. Now and again he glanced over at the car where the Ralstons were hipped up against the open doors of the car and watching them blankly.

See them, he said. Those men are not smart. But those men know it and know their place. I'm sure you have been made to understand such a thing. They do not try to leap from their confines.

The Englishman paused and put up a finger in retraction.

Not confines, he said. Boundaries. They know their boundaries. That, in turn, makes them smart. Not smart in an intellectual way, for such a cause is lost on them. But smart in the ways of the world. You don't seem to share that with them. And no matter how smart you may be otherwise, on the whole you are very stupid.

Which makes you the smartest man in the world, I imagine.

In this world, perhaps. Yes. The world of here. The world of this town.

The boy put his hands over his face. When he let them down the Englishman was still rocking, his eyes studying the boy.

I'd give you my word we'd never come back here again.

Your word? The Englishman raised his eyebrows. And what word would that be? he said. How young you are indeed.

Then you could watch us leave, the boy said. Have us followed all the way to the Yukon if it pleased you.

The Englishman shook his head and smiled. You truly do not understand, he said. I have been crossed by Delilah. I have been crossed by you. Do you think I did not notice the scratches on the lock of my docket you so long delivered to me? Shall I throw flowers at your departure for that, bid you a fond farewell into the setting sun? That would not be smart of me. That would make me a very stupid man.

He leaned forward and studied the boy's face with a false tenderness.

However, I have decided to let you go. Call it sentiment. Or call it the fact that I think to watch Delilah hang would be a fine lesson for you. Something to realign your thinking. Something that will show you at last that in this matter there is no choice for you. That in this matter you are relegated by your boundaries. The Englishman took a long breath and stopped rocking. So, he said. It is decided. Of course we will hold your guns here for safekeeping. And we will watch closely for you on Saturday. He turned away to the mountains again and smiled at them. Yes, he said. A reckoning for all.

The Englishman got up from the rocker. He raised his collar against the winds and looked around the yard. I believe the cold will put off my horseshoe game, he said. Unless you'd like to stay and play awhile.

He smiled into the empty stare of the boy, then sighed and waved the pistol about and called for the Ralstons who came trotting out into the yard.

T
WENTY

HOURS BEFORE THE girl was to meet the priest the boy showed his face in town once more. When the glass cutter stepped down from his truck the boy got off the porch step and put up a finger in greeting. He was an excessively thin man and he came tugging on a pair of oat sack pants that were held up loosely by a pair of red suspenders, his too-large boots clomping indelicately in the early morning stillness. He stopped short huffing and looked at the boy, then came booting up the steps.

Been here long?

The boy stubbed out his cigarette on the porch floor and stood and put his hands in his pockets. Not too long, he said.

The glass cutter shifted the mug of coffee in his hand and fumbled through his keys. Friday usually finds me slow to start, he said. What time is it?

Just six, the boy said.

No wonder you been waitin. Come on in, he said.

He pushed the door open with a long creak. They stepped into the cool shade of the store. The man walked up to the front and put his keys and coffee on the counter near a polished silver till. He went back up to the front door and tilted open the shudders, the light arriving in a single weak shaft along the floor. Then he came back and stepped behind the counter still wrestling with his pants and took up a pencil and slid it behind his ear and leaned on the counter and looked bemusedly at the boy. There was no sign that he registered who the boy was.

So what did you need from me that you come so early?

I'm in need of some plate glass.

What size?

I'd estimate it at three by four.

Big window.

Yes sir. And I need two of em.

The man lifted a pair of wire-rim glasses from the undershelving and settled them on his nose. Let me go see what I got in back, he said. You want some coffee? I'm fixin to put a pot on back here.

I'd appreciate it, the boy said.

The glass cutter was gone for some time. When he came back he held a mug of coffee in each hand and set both on the counter.

Here you go. I put some sugar in it. That alright?

That's how I take it. Thank you.

The glass cutter sipped and shook his head at the mug.

Myself I like a little milk in mine but it ain't easy to find a fresh bottle these days. Seems they more concerned about other things. Man who used to sell milk and cheese come in here the other day with this catalog on coolers. Stepped right up here, nothin said about the milk I'd asked him for, only this long-winded speech about the two-hundred model. Four compartments in this cooler. Never fail to keep things cold. I told him all I wanted was some milk. How you goin to keep it cold? he said to me.

The glass cutter shook his head at the boy, but the boy was watching the sun rise out on the road.

