The Madden boy was worried about his laundry. It was a week late, he
couldn’t remember who was doing it for him, and besides he was having
one of those moods that made him worry about little things. It was not
so much the tragic lack of socks, he told Harvey Todd, but there were
three shirts in it that belonged to Bob Stuart.
“I hate not returning people’s clothes,” he said. “I hate wearing them
in the first place but this time I couldn’t help it. It’s maddening.”
Harvey never rose to the heights of hysteria, and this time he was
almost phlegmatic. “It’ll be along,” he said. “Don’t forget, some of it
was mine. I’ll help you yell when the time comes. Jesus, I’m late.” He
slammed down his cup on the table, between a broken tumbler and an eggy
plate, and hurried out of the door, carrying his hat.
“Canaille,” said Teddy humorously. “Cochon,” he added into the mirror,
scowling fiercely.
“Señor?” asked a tremulous voice at the door. A little girl held out a
huge bundle as he opened the screen. “Eighty-four cents,” she said. “My
mother says she can’t find one sock. She send tomorrow.”
“Oh, yes? Well, tell her I’ll pay then.”
“Si, señor.” There was boredom and cynicism in her tone as she turned
away. Teddy’s eyes narrowed; he thought of challenging her, but what was
there to say? He shrugged and forgot it, sitting by the table and
looking vacantly at the unopened bundle. The sun crept up his leg and
his kneecap began to prickle pleasantly under the linen trousers. He sat
still until the bundle blurred and moved gently out of itself,
projecting a phantom bundle an inch away from its own crisp outlines,
hovering a little above the shining top of the table on which it had
lain. He dreamed; a good picture like this, with the checkered
table-cloth and the spots of sunlight.... A fly bit him savagely on the
ankle and he stood up.
The picture waiting for him must be finished today or he would hate
himself. Last night he should not have stopped after working up to it
all day. Had he gone on, it might have been really good. Could he ever
do anything really good? Why couldn’t he get immersed, and forget people
and money and his own fading flesh? He looked at the easel and felt that
he would never see it as it should be; he almost wept from exasperation.
There were so many interruptions. There was his own careless
incompetence, and his eternal itching to see people and to have people
love him, and there was money. Money.... A familiar panic began to rise.
He seized a brush and set to work.
It wouldn’t go. He moved about distractedly, trying to clean up the
room. The dirty plates were piled up in the sink; he made a few dabs at
them and changed his mind. He looked apathetically at the stiff spotted
table-cloth and hung up a leather coat that had slipped from its nail.
Then he caught a glimpse of the painting from a new angle; a real
feeling of interest persuaded him to get to work again.
Another hour was coaxed out of eternity. The sun crept farther into the
warm house; out in the street was a growing rush of motorcars and
sometimes a clatter of hoofs; the tap in the sink dripped with a
cheerful chiming splash on the tumbled china. He whistled and painted.
Beginning to feel cramped, he took a short walk around the room, keeping
a wary eye on the canvas as if it might take flight with his spasm of
energy. It was clear again; he saw just what he wanted and perhaps he
could do it. But not just now.
“Stale,” he said aloud to his conscience, and his voice sounded choked
and rusty in the empty room. He would do something else for awhile.
Shave? The idea of putting on water to heat seemed impossible. Wait till
later; plenty of water at Bob’s. He leaned to the mirror and rubbed his
chin thoughtfully, wondering how he would look with a beard. Bob
wouldn’t like it. That reminded him of the shirts and he untied the
laundry, sorting it out and hesitating sometimes, sock in hand, between
the two piles of segregated underwear, his own and Harvey’s. He always
gave himself the benefit of the hesitation. But it meant nothing: Harvey
would ravage his store at the first necessity.
The work impulse was quite dead. He felt relieved, as though he had
flung a small morsel into the maw of his conscience, but otherwise there
was no twinge of energy. He tied up Bob’s shirts and put the last
unbroken record on the rickety little Victrola, borrowed one evening
from Gin and still unreturned. They needed records: the Lennards had
good records. Blake kept up pretty well; he probably just walked into a
place and bought up everything. Pretty soft for him.
Well, one could make out by snuggling up to the big houses, riding in
their cars and going to their parties and drinking their liquor. One
smothered the occasional fever of hopeless malice. They couldn’t help
being lazy and easily pleased and careless. If only they wouldn’t try to
be critical about painting. There must be things they couldn’t have;
there must be.
“When I am rich,” he thought, and then, “but if I never am?”
