The Tin Can Tree (12 page)

J
ames was halfway through his second beer before he saw Joan coming toward him. He was sitting on Mr. Terry’s porch, leaning back against the side of the house in a folding chair and lazily listening to the other men talking, and his beer can was making a cold wet ring on his knee. There were four other men there, all sitting just like he was in a line against the house. Maybe if Joan hadn’t come he would have sat with them till supper, just to rest up from the long day’s work and let the breeze dry his damp shirt. But then Mr. Terry said, “If you’ll look out yonder—” and James raised his eyes toward the fields and saw Joan padding down the dirt driveway in bare feet with a sandal swinging from each hand. “Out yonder to the east is what I mean to cultivate year after next,” Mr. Terry went on. He had been saying that for as long as James had known him. “I aim to extend the alfalfa a bit. No sense in letting good land grow wild, I say.” James only nodded, not really listening. He squinted his eyes so as to see better—Joan was still far away—and watched how she picked her way so quickly and gently along the dusty wheel-tracks. Her head was bent, so that her hair fell forward and nearly hid her face. Way behind her were the other women, going in the opposite direction toward town,
and once they turned back and waved at Joan but she didn’t see them. The women bobbed on, farther and farther, until all that showed of them was their bright dresses between the tobacco rows and two huge black umbrellas shading Lily and Missouri from the sun.

“I also been thinking about the eight acres out back,” said Mr. Terry. “They’re Paul Hammond’s, but he’s not using them.”

“No,” James said.

“You listening?”

Joan had reached the edge of the Terrys’ front yard. She crossed onto the grass, sliding her feet a little as if she liked the coolness of it, and Mr. Terry stopped talking and the others sat forward and took their hats off.

“Hey, Joan,” said Mr. Terry.

“Hey.” She stopped at the bottom of the steps and smiled up at them. “Lem,” she said, “Missouri sent you a message. She said to come right on home.”

Lem tipped back again in his chair, shaking his head. “Must be a mistake somewheres,” he said. His eyes were faraway and dreamy, and the others laughed softly.

“Well, anyway,” said Joan. “I came to see if you’re ready to go yet, James. Or do you want to stay on a while.”

“No, I’m ready.”

He finished his beer in one gulp and stood up. Down at the end of the porch, Howell Blake looked up from cleaning his fingernails with a pocket knife and said, “You coming tomorrow?”

“Depends on Roy Pike, I guess. Looks like he’ll be sitting with his wife a while.”

“Well, just so’s
one
of you makes it,” said Mr. Terry. “You tell Roy I know how it is.
You
tell him, Joan.”

“I will.”

James went down the steps toward Joan, and she switched one sandal to the other hand so that he could take her free hand in his. Both of them were coated with tobacco gum. The gum had lost its stickiness by now but it still clung to their skin in heavy layers, so that it was like holding hands with rubber gloves on. He kept hold of her anyway, and turned partway back to nod at the others. “See you tomorrow, I guess,” he said. “I or Roy, one.”

“Okay. So long.”

“So long.”

They crossed the yard together and then they were on the dirt driveway again, heading toward the gravel road. When James looked down, he could see the dust rising in little puffs around Joan’s toes every time she took a step. Her toes were gum-covered too, and the dust had stuck to them like a layer of sugar frosting.

“I have to have a bath,” Joan said, as if she had been following his eyes.

“No. I like you this way.”

“I’m serious. You have to have one too, and then we can sit outside and cool off.”

“Okay,” James said. He pulled her along faster, because he liked the idea of just the two of them sitting out on the porch a while. But Joan slowed him down again.

“I have to put on my sandals to walk fast,” she said. “Do you want me to?”

“No, that’s all right.”

But she bent down anyway, and James stood waiting while she slid her feet into the sandals. She was wearing bermudas and a faded blue shirt with the tails out, and when a breeze started up it ballooned out the back of her shirt and made her look humpbacked. He put one
hand on the hump. It vanished, pressed flat by the weight of his hand, and he could feel the ripple of her backbone through the thin cloth of her shirt. It seemed to him he knew Joan’s clothes by heart. He could tell the seasons by them, and if she bought something new, he felt uneasy and resentful toward it until it had become worn-looking. When spring came he never really felt it until those old cotton shirts had come out again, though for days he might have known about the bits of green on the trees and the flowering Judas buds by the side of the road. He smiled down at Joan now and she straightened up and looked at him, not knowing anything about what was going on in his mind.