Man's been bringin me milk for five years, asks me how I'm goin to keep it cold. And he knows I own the very first cooler in this town. Men used to come and sip beer on my porch every Saturday. I reminded him of it but he said it don't work like this two-hundred model. Don't keep near as cold or well. So to that I just stood there poker-faced as I could and asked him, asked him, Earl, what you think I've been doin all these years? Don't you know how much I enjoy it warm and spoiled? Earl didn't much care for that, told me to forget it. Said I'd come aknockin for it right soon. Well, I promised him I'd never be caught callin on a farmer wearin a silly brown suit like he was that day. Looked like somethin one of his calves shot from its ass.

The glass cutter looked into the black of his coffee and laughed sleepily. Ain't seen Earl in a while, he said.

The boy nodded and tried to hide the impatience in his smile and thanked the man again for the coffee. How about them windows? he said.

Right. I put a good cut on em. They're ready. And I reckon you'll need some sealing compound.

Yes sir.

Alright. You got a truck out there somewheres?

No sir. Got my horse.

The glass cutter took the glasses from his nose and set them back on the undershelving. Well, he said. I can have em drove out later.

There's no road to where I'm bringin em.

The glass cutter sipped thoughtfully at his mug. How you reckon to carry em then?

Just strap em up good. Can you pack em with some boards and paper?

I reckon we could put a try to it.

The glass cutter lit a pipe he brought from beneath the counter and tugged on his pants and brought the glass out and two tins of sealant which he placed in a small paper bag. Let's see what we can do, he said.

They wrapped the glass together with some broken tackboard scraps and taped up the glass with heavy brown packaging paper and they each carried a piece outside on their hips. They stitched up the glass on the horse's rump, tying it under her flanks and around the saddle and up the buttocks. The mare reared up and the boy coaxed her down and told her to be still and finally they had it on tight enough.

The boy turned to the glass cutter and asked him how much he owed him and he paid fourteen dollars even and the man thanked him and told him to take care with the glass then went back inside drawing on his pipe, a finger hitched around the back of his suspender branches. The boy put the sealant in the saddlebag, climbed on his horse and began to walk her down the road.

As he was passing under the willow tree he heard a door slam in the near distance. A few seconds later Thomas Trewitt came hustling onto the thoroughfare. When the boy saw him he hopped down from his horse and went swiftly toward him with his hands poised into fists. Trewitt did not turn to run but instead he held up his own hands and waved them at the boy. Only when the boy had him by the collar did the newsman start backstepping and slapping at the boy's hands.

Cultivation of the West, the boy hissed.

Trewitt kept slapping at the boy's hands. His face was screwed up and then he took the boy equally by the collar. You wait a minute here, he said with a forced hush. I came to tell you I'm sorry.

Sorry? Sorry for what? That you were full of shit about tryin?

No. Look here. Trewitt's breath was hot and fractious on the boy's face. I have tried, he said. There's nothing that will persuade him. I'm sorry.

The boy let down his hands. After he caught his breath Trewitt let go too.

You're sorry, the boy said dryly. What about the lawyer? There's your big story. Why don't you tell the people about him?

You mean the rumor about him and the girl.

Not the rumor. The fact.

The newsman wrung his hands together and looked down. Hell, he said. There is nothing I can do about it now. He paused a moment, then looked up sharply. It's not my fault, he said. And no one could do anything about it, even if they did care. It would be too dangerous for me. He looked down again. But I can promise you it will not go unrecorded.

Oh, the boy said, turning back to his horse who stood nosing the cold ground. Of course not. Great new West will be told for all the world.

Trewitt put up a hand to the boy's back. All of it, he called. Not just that. Nothing will be lost. All things will be recorded. All things will be told.

The boy got up on his horse again and began to walk her down the road. Trewitt started into a jog beside the mare. He was holding up a hand as though he wished the boy would shake it but the boy only frowned down at him then started the horse into a trot. Trewitt tried a few more steps, then pulled up and stood huffing in the middle of the road. He watched the boy stepping the horse into the high grass at the edge of town. You will be recorded too, he called.

By the time he cleared out into the hamlet it was already ten o'clock. The old man was riding the mule alongside the river and humming to himself. When he saw the boy coming he turned and came up the slope.

What in the hell, he said.

It's your windows.

I told ya I just needed some wood.

I told you I'd get some windows. Help me bring em down.

They undid the cording and removed the glass from the horse's back and walked each window to the cabin and leaned the packages under the empty window frames. The boy handed the old man the paper bag. You'll need this, he said.

The old man snatched up the bag and flung it to the ground. I can't do this, he said.

Why not?

The old man fumbled with his gnarled hands. He held them up to the boy. Shaking and twitching and thin to nothing but knuckle and bone.

I've got old, boy. It's still amazin to me I can make coffee.

Well I ain't doin it. I got to get on.

I ain't either. Told ya I just needed some wood.

Will you just look it over? He cut em to fit right.