They stood looking at him.
What is it? he said. One of you better tell me what’s going on.
They wouldn’t say anything. Yet Bobby’s eyes had welled up and the tears ran unchecked on his cheeks and he began to sob terrifically as though he couldn’t breathe, crying but uttering no words at all.
What’s wrong? Guthrie said. Here now. What is it? He took a towel and dried Bobby’s face, then his brother’s. Is it that bad? he said. He led them down the hall to their bedroom in the old sleeping porch at the back of the house, sitting between them on the bed and encircling them with his arms. Tell me what’s wrong here. What happened?
Bobby was still crying. Now and then he shuddered. Both boys were turned away from him, facing the windows to the north.
Ike, Guthrie said, tell me what’s wrong.
The boy shook his head.
Something is. You’ve gotten dirty. Look at your pants. What is it?
Ike shook his head again. He and his brother looked at the window.
Ike? Guthrie said.
At last the boy turned to him. His face appeared desperate, pent-up, as though it would burst. Leave us alone, he cried. You have to leave us alone.
I’m not going to leave you alone, Guthrie said. Tell me what happened.
We aren’t suppose to say anything. He said we can’t tell anybody.
Who said you can’t tell anybody? Guthrie said. What’s this about?
That big one with the red hair, Ike said. He said . . . We can’t talk about it. Don’t you understand?
Guthrie watched him, the boy’s eyes were red and flaring, but he had stopped talking. He would not say anything more. Not now. He was ready to cry again and he turned back toward the window.
Guthrie.
He sat with them that night in their bedroom until they slept, and did not want to think what they would be dreaming. The next morning, Sunday morning, after breakfast and after they’d talked about the night before in the cold dark, the boys were able to tell more because in the daylight they were no longer so afraid. Then he drove to Gum Street on the south side of Holt, the old, the best part of town. A pleasant neighborhood with box elder trees and elm and hackberry, with lilac bushes along the side yards and kept lawns, though everything was still only faintly green at this earliest start of spring. A block or two to the west church bells were starting up from the tower at the Methodist church. Then the Catholic bells started up a block east.
He got out of the pickup and walked up to the white clapboard house, stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door. After a time the door swung open. Mrs. Beckman looked out. Squat and blocklike, she appeared to be rancorous already. She wore a housedress and toeless slippers, her hair sprayed up stiffly onto her head. You, she said. What do you want?
Tell Russell to come out here, Guthrie said.
What for?
I want to talk to him.
He don’t have to talk to you. She held on to the doorknob in her thick hand. This isn’t the school. You don’t have no say here. Why don’t you just get the hell out.
Tell him to come here. I’m going to talk to him.
Doris, a man’s voice came from inside the house. Shut the damn door. You’re letting the cold in.
You better come out here, she called. She didn’t even turn her head to speak. Instead, she watched Guthrie steadily. Come out here, she called.
Who is it?
Him.
There were footsteps, then her husband appeared in the door. What’s he want?
He’s after Russell again.
What about?
He hasn’t said what about.
Guthrie looked at the couple framed in the door, Beckman tall and thin above the short heavy woman, Beckman in a white shirt and dark shiny trousers, carrying a section of newspaper in his hand.
What’s this about, Guthrie?
Your son hurt my boys last night. I intend to talk to him about it.
What the hell are you talking about now? This is Sunday morning. Can’t you even leave him alone on a Sunday morning?
You tell him to come out here, Guthrie said.
Beckman studied Guthrie. All right, by God, he said. We’ll see about this. He turned to his wife. Go get him.
He’s still sleeping.
Get him up.
He don’t have no right coming here, she said. What right does he have?
Don’t you think I know that? Do what I say.
She left and after a moment Beckman stepped backward into the house and shut the door. Guthrie waited on the porch. He looked out toward the street and curb, the trees budding along the parkway, the big houses standing quiet and peaceful across the street. Next door, Fraiser came out of his white house in his Sunday clothes and stood for a moment on the front steps and took a cigarette out and lit it. He looked about and saw Guthrie and nodded to him and Guthrie nodded back. Mrs. Fraiser came out and her husband pointed to something in the flower bed at the front of their house. They moved off the step and Mrs. Fraiser bent over to look at it. She lifted her head and said something and he answered. They were still talking quietly back and forth when Beckman stepped out on the porch. The big boy was following him, and Mrs. Beckman came out behind him. They stood out on the railed porch in the bright fresh air. Guthrie faced them. The boy was in his jeans and tee-shirt and wore no shoes. He was just awake.