“What’re you thinking?” she asked him.

“Nothing.”

They turned onto the gravel road, holding hands again. A station wagon drove past, clanking and rattling as if it would fall apart before their eyes, and Joan waved at whoever was driving but James didn’t look up. He was concentrating on the gravel beneath his feet, and on steering Joan into the sandiest part of the road. Finally he said, “I’ve got an idea.”

“What?”

“How about coming over and cooking supper tonight? We could sit out and eat it on the porch.”

“You know I can’t cook.”

“Well, hot dogs is all right.”

He dropped her hand and put his arm around her, so that he could feel her shoulder moving against his rib cage as they walked. They were going very slowly now; he had stopped caring if they never got anywhere at all. He would like to go down this road indefinitely, with everything around him shining and wearing a clean, finished, end-of-the-day look. The sun picked things up
slantwise, and the fields were very still in between the gusts of breeze. When they rounded the bend and their house appeared, long and shabby with its tin roof batting the sunshine into their eyes, it seemed surprising and out of place. Both of them slowed down still more to stare at it. Then Joan said, “Well, I’ll race you home.”

“Now?”

“Come on.”

She started running, moving in bursts of uneven speed and letting her hands stay open instead of doubling them into fists the way most people did. Beside her, James ran at a slow easy pace because he didn’t want to leave her behind. When he ran like this he was scarcely breathing hard, but Joan was out of breath and laughing. They reached the edge of the yard, and she stopped to tuck her shirttails in. “You weren’t even trying,” she told him. “That was no race.”

But he reached out for a tall blue spiky flower and presented it to her gravely, as if she had won, and she accepted it.

“When you coming over?” he asked.

“In an hour or so. I have to take a bath and see that the others eat.”

“Can you leave your aunt?”

“I’ll see how she is,” Joan said. She bent over suddenly and clapped her hands together, with the stem of the flower between them. “Hey, Nellie,” she said. “That you?”

The bushes beside the lawn rustled and the dog poked just her head out, her nose pointed upwards. “Where you been?” Joan asked her. She made little coaxing motions with her hands. For a minute James watched, and then when it looked as if Nellie would be a long
time making up her mind to come he turned toward the house.

“I’m going on in,” he called.

“All right. Come on, Nellie.”

James crossed the yard and climbed the steps at his end of the porch. In the seat of Ansel’s chair was a rumpled magazine, which he picked up to take inside with him. “I’m home, Ansel,” he said in the doorway. But Ansel didn’t answer, and his couch was bare. “Hey, Ansel?”

On the coffee table was Ansel’s entire collection of seashells, all laid out neatly with the hollow sides up. This must have been one of his bored days, spent wandering aimlessly through the house with an occasional pause to glance over some possession of his before he grew tired of it and began wandering again. But he hadn’t been flipping through James’s photographs, the way he usually did on those days. And he wasn’t in the kitchen, or up in his room. “Ansel?” James called once more, and his voice rang out into a waiting, ticking silence that worried him.

He went outdoors again. Joan was still in the yard, sitting on her heels and patting Nellie. When she saw James she said, “You’re supposed to be in the tub by now,” but James only shook his head.

“I can’t find Ansel,” he said.

Joan stood up then and came over to the porch. “He’s probably just gone visiting,” she told him. “Did you look for a note?”

“
Ansel
don’t leave notes.”

“Well, he’ll be back.”

“I don’t know. I want you to check your aunt’s for me; I don’t like bothering her.”

“All right.” She turned and made a kissing sound at
Nellie, who danced after her toward the porch. “It’s time for your supper,” Joan told her, and then led her through the Pikes’ door by snapping her fingers high above Nellie’s head. After they disappeared into the house James stayed out on the porch, waiting to see if Joan had found his brother. If she had, she would need help coaxing him out. He had a sudden clear picture of Joan backing out the door again, snapping her fingers at Ansel to lead him forward the way she had led Nellie. He smiled, and then relaxed and swung one foot up onto the porch railing.

