Stories of Erskine Caldwell (85 page)

“Well, I’ll be a son of a gun!” Henry said, stepping back to survey Luther from head to toe. “I’ll be a son of a gun if I won’t!”

Luther stood at the door, not knowing what to do. He waited for one of them to say what it was that had caused them both to stare at him so hard.

Presently, Henry glanced at Ben and walked up to Luther, putting his hand on his shoulder.

“You’re the man, Luther. I’ll be a son of a gun if you aren’t,”

“He’s right, Luther,” Ben said. “Henry’s dead right. You’re the man.”

Luther started to protest.

“I didn’t run over a hog in the street, Ben. I don’t even own a truck. And you know good and well I couldn’t even kill a chicken with that little pushcart of mine.”

“No! No! Luther,” Henry protested. “I didn’t try to accuse you of killing my hog. You’re all mixed up. You’re the man I’m looking for to butcher it for me. Why, Luther, you even look like a butcher!”

Both men had become excited.

“All your troubles are over now, Luther,” Ben said. “You won’t have to worry again for the rest of your life. You’ll own your own market before the year is out, and everybody in town will be buying their meat from you. It’s going to be hard on Jim Hall, but there’s no help for that. Maybe, after you get started, you can hire Jim to help you. But don’t let him stay up front. It’s your place to stay up front in full view where the people can see you.”

Henry was nodding his head emphatically.

“When people buy something, Luther,” Henry said, “they want the man who’s selling it to look like the thing they’re buying. It hasn’t failed to be true since the world began.”

“But I haven’t any money to start a meat market,” Luther protested.

“You let me take care of that part,” Ben said. “You don’t have to worry about anything any more. You just stay like you are.”

Luther shoved his hands deep into his pockets where his gripped fingers would be safe from sight. He was even trembling a little.

“Why didn’t you tell me that before, Ben?” he asked shakily. “Here I am, past forty years old, and I’ve been a failure all my life. If I had known about that twenty years ago, I wouldn’t be in the fix I’m in now. Why didn’t you say it sooner?”

“I didn’t know it myself, Luther, till just now when Henry started talking about a butcher. I suppose it needed just something like what Henry said to bring it out. But there’s no mistaking it now, Luther. I know what I see when I see it.”

Henry went to the door.

“Let’s hurry, Luther. We’ve got to get that hog quartered before night.”

Luther went out on the sidewalk in front of the store and stopped to look across the street towards Jim Hall’s meat market. His head went up erectly, his shoulders went back, and his thick, heavy body stiffened. He was still looking at the market when Henry caught him by the sleeve and pulled him up the street.

As they turned the corner, Luther looked back over his shoulder once more, and then he started walking briskly up the street with Henry at his side. He was walking so fast by that time that Henry was finding it difficult to keep up with him.

(First published in the
American Mercury
)

H
E WAS COMING
— he was coming — God bless him! He was coming to marry her — coming all the way from Minnesota!

Trembling, breathless, Marjorie read the letter again and again, holding it desperately in the ten fingers of her hands. Then at last, her eyes so blurred she could no longer see the handwriting, she placed the letter against the bareness of her breasts where she could breathe into it all the happiness of her heart. All the way from Minnesota he was coming — coming all that great distance to marry her!

The letter’s every word, every mark of careless punctuation, was burned inerasably on her memory. The thought of the letter was like a poem running through her — like the chill of sudden warmth — fragments of lines repeating themselves like the roar in a furnace pipe.

His letter was not a proposal of marriage, but he did say he liked the way she looked in the picture she sent him. And why would he be coming all the way from Minnesota if he did not intend asking her to be his wife? Surely he wanted her.

Marjorie had his picture, too. She could actually feel the untiring strength of the lean muscles stretching over his face to the chin. Her fingers stole over his face excitedly, filling her with passion for the man with whom she would mate. He was a strong man. He would do with her as he pleased.