Now, Beckman said, talking to Guthrie. Tell him in front of us what this is about. What do you say happened?
Guthrie spoke directly to the boy. His voice sounded strained and tight. You finally went too far, didn’t you. You’ve hurt my two boys now. You and that Murphy kid. Last night you took them out in the country and scared them and then you figured it would be smart to pull their pants off and leave them out there to walk home. They’re just little boys. They’re just nine and ten years old. They didn’t do anything to you. They told me about it. You’re just a coward, aren’t you. You have something against me, then you come see me about it. But you leave my boys out of it.
What’s all this? Beckman said. What’s he talking about? Do you know anything about this?
I don’t know what he’s talking about, the boy said. I don’t have any idea what the hell he’s saying. He’s full of shit, as usual. I don’t even know his little kids.
Yeah you do, Guthrie said. He was barely able to speak now. His voice sounded tight even to himself, scarcely within his control. You’re lying again. You know exactly what I’m talking about.
I don’t know his kids! the boy said. I wouldn’t know em if they was standing right here in front of me. He’s always making trouble for me. Get him out of here.
Goddamn you, Guthrie said. You’re lying again. Then it was past talking. Guthrie rushed the boy and grabbed his shirt at the neck. You sorry son of a bitch. You leave my boys alone. He slammed the boy back against the front wall of the house, his fists up under his chin. If you ever touch my kids again . . .
But Beckman was in it now too. He grabbed Guthrie’s arms. Let him go, he was hollering. Let him go.
I’m warning you, Guthrie said, shouting, his voice still awkward and strained, his face inches away from the boy’s. Goddamn you. He rocked the boy’s head back against the house wall, the boy’s eyes flaring in alarm and surprise and anger, his chin tilted up above Guthrie’s fist, his head canted back; he was pulled up onto his toes, his hands scrabbling at Guthrie’s wrists.
Let go, goddamn it! Beckman yelled. His wife was slapping at Guthrie from the back, clawing at his jacket, screeching something unintelligible, not even words, just a high-pitched furious noise. Beckman was still jerking at Guthrie’s arms, then he stopped and drew back and hit Guthrie at the side of the face and Guthrie went over sideways, pulling the boy with him. Guthrie’s glasses hung crookedly from his face. Beckman bent over and swung again, hitting him above the ear.
Next door the Fraisers were watching. Mrs. Fraiser went running into the house to call the police, and her husband came hurrying across the yard between the two houses. Here now, he called. Here, you men, stop this.
Guthrie rose up and shoved the boy away, and Beckman came at him again, swinging wildly, and Guthrie ducked under his arm and hit him in the throat at the open neck of his white shirt. Beckman fell back choking. His wife screamed and tried to help him but he pushed her away. The boy rushed Guthrie from the side, his head lowered, and tackled him backward. They hit the porch rail and Guthrie felt something pop in his side, then they dropped down, the boy on top of him.
Guthrie fought with the boy on the floorboards and Beckman, recovered now, came once more and leaned over his son and found an opening and hit Guthrie in the face. Guthrie released the boy, then father and son worked on him together, punishing him, while he tried to roll over. When they stopped, Mrs. Beckman rushed forward and kicked him in the back. Guthrie rolled toward her and when she drew back to kick again he caught her foot, and she sat down violently on the porch boards, her dress flung up onto her thighs, and she sat just screaming until her husband lifted under her arms and raised her to her feet and told her to shut up. She sobered and straightened her dress. Guthrie got onto his knees, then stood. His face was smeared with the blood that ran from his nose and there was a cut over his eye. The chest pocket of his jacket was torn open, flapping like a tongue. He stood panting. One eye was already swelling shut and his side hurt where he’d hit the rail. He looked around for his glasses but couldn’t find them.
You men, Fraiser said. Here now. This isn’t the way.
Guthrie, you better get out of here, Beckman said. I’m telling you.
You son of a bitch, Guthrie panted.
You better go on. We’ll take you again.
