for I saw the storm coming on. I went racing, but a half mile north I skidded into the ditch. I really feel like leaving the car there all night, but it would do a lot of damage. I’ll have to get a team and drag it in. I call it a good day’s work. What do you say?” He looked at her closely, for the first time noticing her drawn face and far-away look.
“What’s the matter? You look goopy—”
Rose settled herself heavily in the rocker close to the table.
“You’re not sick, are you?”
She shook her head a few times and answered: “He’s in there—”
“Who?” Martin straightened up ready for anything.
“Billy—”
“Oh!” A light flashed into Martin’s face. “So he has come back, has he? Back home? What made him change toward this place? Is he here to stay?”
“No, Martin—”
“Then if he hasn’t come to his senses, what is he doing here—here in my house, the home he hates—”
“He doesn’t hate it now,” Rose replied, struggling for words that she might express herself and end this cruel conversation, but all she could do was to point nervously toward the spare room.
“What is he doing in there? It’s the one spot that Rose can call her own, poor child.”
“He’s on the bed, Martin—”
“What’s the matter with the davenport he’s always slept on? Is he sick? What in heaven’s name is going on in this house?”
As Martin started toward the bedroom, his wife opened her lips to tell him the truth but the words refused to come; at the same instant it struck her that not to speak was brutal, yet just. She would let Martin go to this bed with words of anger on his lips, with feelings of unkindness in his heart. She would do this. Savage? Yes, but why not? There seemed to be something fair about it. Then her heart-strings pulled more strongly than ever. No; it was too hard. She must stop him, tell him, prepare him. But before the words came, he was out of the room and when she spoke he did not hear her because of the rain.
He saw the vague lines of the boy’s body, hidden by the sheet, and thought quickly, “Bill’s old ostrich-like trick,” and while at the same instant something told him that a terrible thing had happened, the idea did not register completely until he had his hand on the linen. Then, with a short yank, he pulled away the cover and saw the boy’s head. Dark as it was, it was enough to show him the truth. With a quick move he covered him again. There was a smeary wetness on his fingers, which he wiped away on the side of his trousers. They were drenched with rain, but he distinguished the sticky feel of blood leaving his hand as he rubbed it nervously.
His first emotion was one of anger with Rose. He was sure she had played this sinister jest deliberately to torture him and he had fallen into the trap. He wanted to rush back into the other room and strike her down. He would show her! But he dismissed this impulse, for he did not want her to see him like this, no hold on himself and his mind without direction. Sitting there, she would have the advantage. Without so much as a sound except for the slight noise he made in walking, Martin went through the parlor towards the front door and out to the steps, where he leaned for a moment against the weather-boarding, letting the rain fall on him as he stared dully down at the ground. It felt good to stand there. No eyes were on him, and the rain was refreshing. This had been too much for him. Never had he known himself to be so near to bewilderment. How fortunate that he had escaped by this simple trick of leaving the house. Then he thought of the car—a half-mile north—and the horses in the stable. He must do something. He would bring the car into the garage. It was relieving to hurry across the dripping grass toward the barn. How wonderful it was to keep the body doing something when the breath in him was short, his heart battering like an engine with burned-out bearings, his brain in insane chaos. As he applied a match to the lantern he thought of his wife again, and his face regained its scowl.
Only when he had his great heavy team in the yard, his lantern hanging from his arm, the reins in his hands, and was pulling back with all his strength as he followed the horses—only then did he permit himself to think about the tragedy that had befallen.
“He’s dead—killed,” he groaned. “It had to come. Shot-firers don’t last long. Whoa, there, Lottie; not so fast, Jet, whoa!” His protesting team in control again, he trudged heavily behind. “It’s terrible to die that way—not a chance in a thousand. And a kid of sixteen didn’t have the judgment—couldn’t have. But Bill knew what he was facing every evening. He didn’t go in blindly. They’ll blame me, as though it was my fault. I didn’t want him to go there. I wanted him to take a hand here, to run the place by himself in good time. It was his mother who sent him away first.” He went on like that, justifying himself more positively as excuse after excuse suggested itself.
Not until he had convinced himself that he was in no way responsible, did he allow his heart to beat a little for this boy of his. “Poor Bill,” he thought on, “it has been a tough game for him. Lost in the shuffle. Born into something he didn’t like and trying to escape, only to get caught. What did he expect out of life, anyway? Why didn’t he learn that it’s only a lot of senseless pain? Every moment of it pain—from coming into the world to going out. Oh, Bill, why didn’t you learn what I know? You had brains, boy, but it would have been better if you had never used them. I’ve brains, too, but I’ve always managed to keep them tied down—buckled to the farm, to investments, and work—thinking about things that make us forget life. It’s all dust and dust, with rain once in a while, only the rain steams off and it’s dust again.”
Martin began to review the course of his own past, and smiled bitterly. Others were able to live the same kind of an existence, but, unlike himself, took it as a preparation for another day, another existence which, it seemed to him, was measured and cut to order by professionals who understood how to fix up the meaning of life so that it would soothe and satisfy. He thought how much better it was to be a dumb, unquestioning beast, or a human being conscious of his soul, than to be as he was—alone, a materialist, who saw the meaninglessness of matter and whose mind, in some manner which he did not understand, had developed a slant that made him doubt what others accepted so easily as facts. Martin knew he was bound to things of substance but he followed the lure of property and accumulation as he might have followed some other game had he learned it, knowing all along that it was a delusion and at the same time acknowledging that for him there was nothing else as sufficing.
How simple, if Bill’s future could be a settled thing in his mind as it was to the boy’s mother. Or his own future! If only he could believe—then how different it would be for him. He could go on placidly and die with a smile. But he could not believe. His atheism was both mental and instinctive. It was something he could not understand, and which he knew he could never change, try as he might. Take this very evening. Here was death in his home. And he was escaping a lot of anguish, not by praying for Bill’s soul or his own forgiveness, but by the simple process of harnessing a team and dragging a car through the mud. It was a great game, work was—the one weapon with which to meet life. This was not a cut and dried philosophy with him, but a glimmer that, though always suggesting itself but dimly, never failed when put to the test. Martin felt better. He began to probe a little farther, albeit with an aimlessness about his questions that almost frightened him. He asked himself whether he loved Bill, now that he was dead, and he had to admit that he did not. The boy had always been something other than he had expected—a disappointment. Did he love anyone? No. Not a person; not even any longer that lovely Rose of Sharon who had flowered in his dust for a brief hour. His wife? God Almighty, no. Then who? Himself? No, his very selfishness had other springs than that. He was
