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re: Midnight sleepy time reading, an ode to Auburn.
Posted on 10/21/16 at 11:03 pm to CtotheVrzrbck
Posted on 10/21/16 at 11:03 pm to CtotheVrzrbck
9
"Take them on to the shade and hitch," his father said. He did so and returned. His father and the smith
and a third man squatting on his heels inside the door were talking, about crops and animals; the boy,
squatting too in the ammoniac dust and hoof-parings and scales of rust, heard his father tell a long and
unhurried story out of the time before the birth of the older brother even when he had been a professional
horse trader. And then his father came up beside him where he stood before a tattered last year's circus
poster on the other side of the store, gazing rapt and quiet at the scarlet horses, the incredible poisings
and convolutions of tulle and tights and the painted leer of comedians, and said, "It's time to eat."
But not at home. Squatting beside his brother against the front wall, he watched his father emerge from
the store and produce from a paper sack a segment of cheese and divide it carefully and deliberately into
three with his pocket knife and produce crackers from the same sack. They all three squatted on the
gallery and ate, slowly, without talking; then in the store again, they drank from a tin dipper tepid water
smelling of the cedar bucket and of living beech trees. And still they did not go home. It was a horse lot
this time, a tall rail fence upon and along which men stood and sat and out of which one by one horses
were led, to be walked and trotted and then cantered back and forth along the road while the slow
swapping and buying went on and the sun began to slant westward, they - the three of them - watching
and listening, the older brother with his muddy eyes and his steady, inevitable tobacco, the father
commenting now and then on certain of the animals, to no one in particular.
It was after sundown when they reached home. They ate supper by lamplight, then, sitting on the
doorstep, the boy watched the night fully accomplished, listening to the whippoorwills and the frogs, when
he heard his mother's voice: "Abner! No! No! Oh, God. Oh, God. Abner!" and he rose, whirled, and saw
the altered light through the door where a candle stub now burned in a bottle neck on the table and his
father, still in the hat and coat, at once formal and burlesque as though dressed carefully for some shabby
and ceremonial violence, emptying the reservoir of the lamp back into the five-gallon kerosene can from
which it had been filled, while the mother tugged at his arm until he shifted the lamp to the other hand and
flung her back, not savagely or viciously, just hard, into the wall, her hands flung out against the wall for
balance, her mouth open and in her face the same quality of hopeless despair as had been in her voice.
Then his father saw him standing in the door.
"Go to the barn and get that can of oil we were oiling the wagon with," he said. The boy did not move.
Then he could speak.
"What…" he cried "What are you…"
"Go get that oil," his father said. "Go."
Then he was moving, running outside the house, toward the stable: this the old habit, the old blood which
he had not been permitted to choose for himself, which had been bequeathed him willy nilly and which
had run for so long (and who knew where, battening on what of outrage and savagery and lust) before it
came to him. I could keep on, he thought. I could run on and on and never look back, never need to see
his face again. Only I can't. I can't, the rusted can in his hand now, the liquid sploshing in it as he ran back
to the house and into it, into the sound of his mother's weeping in the next room, and handed the can to
his father.
"Ain't you going to even send a ****?" he cried. "At least you sent a **** before!"
This time his father didn't strike him. The hand came even faster than the blow had, the same hand which
had set the can on the table with almost excruciating care flashing from the can toward him too quick for
him to follow it, gripping him by the back of the shirt and on to tiptoe before he had seen it quit the can,
the face stooping at him in breathless and frozen ferocity, the cold, dead voice speaking over him to the
older brother who leaned against the table, chewing with that steady, curious, sidewise motion of cows:
"Empty the can into the big one and go on. I'll ketch up with you."
"Take them on to the shade and hitch," his father said. He did so and returned. His father and the smith
and a third man squatting on his heels inside the door were talking, about crops and animals; the boy,
squatting too in the ammoniac dust and hoof-parings and scales of rust, heard his father tell a long and
unhurried story out of the time before the birth of the older brother even when he had been a professional
horse trader. And then his father came up beside him where he stood before a tattered last year's circus
poster on the other side of the store, gazing rapt and quiet at the scarlet horses, the incredible poisings
and convolutions of tulle and tights and the painted leer of comedians, and said, "It's time to eat."
