Chapter 26

The winter was passing. It had been long. As its last days dragged, in Louisville, a false spring came on as it often does in that season. Outside the city the first glimmers of growing had appeared, tiny green spears in barley fields, and hesitant statuesque spring flowers. Wake-robins bloomed in woods, dark red and hidden, like grief. In the city a soft evening wind moved. Anton Gaddy was parting from Dyke Burwell at the truck. He settled his round hat firmly. Dyke was coaxing, “Hey Mester Gaddy, whyn’t you come with me this once? There’s this here old girl. Must weigh near a quarter ton. Now I mean that pussy’s buried.”

“I’ll see you here at the Chevy, boy.” Anton was impatient. “Tomorrow morning.”

“All right. But they got skinny ones too. If you’d rather. They got all kinds.”

Anton was rushing away down the street, his flewlike lips sagging, a frown over his long face. He was preoccupied, afraid. He believed he was losing the woman Rose. For more than a year now he had been visiting her apartment. At one time he and Dyke had made excuses to each other that there were auctions and sales that must be attended. But gradually they had shed the pretense and now traveled the seventy miles often. Dyke would come by the Gaddy farmhouse to see Anton. “Got an old cow that’s no good. Reckon I’ll take her to the auctions.” And Anton would reply, “Before God, leave the fool beast be. Haw. Let’s take off for Louisville right now.”

He was halting outside the brick building. The last few times here a man had come down the darkened stair and once he saw him stride away on the street. The man’s cheekbones were broad and high, he was stockily built with a bold way about him. Anton had confronted Rose with it when she let him in. “You’ve had company, I see.”

“I might.” She had smiled, tantalizing, throwing back her heavy dark hair.

“I told you to e’er wait for me.” Rose denied it then and said she was teasing. But it had festered in him.

Anton looked up now as he came into the doorway. The figure was there, at the bottom of the stairs. He stood aside while it brushed by. His heart began to thud, an anger started in his bowels. On the stairs he was breathing heavily. “Like to take the strap to her.” But he was held from physical action. She might slip away. He was never sure of his grip on Rose, winced from her laughter. He had thought of asking Father Tompert about a dispensation to make her his wife. But he put off the issue, fearing the priest’s flat refusal, his suspicious eyes. Anton’s old peremptory ways had given over to some hesitancy. His younger daughter and then his grandson had evaded him. His belief in his mother Nell’s, fidelity and excellence had been ravaged. Even his faith was wavering. He lived with feelings of frustration, of powerlessness, of guilt in sin. He was bent on Rose with a measure of desperation. As he was about to rap, the door swung open as if the woman were waiting.

“Oh it’s you.” As if surprised she said it and laughed, her wide soft face impudent.

“What’s this you say? Hum. I told you I was coming.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t pleased to see you. Did I?”

He was coming after her in his heavy coat, placing his hand on her buttocks as he was used to do. “Rose?”

“You don’t own me, Daddy,” she railed, eluding his grasp. She was wearing a sheathed dress instead of her flowered housecoat. “You’ll muss my make-up. I’m going out.”

She had on high slippers so that she was taller than Anton. This somehow angered him. “You’re going to meet that man. That whoreson that just was here.”

“No, Daddy.” Her voice was light.

“I’ve caught him coming out three-four times now.”

“He’s young,” she mocked.

“I’ve got a power in me yet. You know that.”

“Look.” She was picking up her purse and coat, and a green beret with a matching feather. “Look, I need some things for supper. I’ll be back a little late.” She put on the hat, her eyes moist and teasing. “But I’ll be back, Daddy. You wait.” She was out the door, her high laugh stringing behind.

He sat on the edge of the bed, wearing his overcoat and hat. “I’ve got a mind to whip her. Got a mind to kill her. Punish her for lying.” He was whispering into the room. His coat dropped from his shoulders and was sliding to the floor. He pulled his shirt open roughly at the neck, tearing the tie. Noises came from throughout the building. A door slapped shut. Steps were ascending and descending. He waited for each to be Rose. His sickness for her churned in him. He could feel his potency failing, shrinking. “She’s wanting a young stud.”

