Katherine Anne Porter (40 page)

The boys were in the kitchen; Herbert was looking at the funny pictures from last Sunday’s newspapers, the Katzenjammer Kids and Happy Hooligan. His chin was in his hands and his elbows on the table, and he was really reading and looking at the pictures, but his face was unhappy. Arthur was building the fire, adding kindling a stick at a time, watching it catch and
blaze. His face was heavier and darker than Herbert’s, but he was a little sullen by nature; Mrs. Thompson thought, he takes things harder, too. Arthur said, “Hello, Momma,” and went on with his work. Herbert swept the papers together and moved over on the bench. They were big boys—fifteen and seventeen, and Arthur as tall as his father. Mrs. Thompson sat down beside Herbert, taking off her hat. She said, “I guess you’re hungry. We were late today. We went the Log Hollow road, it’s rougher than ever.” Her pale mouth drooped with a sad fold on either side.

“I guess you saw the Mannings, then,” said Herbert.

“Yes, and the Fergusons, and the Allbrights, and that new family McClellan.”

“Anybody say anything?” asked Herbert.

“Nothing much, you know how it’s been all along, some of them keeps saying, yes, they know it was a clear case and a fair trial and they say how glad they are your papa came out so well, and all that, some of ’em do, anyhow, but it looks like they don’t really take sides with him. I’m about wore out,” she said, the tears rolling again from under her dark glasses. “I don’t know what good it does, but your papa can’t seem to rest unless he’s telling how it happened. I don’t know.”

“I don’t think it does any good, not a speck,” said Arthur, moving away from the stove. “It just keeps the whole question stirred up in people’s minds. Everybody will go round telling what he heard, and the whole thing is going to get worse mixed up than ever. It just makes matters worse. I wish you could get Papa to stop driving round the country talking like that.”

“Your papa knows best,” said Mrs. Thompson. “You oughtn’t to criticize him. He’s got enough to put up with without that.”

Arthur said nothing, his jaw stubborn. Mr. Thompson came in, his eyes hollowed out and dead-looking, his thick hands gray white and seamed from washing them clean every day before he started out to see the neighbors to tell them his side of the story. He was wearing his Sunday clothes, a thick pepper-and-salt-colored suit with a black string tie.

Mrs. Thompson stood up, her head swimming. “Now you-all
get out of the kitchen, it’s too hot in here and I need room. I’ll get us a little bite of supper, if you’ll just get out and give me some room.”

They went as if they were glad to go, the boys outside, Mr. Thompson into his bedroom. She heard him groaning to himself as he took off his shoes, and heard the bed creak as he lay down. Mrs. Thompson opened the icebox and felt the sweet coldness flow out of it; she had never expected to have an icebox, much less did she hope to afford to keep it filled with ice. It still seemed like a miracle, after two or three years. There was the food, cold and clean, all ready to be warmed over. She would never have had that icebox if Mr. Helton hadn’t happened along one day, just by the strangest luck; so saving, and so managing, so good, thought Mrs. Thompson, her heart swelling until she feared she would faint again, standing there with the door open and leaning her head upon it. She simply could not bear to remember Mr. Helton, with his long sad face and silent ways, who had always been so quiet and harmless, who had worked so hard and helped Mr. Thompson so much, running through the hot fields and woods, being hunted like a mad dog, everybody turning out with ropes and guns and sticks to catch and tie him. Oh, God, said Mrs. Thompson in a long dry moan, kneeling before the icebox and fumbling inside for the dishes, even if they did pile mattresses all over the jail floor and against the walls, and five men there to hold him to keep him from hurting himself any more, he was already hurt too badly, he couldn’t have lived anyway. Mr. Barbee, the sheriff, told her about it. He said, well, they didn’t aim to harm him but they had to catch him, he was crazy as a loon; he picked up rocks and tried to brain every man that got near him. He had two harmonicas in his jumper pocket, said the sheriff, but they fell out in the scuffle, and Mr. Helton tried to pick ’em up again, and that’s when they finally got him. “They
had
to be rough, Miz Thompson, he fought like a wildcat.” Yes, thought Mrs. Thompson again with the same bitterness, of course, they had to be rough. They always have to be rough. Mr. Thompson can’t argue with a man and get him off the place peaceably; no, she thought, standing up and shutting the icebox, he has to kill somebody, he has to be a murderer and ruin his boys’ lives and cause Mr. Helton to be killed like a mad dog.