But not at home. Squatting beside his brother against the front wall, he watched his father emerge from
the store and produce from a paper sack a segment of cheese and divide it carefully and deliberately into
three with his pocket knife and produce crackers from the same sack. They all three squatted on the
gallery and ate, slowly, without talking; then in the store again, they drank from a tin dipper tepid water
smelling of the cedar bucket and of living beech trees. And still they did not go home. It was a horse lot
this time, a tall rail fence upon and along which men stood and sat and out of which one by one horses
were led, to be walked and trotted and then cantered back and forth along the road while the slow
swapping and buying went on and the sun began to slant westward, they - the three of them - watching
and listening, the older brother with his muddy eyes and his steady, inevitable tobacco, the father
commenting now and then on certain of the animals, to no one in particular.
It was after sundown when they reached home. They ate supper by lamplight, then, sitting on the
doorstep, the boy watched the night fully accomplished, listening to the whippoorwills and the frogs, when
he heard his mother's voice: "Abner! No! No! Oh, God. Oh, God. Abner!" and he rose, whirled, and saw
the altered light through the door where a candle stub now burned in a bottle neck on the table and his
father, still in the hat and coat, at once formal and burlesque as though dressed carefully for some shabby
and ceremonial violence, emptying the reservoir of the lamp back into the five-gallon kerosene can from
which it had been filled, while the mother tugged at his arm until he shifted the lamp to the other hand and
flung her back, not savagely or viciously, just hard, into the wall, her hands flung out against the wall for
balance, her mouth open and in her face the same quality of hopeless despair as had been in her voice.
Then his father saw him standing in the door.
"Go to the barn and get that can of oil we were oiling the wagon with," he said. The boy did not move.
Then he could speak.
"What…" he cried "What are you…"
"Go get that oil," his father said. "Go."
Then he was moving, running outside the house, toward the stable: this the old habit, the old blood which
he had not been permitted to choose for himself, which had been bequeathed him willy nilly and which
had run for so long (and who knew where, battening on what of outrage and savagery and lust) before it
came to him. I could keep on, he thought. I could run on and on and never look back, never need to see
his face again. Only I can't. I can't, the rusted can in his hand now, the liquid sploshing in it as he ran back
to the house and into it, into the sound of his mother's weeping in the next room, and handed the can to
his father.
"Ain't you going to even send a ****?" he cried. "At least you sent a **** before!"
This time his father didn't strike him. The hand came even faster than the blow had, the same hand which
had set the can on the table with almost excruciating care flashing from the can toward him too quick for
him to follow it, gripping him by the back of the shirt and on to tiptoe before he had seen it quit the can,
the face stooping at him in breathless and frozen ferocity, the cold, dead voice speaking over him to the
older brother who leaned against the table, chewing with that steady, curious, sidewise motion of cows:
"Empty the can into the big one and go on. I'll ketch up with you."
1
Posted on 10/21/16 at 11:03 pm to CtotheVrzrbck
10
"Better tie him to the bedpost," the brother said.
"Do like I told you," the father said. Then the boy was moving, his bunched shirt and the hard, bony hand
between his shoulder-blades, his toes just touching the floor, across the room and into the other one, past
the sisters sitting with spread heavy thighs in the two chairs over the cold hearth, and to where his mother
and aunt sat side by side on the bed, the aunt's arms about his mother's shoulders.
"Hold him," the father said. The aunt made a startled movement. "Not you," the father said. "Lennie. Take
hold of him. I want to see you do it." His mother took him by the wrist. "You'll hold him better than that. If
he gets loose don't you know what he is going to do? He will go up yonder." He jerked his head toward
the road. "Maybe I'd better tie him."
"I'll hold him," his mother whispered.
"See you do then." Then his father was gone, the stiff foot heavy and measured upon the boards, ceasing
at last.
Then he began to struggle. His mother caught him in both arms, he jerking and wrenching at them. He
would be stronger in the end, he knew that. But he had no time to wait for it. "Lemme go!" he cried. "I
don't want to have to hit you!"
"Let him go!" the aunt said. "If he don't go, before God, I am going up there myself!"
"Don't you see I can't?" his mother cried. "Sarty! Sarty! No! No! Help me, Lizzie!"
