THE HOMECOMING
Aunt Mira’s tearful prayers were not fully answered, not immediately at
all events. Westy’s father _was_ “hard on him.” His well advertised
prejudice against rifles as “toys” seemed justified in the light of his
son’s fall from grace. Westy did not have to incur the perils of a
detailed narrative.
Mr. Martin, notwithstanding his faith in his son, had always been rather
fanatical about this matter of “murderous weapons” even where Westy was
concerned. He was very pig-headed, as Westy’s mother often felt
constrained to declare, and the mere fact of the killing of the deer was
quite enough for a gentleman in his state of mind. Fortunately, he did
not prefer a kindly demand for particulars.
“I just did it and I’m not going to make any excuses,” said Westy
simply. “I told you I did it because I wouldn’t do a thing like that and
not tell you. You can’t say I didn’t come home and tell you the truth.”
The memorable scene occurred in the library of the Martin home, Westy
standing near the door ready to make his exit obediently each time his
father thundered, “That’s all I’ve got to say.” First and last Mr.
Martin said this as many as twenty times. But there seemed always more
to say and poor Westy lingered, fending the storm as best he could.
It was the night of his arrival home, his little trunk had been
delivered earlier in the day, and on the library table were several
rustic mementos of the country which the boy had thought to purchase for
his parents and his sister Doris. A plenitude of rosy apples (never
forgotten by the homecoming vacationist) were scattered on the sofa
where Doris sat sampling one of them. Mrs. Martin sat at the table, a
book inverted in her lap. Mr. Martin strode about the room while he
talked.
They had all been away and the furniture was still covered with ghostly
sheeting. About the only ornaments at large were the little birch bark
gewgaws and the imitation bronze ash receptacle which Westy had brought
with him. This latter, which seemed to mock the poor boy’s welcome home
had Greetings From Chandler printed on it and was for his father.
“And that’s all I’ve got to say,” said Mr. Martin.
“Anyway, I didn’t lie,” said Westy, his eyes brimming.
“I never accused you of lying and I’m not laying all the blame to you
either,” thundered his father. “Three and three and three make nine. A
boy, a gun, and a wild animal make a killing and that’s all there is to
it.”
“Well, then let’s talk of something else,” said Mrs. Martin gently.
“Don’t you think this ash tray is very pretty? Westy brought it to you,
dear.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t use the word _dear_ again, mother,” said
Doris, munching her apple. “I’ve heard so much about deers——”
“And the boy’s lost a hundred dollars!” thundered Mr. Martin, ignoring
his daughter. “When I was his age——”
“Well, he’s had his lesson,” said Doris sweetly. “A hundred dollars
isn’t so much for a good lesson.”
“No?” said her father. “It’s enough for you to make a big fuss about
when you want it. I said from the beginning that I was opposed to
firearms. I don’t want them around the house—look at Doctor Warren’s
boy.”
At this Doris sank into a limp attitude of utter despair, for the
accidental killing of the Warren boy had occurred before Westy was born
and it had been cited on an average of twice a day ever since Westy’s
rifle had been brought into the house under the frowning protest of his
father.
“Well, now, let’s settle this matter once and for all,” said Mr. Martin.
“And I don’t want to be interrupted either,” he added. “You’ve bought a
gun against my wishes,” he said, turning on Westy. “You had to have a
gun—nothing would do but a gun. Your mother saw no harm. Your sister
said there was—what did you say?—something heroic, was it, about a gun?
All right, you got the gun—repeater or whatever it is. I asked you not
to take it away with you but you must take it to shoot at targets. You
went up there to earn some money to go out to the Yellowstone. Now here
you are back again with hardly a cent in your pockets and you’ve broken
the law and the one thing I’m thankful for is that you haven’t shed the
blood of some other boy. Now this is the last word I’m going to say
about it——”
Doris groaned, Mrs. Martin looked sadly at her son who was listening
respectfully, shifting from one foot to the other, his straightforward
eyes brimming over.
“This is the last I’m going to say about it,” repeated Mr. Martin in a
way which did actually at last suggest something in the way of a
decisive end of the whole business. “Now, Westy,” he continued with a
note of feeling in his voice, “you’ve put an end to all my thoughts
about going to the Yellowstone with you.” Westy gulped, listening.
“You’ve paid the money you earned and saved to keep yourself out of
jail. Three and three and three make nine——”
“Just the same as they did before,” said Doris sweetly.
“—a boy, a gun, and a wild animal, those three things spell danger. Now,
my boy, I’m not going to go on blaming you and I’m not going to ask you
any questions because those three things answer the question good enough
for me. Boy—gun—— And you’ve lost a hundred dollars and had a good
scare. I don’t blame you that you don’t want to talk about it. The gun
spoke for itself; am I right?”
“Y-yes, sir,” Westy gulped.
“All right then, as they say, return the goods and no questions asked.
They say every dog is entitled to one bite and I suppose every boy that
has a gun gets one shot. Now you’ve had yours and paid a good price for
it. Now, Westy, you bring me that gun, here and now.” He clapped his
hands with an air of finality and there followed a tense silence.
“If—if I don’t—if I promise not to use—even take it outdoors——”
“No, sir, you bring me that gun here and now.”
Mr. Martin was grimly mandatory and neither his wife nor daughter
ventured a word, though Mrs. Martin looked the picture of misery. Westy
brought his precious rifle from his room and handed it to his father.
Mr. Martin held it as if it were a poisonous snake. The mirthful Doris
placed the apple she was eating upon her head as if to invite the modern
William Tell to shoot it off. But Mr. Martin was not tuned to this sort
of banter.
Unlocking the closet beside the fireplace he gingerly lay the rifle
inside it and locked the closet again, joggling the door to give himself
double assurance that it was securely locked. In his over-sensitive
state, Westy construed this last act as an implication by his father
that his son might later try to get the door open.
“You don’t have to lock it,” said Westy proudly.
“It isn’t you he’s thinking about, dearie,” said Mrs. Martin. “He’s
afraid about the gun.”
Very likely that was true. Mr. Martin had indeed lost some faith in
Westy’s ability to keep his promise where a gun was concerned, but his
confidence in his son had not diminished to a point where he believed
Westy would invade that forbidden closet. Probably Doris expressed her
father’s mental state accurately enough when she said later to her
mother, “He isn’t afraid that Westy will break in, he’s afraid that the
gun will break out. The rifle has got father’s goat as well as somebody
or other’s deer.”
“You shouldn’t use such slang, dear,” said Mrs. Martin gently.
The dungeon to which the rifle had been consigned was one of those holy
of holies to be found in every household. Mr. Martin had always been the
exclusive warden of this mysterious retreat.
As a little boy, Westy had supposed it contained a skeleton (he never
knew why he thought so) and that all his father’s worldly wealth was
there secreted in an iron chest of the kind which has always been in
vogue with pirates. Later, when he had learned of the existence of banks
he had abandoned this belief and had come to know (he knew not how) that
the closet contained books which had undergone parental censorship and
been banned from the library shelves. Doris had never regarded this
closet with the same reverential awe that Westy had shown for it; she
said it was full of moths and that its forbidden literature was easily
procurable through other sources.
But ever since Westy and Roy Blakeley had tried to peek in through the
keyhole of this closet to discover the skeleton there, the son of the
house had looked upon it as a place of mystery. And though it had lost
some of the glamor of romance as he had grown older, he knew that
whatever was in it never came out. It was a tomb.