He was rising, moving to the window, the black hat still on. He shoved the window up, banging it, leaning out. There was a pale street lamp at the corner. A semi-truck came rumbling heavily over the pavement. A man stumbled across the half-dark spring-scented street. A couple were sauntering, arms about each other’s waists, the girl tittering shrill. A sailor, pants tight about his loins, stalked the sidewalk opposite: “Where’d you get the broad, Jack?”

Anton’s eyes had slitted. He was wrenching off his belt. It was the old one of thick cowhide with a weighted brass buckle. His gray eyes were dry though his defeated mouth was drawn as if to weep. He spoke hoarse, threatening, “Before God, I’ll punish that Rose-whore good. I’ll put myself into damnation. I’ll learn her to cuckold.”

Two hours passed before Rose returned. She was humming in time to the click of her confident heels.

In a little lovenest Just for you and me, a dovenest

She shifted her parcels and turned the knob. When she saw the dead man hanging in the grip of the strap from the tall closet door, the body had ceased any movement. She stepped close enough to touch it with her hand; it was beginning to stiffen. Mechanically, she plucked up the overturned chair beneath it, and set it straight. A breeze blew up, billowing the curtains, and she went to the window to close it. She stumbled on his overcoat by the bedside, dropped her bags on the coverlet and caught up the phone. She spoke a number to the operator, whispering, and waited.

“Christian?” She was sitting on the bed abruptly. “You have to come here right away. I can’t explain. I’m afraid. You tell Mama I might go home after all.” She began to cry, listening. “I’ll wait. You hurry.” She returned the receiver. She was quiet, shivering. After a long time she heard a step outside, ran to the door, pulling him in. All at once sobs were convulsing her, “It’s there. Look.”

He called the police. “By damn, where’d you meet him, Rose?”

“He’s the one I wanted to marry.”

When the two officers arrived they took the body down and laid it out on the floor. They searched pockets and made notes. “Who are you?” they asked Christian.

“I’m her brother.”

They directed Rose to appear at the inquest; they questioned her, “You must have some idea why he did it, Miss Ay?”

“I don’t understand. We were the best of friends, Mr. Gaddy and me. I just went down the street for a few minutes. He was waiting for me. I was going to get some food.”

Christian was asking, “Will you notify the relatives?”

“His wife’s in a state institution,” Rose offered. “He’s had family troubles, one kind and another. Maybe that’s why it happened.”

“Here’s a letter,” the officer said. “Garland Gaddy. We’ll get hold of him.” A knock was heard. “That’s the ambulance.” The body was covered, then removed, the interns clattering as they went down the staircase. “All right, miss. We’ll notify you when we want you. Good night.” He put his cap back on.

“I’d be glad to help,” Christian said.

“We won’t need you. Just your sister. Good night.”

Christian didn’t say that long ago he had known the dead man. Once Anton Gaddy had stood scornful in high weeds, spitting tobacco juice, calling him boy.

Dyke Burwell was waiting at the truck in the morning, baffled, having searched cafes and bars for Anton. By afternoon he made the decision to drive back to Millville alone. A rainstorm was brewing and there was a load of soybean sacks under the tarpaulin on the truck. Dyke had known Anton was keeping a woman but that was as far as his information went. He had considered notifying the police but dismissed it. Anton would have to return by bus. When he reached the Gaddy farm three hours later, thunder was growling in the murky afternoon sky. Sam Offut ran out, followed by Eadie, her hair disheveled, her hands flapping. Eadie threw her apron over her face and wailed. Sam was yelling, hunched and beady-eyed, “Old man’s dead. Sheriff just left us. I says, call his brother in Chicago, he’ll know where those daughters be. Poor trash, walking out on their pa. For Gawd, Dyke.”

“Hey,” Dyke shouted in fear. “Who was it killed him?”

“Himself. He done it himself.” The wind smote the treetops.

“Raised his hand,” cried Eadie. “Against his soul. He’ll burn for it. Jehovah!”

Dyke helped Sam unload half the soybeans while lightning flashed nearby. Then Dyke went home and word was bruited throughout the countryside. Folks found reasons to drive past the Gaddy farm. They would peer fearfully at the two old Offuts and exchange words about them. They named it a ghost farm.

part five

and each alone Walk together toward the trees Where the road runs out of sight In the green beyond the leaves The green cove below the light