Then he was free. His aunt grasped at him but was too late. He whirled, running, his mother stumbled
forward on to her knees behind him, crying to the nearer sister: "Catch him, Net! Catch him!" But that was
too late too, the sister (the sisters were twins, born at the same time, yet either of them now gave the
impression of being, encompassing as much living meat and volume and weight as any other two of the
family) not yet having begun to rise from the chair, her head, face, alone merely turned, presenting to him
in the flying instant an astonishing expanse of young female features untroubled by any surprise even,
wearing only an expression of bovine interest. Then he was out of the room, out of the house, in the mild
dust of the starlit road and the heavy rifeness of honeysuckle, the pale ribbon unspooling with terrific
slowness under his running feet, reaching the gate at last and turning in, running, his heart and lungs
drumming, on up the drive toward the lighted house, the lighted door. He did not knock, he burst in,
sobbing for breath, incapable for the moment of speech; he saw the astonished face of the Negro in the
linen jacket without knowing when the Negro had appeared.
"De Spain!" he cried, panted. "Where's…" then he saw the white man too emerging from a white door
down the hall. "Barn!" he cried. "Barn!"
"What?" the white man said. "Barn?"
"Yes!" the boy cried. "Barn!"
"Catch him!" the white man shouted.
But it was too late this time too. The Negro grasped his shirt, but the entire sleeve, rotten with washing,
carried away, and he was out that door too and in the drive again, and had actually never ceased to run
even while he was screaming into the white man's face.
Behind him the white man was shouting, "My horse! Fetch my horse!" and he thought for an instant of
cutting across the park and climbing the fence into the road, but he did not know the park nor how high
"Better tie him to the bedpost," the brother said.
"Do like I told you," the father said. Then the boy was moving, his bunched shirt and the hard, bony hand
between his shoulder-blades, his toes just touching the floor, across the room and into the other one, past
the sisters sitting with spread heavy thighs in the two chairs over the cold hearth, and to where his mother
and aunt sat side by side on the bed, the aunt's arms about his mother's shoulders.
"Hold him," the father said. The aunt made a startled movement. "Not you," the father said. "Lennie. Take
hold of him. I want to see you do it." His mother took him by the wrist. "You'll hold him better than that. If
he gets loose don't you know what he is going to do? He will go up yonder." He jerked his head toward
the road. "Maybe I'd better tie him."
"I'll hold him," his mother whispered.
"See you do then." Then his father was gone, the stiff foot heavy and measured upon the boards, ceasing
at last.
Then he began to struggle. His mother caught him in both arms, he jerking and wrenching at them. He
would be stronger in the end, he knew that. But he had no time to wait for it. "Lemme go!" he cried. "I
don't want to have to hit you!"
"Let him go!" the aunt said. "If he don't go, before God, I am going up there myself!"
"Don't you see I can't?" his mother cried. "Sarty! Sarty! No! No! Help me, Lizzie!"
Then he was free. His aunt grasped at him but was too late. He whirled, running, his mother stumbled
forward on to her knees behind him, crying to the nearer sister: "Catch him, Net! Catch him!" But that was
too late too, the sister (the sisters were twins, born at the same time, yet either of them now gave the
impression of being, encompassing as much living meat and volume and weight as any other two of the
family) not yet having begun to rise from the chair, her head, face, alone merely turned, presenting to him
in the flying instant an astonishing expanse of young female features untroubled by any surprise even,
wearing only an expression of bovine interest. Then he was out of the room, out of the house, in the mild
dust of the starlit road and the heavy rifeness of honeysuckle, the pale ribbon unspooling with terrific
slowness under his running feet, reaching the gate at last and turning in, running, his heart and lungs
drumming, on up the drive toward the lighted house, the lighted door. He did not knock, he burst in,
sobbing for breath, incapable for the moment of speech; he saw the astonished face of the Negro in the
linen jacket without knowing when the Negro had appeared.
"De Spain!" he cried, panted. "Where's…" then he saw the white man too emerging from a white door
down the hall. "Barn!" he cried. "Barn!"
"What?" the white man said. "Barn?"
"Yes!" the boy cried. "Barn!"
"Catch him!" the white man shouted.
But it was too late this time too. The Negro grasped his shirt, but the entire sleeve, rotten with washing,
carried away, and he was out that door too and in the drive again, and had actually never ceased to run
even while he was screaming into the white man's face.
Behind him the white man was shouting, "My horse! Fetch my horse!" and he thought for an instant of
cutting across the park and climbing the fence into the road, but he did not know the park nor how high
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