You tell that boy . . .
I’m not telling him a goddamn thing. You leave him alone.
Guthrie looked at him. You tell him he better never touch my boys again. I’m telling all of you that now.
Wait, Fraiser said. Listen, you men.
Out in the street Bud Sealy suddenly pulled up in the blue sheriff’s car and got out in a hurry, the door swinging open, and he came hustling toward the house. He was a heavy red-faced man with a hard stomach. What’s going on here? he said. This don’t look like no Sunday school church meeting to me. He stepped onto the porch and looked at them. What’s all this? Who’s going to tell me?
Guthrie here attacked my boy, Beckman said. Come right to the house this morning raising hell, claiming some bullshit story about his kids. He called my boy outside and attacked him. But we fixed him.
That right, Tom? Is that what happened?
Guthrie didn’t answer. He was still looking at the Beckmans. Don’t you ever touch them again, he said. This is the one time I’m going to tell you.
Do I have to listen to this? Beckman said to the sheriff. This is my house. I don’t have to listen to this shit on my own front porch.
I’ll tell you what, Bud Sealy said. You all three better come down to the station with me. We’re going to talk this out. Tom, you better ride with me. And Beckman, you and the boy there follow us in your car.
What about me? Mrs. Beckman said. He attacked me too.
You come too, the sheriff said. With them in the car.
McPherons.
She told them about it that morning. About Dwayne coming to the school to get her and about climbing in his car and driving to Denver without even knowing why, and how she hoped for it to be one way but how it was another, and how it was generally in his little apartment on the second floor in Denver. The McPheron brothers listened to her, watching her face all the time she talked. And after breakfast they went outside and fed out and then came back to the house and cleaned up and put on their good Bailey hats and took her into town to see Dr. Martin.
On the way she told them what she hadn’t said two hours earlier while they were still seated at the kitchen table. She said she’d gone to a party with him and had let herself go and had gotten to drinking too much, and then she stopped talking and was just quiet, riding between the two old men in the pickup, her hands cupped in her lap under her stomach as though she were holding it up, supporting it.
Did you? they said.
Yes, she said, I did. Then without warning her eyes filled and tears ran down her cheeks and she looked straight ahead over the dashboard at the highway.
Is there something else? Raymond said. You seem like there is, Victoria.
Yes, she said.
What is it?
I got high smoking pot.
Is that marijuana?
Yes, and I don’t know what all I did. I couldn’t remember the next day and I had bruises and cuts on me and didn’t know where I got them.
Did you do it again? Go out to them parties with him?
No. That one time. But I’m scared. I’m afraid I might have done something to my baby.
Oh. Well. Do you think so?
Well, I don’t know. That’s just it.
I wouldn’t guess so, Raymond said. I knew of this heifer we had one time that was carrying a calf, and she got a length of fencewire down her some way and it never hurt her or the calf.
It didn’t?
No. Never bothered either one.
The girl looked at him, examining his face under the brim of his hat. They were okay?
Yes ma’am.
They were? You’re telling the truth?
That’s right. They were no worse for it.
She looked at him for a time and Raymond met her gaze, simply looking back at her and nodding once or twice.
Thank you. She swiped at her cheeks and eyes. Thank you for telling me that.
A heifer calf, as I remember, Raymond said. Good-sized.
They went on. They drove on into Holt to the clinic beside the hospital, on this bright clear day, the sky as pure and blue as the inside of a bowl from China. At the clinic the girl told the middle-aged woman behind the window at the front counter who she was and what she was there for.
We haven’t seen you for months, the woman said.
I’ve been out of town.
Take a seat, the woman said.
She sat down in the waiting room with the McPheron brothers and they waited and would not talk very much even to one another because there were other people in the room, and about an hour later they were still waiting.
Harold turned and looked at the girl and abruptly he got up and crossed to the counter and spoke to the woman through the window. I guess you don’t know what we’re here for.
What? the woman said.
This girl right over here come in to see the doctor.
I know.
We been here a hour, Harold said. Tell him that.
You’ll have to wait your turn.
No. I aim to wait right here. For you to tell him. Tell him we been here a hour. Go ahead now.
The woman stared at him in outrage and disbelief and he stared back, then she got up and went back into the hallway to the examination rooms and in a short while she returned. She said, He’ll see her next.