He paused with a clean towel in his hand, and looked around. The room
was still the same, small and bare and cluttered and dirty. Outside the
window was a blue mountain-peak beyond a broad dwindling stretch of
juniper-dotted sand, but around his house there were other little low
houses, mud houses sinking in the mud of the road. He turned slowly
around, looking hopelessly at the yellow walls and at the tiny
fire-place spilling pine ash out on the floor. The picture was shining
wetly and tiny knobs of paint on the canvas shed tiny shadows. He
frowned at it, stepped suddenly closer and examined it carefully.
The letter-box outside clanged in closing, and he heard the postman
going away. More bills? Perhaps there would be something else: he
decided to see. There was a letter from home, from Minnesota.
The very sight of the postmark sent a heavy lump to his chest. If he
didn’t open it? If he dropped it into the gray ashes by accident, and
waited until Harvey had burned it in the evening? Busy with the thought,
he moved his hand up and down balancing it, weighing it. To open it
would mean the day lost, with all his work ruined. He would read it and
then flee from the close little room, searching madly all over town for
someone—anyone—who knew nothing about Minnesota or families: someone
rich and lazy and lucky and dumb; some stranger. Burn it; burn the next
one and the next and the next. Burn it.
With a despairing glance at his mountain, a farewell glance, he tore it
open and found a check for ten dollars, blotted a little and somehow
nibbled at the edges. The letter was on blue-lined paper. From the
little square sheets rose an almost visible feeling, like smoke; the
room was steeped in Teddy’s guilt. And yet it was a nice letter.
“Dear Teddy,” his mother had written, innocently enough, at the
old brown desk in the front room. “I don’t want to scold you in
this letter because I know it is hard to find time to write when
you are getting started, I thought that I would have to tell you
that your father gets worried. I tell him not to be foolish as I
am sure if anything had happened we would be notified right
away. He worries about everything these days because business is
not very good. We are very well except for a cold that has run
through the family, I hope you are taking care of yourself, I
can’t help thinking that you are too young to be so far away.
Tommy’s report from school is a little better than it has been
especially on spelling. There is not much news, the Dibbles are
having a hard time with Kenneth, I am afraid he is a wild boy.
Tommy saw him Saturday night with that girl at the drug store
and they had been drinking. I am so sorry for Mrs. Dibble, I am
sure if a son of mine acted like that it would kill your father.
He was saying this morning he could probably speak to Mr. Larsen
about your working in the store here, I tell him it is more
likely the country that is the attraction out there, the picture
you sent is very pretty. Please write even a postcard, your
father worries. I enclose something to help out, you don’t need
to mention it when you write because your father is worried
about the business.
Lovingly, your
Mother.”
The Madden boy put the letter down on the table and walked around the
room, thinking. The first few minutes were always the hardest. He
reasoned with himself frantically, trying to get rid of that lump in his
chest. He hated himself; more than that he hated his mother. It was not
right to make him feel so guilty. It was not right. People don’t stay
home. His father had not stayed home. He had run away to Minnesota; if
he happened to marry and have children, why should they stay home?
Oh, forget it, forget it. There was the check, now. A boy in a book
would send it back with interest. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t just
send it back like that and hurt her feelings. The only frank, honest,
brave thing to do was to keep it, in the face of all families, all
feelings, all outworn nests and prisons. This was his city, these his
mountains. Somewhere in America there was a woman who had borne him, but
everywhere there were children being born. What about it? He asked his
mother that. What about it? Oh, damn.
Someone threw a rock against the door. Furiously he tore it open and
looked out.
“Oh,” he said, “it’s you. Come in.”
Blake Lennard, it was, sitting on a norse and wearing a huge Stetson. He
looked light-hearted and absurd, but shy. He started to climb down.
“You’re up?” he said. “No one else seems to be. I’ve been riding all
over town trying to find my way. What I thought was that maybe you would
like to ride; there is another horse up at the house. I had it saddled
in case I found anyone. I want to see what it’s like around here. Are
you too busy?”
“Fine, no, come on in. I’ll be ready in a second.” The hysteria had
departed. Until the next letter. Meantime there were all the playboys
and the parties.
Blake stepped in, looking around with equal interest in everything, the
bed with colored blankets tossed in the middle and the dusty bits of
art.
“Is it yours?” he asked, looking at the picture. “I like it. Don’t you?
It’s almost finished: weren’t you working on it? Didn’t I really
interrupt?”
“No,” said the Madden boy, crushing a piece of paper and throwing it
into the fire, “I wasn’t going to finish it. Chuck me that boot, will
you?”