But when Joan came she came alone. “He’s at the Potters’,” she said, before James could ask. “Uncle Roy said he came calling, but Simon wouldn’t let him in. He went on to the Potters.”

“Well, maybe I’ll just check,” said James.

“Oh, he’s all right, James. What’s got into you lately?”

“I just want to make sure,” he told her. “I wish you’d come with me. If I go alone I’ll
never
get out, once they start to talking.”

“Well, all right.”

She came over to stand beside him, and he knocked on the Potters’ door. There was no screen on it, because they didn’t need one; they kept the inner door shut. Summer and winter their part of the porch had a closed, unbreathing look, and they had long ago paid James two dozen cinnamon buns for taking the baggy old screen door off its hinges and carting it out back. When James knocked there was first a faint movement of the paper shade—they had to make sure who it was—and then there was the sound of two bolts sliding back. The door cracked open; Miss Faye poked her round face out.

“Why, James,” she said.

“Hello, Miss Faye.”

“And Joan too. Both of you together. Joan, honey, don’t you look fresh and outdoorsy today. I was saying to Miss Lucy just a—well, step on inside, step in.”

“Actually,” James said, “I just wanted to see if you had Ansel here.”

“Ansel?” She had the door wide open now, and was throwing back one arm to show that they were welcome. James kept trying to peer past her, hoping to see Ansel, but the way the Potters’ house was arranged made it impossible. They had set up a labyrinth of tall black folding screens with needlework flowers on them, so that the house was divided into a dozen or more tiny rooms. No matter how James craned his neck around Miss Faye, all he saw was the screen behind her and more screens behind that. “Oh, Ansel,” Miss Faye was saying. “James, I worry about that boy. I was saying just a while ago; I said—are you coming in? Don’t stand outside; come on in.”

“We’ve only got a minute,” Joan said gently. “Is Ansel here?”

“Well, let’s see.” She stepped further back, leaving them the whole doorway to enter through, and after a minute the two of them came in. Who could tell what might be hidden in this maze of screens? The air was dark and stale, from being separated into so many cubicles in a tightly closed house. And there was a thick feeling to the walls that must have come from the heavy tapestries, because every place else in this house was shell-thin. When they were inside, Miss Faye shut the whole world behind them out; she said, “
Now,
” and slammed the door and slid the two locks into place.
James frowned (it made him uneasy, being locked in this way) but Joan only looked amused.

“You were going to tell us if Ansel’s here,” she reminded Miss Faye.

“Yes. Yes, I was saying—Lucy? Lucy, are you coming to say hello?”

They heard Miss Lucy’s footsteps, sounding very faint and taking a long time to weave in and out among the screens. First she came close and then went farther away again, and suddenly she popped out right behind Miss Faye. She wore a huge white apron with jokes about outdoor barbecues printed all over it.

“Lucy, look who’s here,” said Miss Faye.

“Well, isn’t this nice?” Miss Lucy came towards them with both hands outstretched, making James wonder, just as he always did, what he was supposed to do when she reached him—hug her?—but Joan saved the day by stepping up and taking both Miss Lucy’s hands in her own. “You’re looking just as
healthy,
” Miss Lucy told her, and then gave a little giggle and shook her tight cap of curls. “We’ve had so much company today that I’m getting all—”

“Well, that’s really what we came to talk about,” said James.

“Aren’t you going to sit down?”

“We wanted to ask—”

“You
have
to sit down.” She began backing around the first screen, still holding Joan’s hands. James glanced over at a puffy plush chair, with its layers and layers of antimacassars, and then shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but it looks like Ansel isn’t here, and that’s what we came about.”

“
Oh
yes. Yes, he was here.”

“When?” James asked.

“At three o’clock today, on the nose. No, more like three fifteen. I forget, Faye …”

“It was three twenty exactly,” said Miss Faye. “It was my turn to wear the brooch-watch today. I had looked down at it, while checking to see if my blouse was clean, just before I answered the door. And it was Ansel at the door. Will you sit down, please?”

“That was nearly two hours ago,” James said.