Her thoughts stopped with a little soundless explosion, cleared and began again. The rest of Mr. Helton’s harmonicas were still in the shack, his tune ran in Mrs. Thompson’s head at certain times of the day. She missed it in the evenings. It seemed so strange she had never known the name of that song, nor what it meant, until after Mr. Helton was gone. Mrs. Thompson, trembling in the knees, took a drink of water at the sink and poured the red beans into the baking dish, and began to roll the pieces of chicken in flour to fry them. There was a time, she said to herself, when I thought I had neighbors and friends, there was a time when we could hold up our heads, there was a time when my husband hadn’t killed a man and I could tell the truth to anybody about anything.

Mr. Thompson, turning on his bed, figured that he had done all he could, he’d just try to let the matter rest from now on. His lawyer, Mr. Burleigh, had told him right at the beginning, “Now you keep calm and collected. You’ve got a fine case, even if you haven’t got witnesses. Your wife must sit in court, she’ll be a powerful argument with the jury. You just plead not guilty and I’ll do the rest. The trial is going to be a mere formality, you haven’t got a thing to worry about. You’ll be clean out of this before you know it.” And to make talk Mr. Burleigh had got to telling about all the men he knew around the country who for one reason or another had been forced to kill somebody, always in self-defense, and there just wasn’t anything to it at all. He even told about how his own father in the old days had shot and killed a man just for setting foot inside his gate when he told him not to. “Sure, I shot the scoundrel,” said Mr. Burleigh’s father, “in self-defense; I
told
him I’d shoot him if he set his foot in my yard, and he did, and I did.” There had been bad blood between them for years, Mr. Burleigh said, and his father had waited a long time to catch the other fellow in the wrong, and when he did he certainly made the most of his opportunity.

“But Mr. Hatch, as I told you,” Mr. Thompson had said, “made a pass at Mr. Helton with his bowie knife. That’s why I took a hand.”

“All the better,” said Mr. Burleigh. “That stranger hadn’t any right coming to your house on such an errand. Why, hell,”
said Mr. Burleigh, “that wasn’t even manslaughter you committed. So now you just hold your horses and keep your shirt on. And don’t say one word without I tell you.”

Wasn’t even manslaughter. Mr. Thompson had to cover Mr. Hatch with a piece of wagon canvas and ride to town to tell the sheriff. It had been hard on Ellie. When they got back, the sheriff and the coroner and two deputies, they found her sitting beside the road, on a low bridge over a gulley, about half a mile from the place. He had taken her up behind his saddle and got her back to the house. He had already told the sheriff that his wife had witnessed the whole business, and now he had time, getting her to her room and in bed, to tell her what to say if they asked anything. He had left out the part about Mr. Helton being crazy all along, but it came out at the trial. By Mr. Burleigh’s advice Mr. Thompson had pretended to be perfectly ignorant; Mr. Hatch hadn’t said a word about that. Mr. Thompson pretended to believe that Mr. Hatch had just come looking for Mr. Helton to settle old scores, and the two members of Mr. Hatch’s family who had come down to try to get Mr. Thompson convicted didn’t get anywhere at all. It hadn’t been much of a trial, Mr. Burleigh saw to that. He had charged a reasonable fee, and Mr. Thompson had paid him and felt grateful, but after it was over Mr. Burleigh didn’t seem pleased to see him when he got to dropping into the office to talk it over, telling him things that had slipped his mind at first: trying to explain what an ornery low hound Mr. Hatch had been, anyhow. Mr. Burleigh seemed to have lost his interest; he looked sour and upset when he saw Mr. Thompson at the door. Mr. Thompson kept saying to himself that he’d got off, all right, just as Mr. Burleigh had predicted, but, but—and it was right there that Mr. Thompson’s mind stuck, squirming like an angleworm on a fishhook: he had killed Mr. Hatch, and he was a murderer. That was the truth about himself that Mr. Thompson couldn’t grasp, even when he said the word to himself. Why, he had not even once
thought
of killing anybody, much less Mr. Hatch, and if Mr. Helton hadn’t come out so unexpectedly, hearing the row, why, then—but then, Mr. Helton had come on the run that way to help him. What he couldn’t understand was what happened next. He had seen
Mr. Hatch go after Mr. Helton with the knife, he had seen the point, blade up, go into Mr. Helton’s stomach and slice up like you slice a hog, but when they finally caught Mr. Helton there wasn’t a knife scratch on him. Mr. Thompson knew he had the ax in his own hands and felt himself lifting it, but he couldn’t remember hitting Mr. Hatch. He couldn’t remember it. He couldn’t. He remembered only that he had been determined to stop Mr. Hatch from cutting Mr. Helton. If he was given a chance he could explain the whole matter. At the trial they hadn’t let him talk. They just asked questions and he answered yes or no, and they never did get to the core of the matter. Since the trial, now, every day for a week he had washed and shaved and put on his best clothes and had taken Ellie with him to tell every neighbor he had that he never killed Mr. Hatch on purpose, and what good did it do? Nobody believed him. Even when he turned to Ellie and said, “You was there, you saw it, didn’t you?” and Ellie spoke up, saying, “Yes, that’s the truth. Mr. Thompson was trying to save Mr. Helton’s life,” and he added, “If you don’t believe me, you can believe my wife. She won’t lie,” Mr. Thompson saw something in all their faces that disheartened him, made him feel empty and tired out. They didn’t believe he was not a murderer.