Surely he would like her. He was a mature man, and men who are mature seek beauty of soul and body when they marry. Marjorie was beautiful. Her beauty was her youth and charm. He wrote Marjorie that her eyes and her face and her hair were the loveliest he had ever seen. And her body was beautiful, too. He would see that when he came. Her slender limbs were cool and firm like the young pine trees in winter. Her heart was warm and eager. He would like her — surely he would.

Should she please him, and should he want her, and naturally he would when he saw her, Marjorie would give him her soul. Her soul would be her greatest gift to him. First she would give him her love, then her body, and at last her soul. No one had ever possessed her soul. But neither had her body or her love been possessed.

He had written frankly in all his letters. He said he wanted a wife. It was lonely, he said, living alone in Minnesota. Marjorie was lonesome, too. She had lived the long five years since her mother’s death, alone. She understood. She had always been lonesome.

Marjorie prepared a room for him and waited his coming. She laundered the linen sheets and pillowcases three times. She dried the linen each time on the limbs of the fir trees and ironed it in the early morning while it was still damp with the pine-scented air.

The day of his coming Marjorie was awake long before the sun rose. The sun rose cool and swift.

Before laying out the new clothes she would wear for him, she ran to the room and patted the pillows and smoothed the coverlet for the last time. Then hurriedly she dressed and drove to the depot nineteen miles away.

He arrived on the noon train from Boston. He was much larger than she had expected him to be, and he was much more handsome than she had hoped.

“Are you Marjorie?” he asked huskily.

“Yes,” Marjorie answered eagerly. “I am Marjorie. You are Nels?”

“Yes,” he smiled, his eyes meeting hers. “I am Nels.”

Marjorie led Nels to the automobile. They got in and drove away. Nels was a silent man, speaking crisply and infrequently. He looked at Marjorie all the time. He looked at her hands and face intently. She was nervous and self-conscious under his noncommittal scrutiny. After they had gone several miles he placed his arm across the back of the seat. Only once or twice did Marjorie feel his arm. The bumpy roads tossed them both as the car sped across country. Nels’s arms were as strong and muscular as a woodsman’s.

Late that afternoon Marjorie and Nels walked down through the wood to the lake. There was a cold icy wind out of the northeast and the lake rose and tossed as if a storm were upon it. While they stood on a boulder at the lakeside watching the waves, a sudden gust of wind threw her against his shoulder. Nels braced her with his steellike arms and jumped to the ground. Later she showed Nels the icehouse and pointed out to him the shed where the boats were stored in winter. Then they walked home through the pines and firs.

While Marjorie prepared supper Nels sat in the parlor smoking his pipe. Several times Marjorie ran to the open door for a hurried glimpse of the man she was to marry. The only motion about him was the steady flow of tobacco smoke boiling from the bowl of his pipe. When the meal was ready, Marjorie quickly changed her dress and called Nels. Nels enjoyed the meal before him. He liked the way she had prepared the fish. Her skin was so hot she could not bear to press her knees together. Nels ate with full appetite.

After Marjorie had hastily carried the dishes to the kitchen she again changed her dress and went into the room where Nels sat by the fireplace. They sat in silence until she brought him the album and showed him the pictures. He looked at them silently.

All through the evening she sat hoping he would soon take her in his arms and kiss her. He would later, of course, but she wanted now to be in his arms. He did not look at her.

At ten-thirty Nels said he would like to go to bed. Marjorie jumped up and ran to his room. She turned back the pine-scented covers and smoothed the pillows. Bending over the bed, she laid her flushed cheek against the cool soft linen. Tearing herself away, she went back into the room where Nels sat silently by the fire.

After Nels had gone to his room and closed the door behind him, Marjorie went to her own bedroom. She sat down in a rocking chair and looked out upon the lake. It was after midnight when she got up and undressed. Just before retiring she tiptoed to the door of Nels’ room. She stood there several minutes listening intensely. Her fingers touched the door softly. He did not hear her. He was asleep.

Marjorie was awake at five. Nels came into the kitchen at seven while she prepared breakfast. He was freshly clean, and under his loose tweed suit she all but felt the great strength of his body.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Nels,” she greeted him eagerly.