That’ll be better, Harold said. It’s not what a man might hope for. But it’ll do.
He sat down. Presently they called the girl and the two brothers watched her leave. They sat and waited for her to come back. After she’d been gone for five minutes Harold leaned sideways toward his brother and spoke to him in a loud whisper. You going to tell me now what in hell all that was, back there in the pickup?
All which? Raymond said.
That about that heifer taking fencewire. Where in hell’d you come up with that? I don’t remember any such thing.
I made it up.
You made it up, Harold said. He regarded his brother, who was staring out into the room. What else you going to make up?
Whatever I have to.
The hell you say.
I’m going to talk to this doctor too, when Victoria comes out.
About what?
I aim to put some questions to him.
Then I’m coming with you, Harold said.
Come or stay back, Raymond said. I know what I’m doing.
They waited. They sat upright in their chairs without reading or talking to anyone, simply looking across the room toward the windows and working their hands, their good hats still squared on their heads, as if they were outside in a day without wind. Other people came and went in the room. The sunlight on the floor, showing in through the window, moved unaccounted. Half an hour later the girl came out by herself and walked over to them, a tentative little smile on her face. They stood up.
It’s due in about two weeks, she said.
Is that so?
Yes.
What else did he say?
He says I’m all right. Both of us seem to be fine, he says.
That’s good, Raymond said. That’s just fine. Now you go on out to the pickup.
Why? Aren’t you coming?
Go ahead, if you would. It won’t be long.
She went outside and the McPheron brothers walked back, one after the other, past the middle-aged woman who was seated as before at the window. She stood up at once when they started unannounced down the hall and she rushed after them, calling to them, asking what they meant by this, they weren’t allowed back there, didn’t they know that much, and they went on regardless, as though they couldn’t hear her or else didn’t care even a little what she was saying, sticking their heads in any doors that were open along the way and opening two or three closed ones upon unsuspecting waiting patients who afterward came out into the hallway too, watching after them in shock and amazement. At the end of the hall the McPherons came upon a closed door behind which they could hear old Dr. Martin consulting with a female patient. They listened briefly, their heads cocked in an attitude of concentration under their silver-belly hats. Then Raymond knocked one time and shoved the door open.
Come out, he said. We got to talk with you.
What in the name of God! the old doctor cried. Get the hell out of here.
The woman whose heart he’d been listening to hurriedly pulled her paper shirt together and looked over at them, her pendulous breasts pressing against the thin material.
Come on out here, Raymond said again. Harold stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. The woman from the front counter stood back of Harold now, still objecting and remonstrating, talking quite loudly. They paid her no attention whatsoever. The doctor stepped out of the room and shut the door. His eyes were fiery glints behind his rimless glasses, above his good blue suit and immaculate white shirt and his neat hand-tied bow tie.
Just what is it you think you’re doing? he said.
We’re going to talk to you, Raymond said.
It won’t wait?
No sir, it won’t.
All right then. Talk. What’s this about?
This don’t concern her, Raymond said, indicating the woman from the front desk.
The old doctor turned to her and said, You can go back, Mrs. Barnes. I’ll take care of this.
It’s not my fault, she said. They came barging back here by themselves. I didn’t let them back here.
I know. You can return to the front desk now.
She wheeled and marched away, and the doctor led the McPheron brothers into the vacant examination room next door.
I don’t suppose you want to take the time to do anything so civil as to sit down, he said.
No.
No. I didn’t think so. Very well. What did you want to talk about?
Is she all right? Raymond said.
Who?
Victoria Roubideaux.
Yes, she is, the doctor said.
That boy didn’t do her any good.
You’re talking about the boy in Denver, I take it.
Yes. That miserable son of a bitch.
She told me about him. She said what happened there. But she seems all right.
He better not of hurt her permanent, Raymond said. You better be sure.
There’s no use threatening me, the old doctor said.
I’m telling you. You better make this come out right. That girl’s had enough trouble.
I’ll do everything I can. But it isn’t all up to me.
Some of it is.
And you better not get so wrought up, the doctor said.
I am wrought up, Raymond said, and I’m going to stay that way till this baby is born good and healthy and that girl is okay. Now you tell us what you told her.