Even Ellie never said anything to comfort him. He hoped she would say finally, “I remember now, Mr. Thompson, I really did come round the corner in time to see everything. It’s not a lie, Mr. Thompson. Don’t you worry.” But as they drove together in silence, with the days still hot and dry, shortening for fall, day after day, the buggy jolting in the ruts, she said nothing; they grew to dread the sight of another house, and the people in it: all houses looked alike now, and the people—old neighbors or new—had the same expression when Mr. Thompson told them why he had come and began his story. Their eyes looked as if someone had pinched the eyeball at the back; they shriveled and the light went out of them. Some of them sat with fixed tight smiles trying to be friendly. “Yes, Mr. Thompson, we know how you must feel. It must be terrible for you, Mrs. Thompson. Yes, you know, I’ve about come to the point where I believe in such a thing as killing in self-defense.
Why, certainly, we believe you, Mr. Thompson, why shouldn’t we believe you? Didn’t you have a perfectly fair and aboveboard trial? Well, now, natchally, Mr. Thompson, we think you done right.”

Mr. Thompson was satisfied they didn’t think so. Sometimes the air around him was so thick with their blame he fought and pushed with his fists, and the sweat broke out all over him, he shouted his story in a dust-choked voice, he would fairly bellow at last: “My wife, here, you know her, she was there, she saw and heard it all, if you don’t believe me, ask her, she won’t lie!” and Mrs. Thompson, with her hands knotted together, aching, her chin trembling, would never fail to say: “Yes, that’s right, that’s the truth—”

The last straw had been laid on today, Mr. Thompson decided. Tom Allbright, an old beau of Ellie’s, why, he had squired Ellie around a whole summer, had come out to meet them when they drove up, and standing there bareheaded had stopped them from getting out. He had looked past them with an embarrassed frown on his face, telling them his wife’s sister was there with a raft of young ones, and the house was pretty full and everything upset, or he’d ask them to come in. “We’ve been thinking of trying to get up to your place one of these days,” said Mr. Allbright, moving away trying to look busy, “we’ve been mighty occupied up here of late.” So they had to say, “Well, we just happened to be driving this way,” and go on. “The Allbrights,” said Mrs. Thompson, “always was fair-weather friends.” “They look out for number one, that’s a fact,” said Mr. Thompson. But it was cold comfort to them both.

Finally Mrs. Thompson had given up. “Let’s go home,” she said. “Old Jim’s tired and thirsty, and we’ve gone far enough.”

Mr. Thompson said, “Well, while we’re out this way, we might as well stop at the McClellans’.” They drove in, and asked a little cotton-haired boy if his mamma and papa were at home. Mr. Thompson wanted to see them. The little boy stood gazing with his mouth open, then galloped into the house shouting, “Mommer, Popper, come out hyah. That man that kilt Mr. Hatch has come ter see yer!”

The man came out in his sock feet, with one gallus up, the
other broken and dangling, and said, “Light down, Mr. Thompson, and come in. The ole woman’s washing, but she’ll git here.” Mrs. Thompson, feeling her way, stepped down and sat in a broken rocking-chair on the porch that sagged under her feet. The woman of the house, barefooted, in a calico wrapper, sat on the edge of the porch, her fat sallow face full of curiosity. Mr. Thompson began, “Well, as I reckon you happen to know, I’ve had some strange troubles lately, and, as the feller says, it’s not the kind of trouble that happens to a man every day in the year, and there’s some things I don’t want no misunderstanding about in the neighbors’ minds, so—” He halted and stumbled forward, and the two listening faces took on a mean look, a greedy, despising look, a look that said plain as day, “My, you must be a purty sorry feller to come round worrying about what
we
think,
we
know you wouldn’t be here if you had anybody else to turn to—my, I wouldn’t lower myself that much, myself.” Mr. Thompson was ashamed of himself, he was suddenly in a rage, he’d like to knock their dirty skunk heads together, the low-down white trash—but he held himself down and went on to the end. “My wife will tell you,” he said, and this was the hardest place, because Ellie always without moving a muscle seemed to stiffen as if somebody had threatened to hit her; “ask my wife, she won’t lie.”