After breakfast they sat in the parlor while Nels smoked his pipe. When he finished smoking, he stood up before the fireplace. He took out his watch and glanced at the time. Marjorie sat hushed behind him.

“What time does the train leave for Boston?” he asked.

With stilled breath she told him.

“Will you take me to the train?” he asked her.

She said she would.

Marjorie immediately went into the kitchen and leaned heavily against the table. Nels remained in the parlor refilling his pipe. Marjorie ran toward the parlor several times, but each time she turned back when she reached the door. She wanted to ask Nels if he were coming back. She picked up a plate and it crashed to the floor. It was the first piece of china she had broken since the morning of her mother’s death. Trembling, she put on her hat and coat. Of course he was coming back! How foolish it was to think he would not! He was probably going to Boston to get some presents for her. He would come back — of course he would!

When they reached the depot, Nels held out his hand. She placed her hand in his. It was the first time his skin had touched her skin.

“Good-by,” he said.

“Good-by, Nels,” she smiled at him. “I hope you enjoyed your visit.”

Nels picked up his traveling bag and started towards the waiting room.

Marjorie’s arms and legs had the numbness of death in them. She started the motor uncertainly. He had not said he would return!

“Nels!” she cried desperately, gripping the door of the automobile with bloodless fingers.

Nels stopped and turned around, facing her.

“Nels, you are welcome to come back any time you want to,” she begged unashamedly.

“Thank you,” he replied briefly, “but I’m going home to Minnesota and I’ll not be back again.”

“What!” she cried, her lips quivering so violently she could barely make them speak. “Where are you going — ?”

“To Minnesota,” he replied.

Marjorie drove home as fast as her car would take her. As soon as she reached the house she ran to Nels’ room.

In Nels’ room Marjorie stood by the side of the bed and looked at the crumpled sheets and pillows with tear-blinded eyes. With a sob she threw herself between the sheets where Nels had lain. In her arms she hugged the pillows and dampened them with her tears. She could feel his body against hers. She kissed his face and held her lips for him to kiss.

It was night when she arose from the bed. The sun had gone down and the day was over. Only the cool clear twilight was left to shadow the room.

Throwing a blanket around her shoulders, Marjorie jerked the sheets and pillowcases from the bed and ran blindly to her own room. She opened the cedar chest and tenderly folded the crumpled sheets and pillowcases. She laid the linen in the chest and dragged the chest to the side of her bed.

Marjorie turned out the light and lay down between the sheets of her own bed.

“Good night, Nels,” she whispered softly, her fingers touching the smooth lid of the cedar chest at her side.

(First published in
Scribner’s
)

W
E HAD GOT BOOTED
out of a flat in the West End where we had caught up with one of the floating crap games, and instead of making the rounds on a raw night like that, we took a short cut across town to Nick’s Place. Sleet was falling, and the wind was as sharp as knife blades. We met two or three men on the way; everybody was bent almost double against the icy wind, holding his hat and coat with numb fingers.

“What did you let them throw us out for, Hal?” The Type said. “There’s no law against a man following a public crap game. I’ve gone broke in better flats than that one, anyway.”

The Type bumped into a lamp post. He turned around and kicked the iron pole with his foot.

“Winter’s a hell of a time of year,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

“Nick’s Place will be heated up,” I said. “Come on, and we’ll look in there for a while.”

The usual all-night crowd was standing around the stove in Nick’s Place, warming their fingers against the red-hot sides of the blast heater. Como, the Negro porter, stoked the fire and kept his back turned on the sleet that slashed against the door and windows.

When The Type and I walked in, Nick ran up from somewhere and met us halfway.

“I’m going to close up early tonight,” Nick said. “You boys will have to go home for a change. Won’t your folks be surprised to see you, though?”

“You mean you’re telling us to get out?” The Type said.

“There’s no money in keeping open on a night like this,” Nick argued. “I’d just be wasting heat and light, and getting nowhere at all.”

“Hello, Nick,” I said. “How about lending me a dollar till sometime next week? Here’s how it is. I started out —”

“No loans tonight, boys,” he said. “I’m going to close up right away.”