"Thompson, Jim - Cropper's Cabin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thompson Jim)

He went on into the house, nodded absently at Mary and entered his bedroom--the bedroom and the kitchen were the only two rooms in that house, the one on the south end of the breezeway. My room and Mary's and what passed as a sitting room was in the other house.
He'd closed the door but we didn't have real walls between our rooms, just two by eleven plank partitions, and I heard him sigh and drop down on his cornshuck mattress. I gave Mary a grin, letting her know that everything was all right, and we began unloading the groceries.
"Hungry, Tom?" she said softly.
"That's not the word for it," I said.
"You want a sweet potato while you're waitin'? I got them and the greens done."
"1 guess I can hold out until supper," I said.
I unwrapped the slab of side meat and started slicing it into strips. She ripped open the sack of flour, began measuring double handfuls into a crockery bowl.
"Him," she muttered, "just too mean to live, that's what he is."
"Aw, now, Mary," I grinned, "You don't really mean that."
"I do so!" She tossed salt and baking powder into the flour. "Hardly a bite in this house since yesterday morning, all on account o' his meanness! He was in town yesterday, wasn't he? Why couldn't he've bought groceries then instead of today?"
"Well," I said, "you know how Pa figures. We've only got so much to spend for food. If we eat it all up at one time . . ."
"_Who_ eats it all? Who eats more around here than anyone else?"
I shrugged. "Well, he has to do without, too."
"Yeah," she said, bitterly. "I just bet he does! He wants him a sandwich or a sody pop or somethin', he buys it. I see _him_ doin' without anything!"
I told her she'd better keep her voice down, and she turned a little pale, glancing at the partition. Then, since there wasn't much else I could help with, I crossed over through the breezeway to the parlor.
It was the best fixed-up room in the place, and it was a pretty good best, considering. Mary had made the big hooked rug. She'd made the dyed flour-sack curtains. She'd woven the raffia mattings that padded the two easy chairs and the little settee. Pa and I had made the bases of the furniture--rustic, you'd call it--but the bent-willow arms and backs, the parts that really prettied it up, were Mary's work. Excepting the little packing-box center table, and, of course, the kerosene lamp and the big old-time Bible, practically everything in the room had been made by Mary.
I lighted the lamp, turning the flame down low to keep the wick from smoking. I looked around me, at the rug, the furniture and curtains; and, suddenly, for no reason I could think of, I blew the lamp out again. I stood there in the semi-darkness, the first rays of moonlight seeping through the windows, and I looked out of the room because I no longer liked it--I liked it but it made me uncomfortable--I stared across the breezeway and into the kitchen.
_How old. . . ?_
_Quite attractive . . . ?_
She plodded back and forth from the stove to the table, from table to cupboard. Her bare brown legs rose tapering and strong from the old unlaced ploughshoes, an old pair of mine. The faded gingham dress clung to her body, swelling and filling and curving, as she reached up to the cupboard or bent over the table. Her breasts, her pear-shaped hips, her belly, her . . .
I sat down, trembling a little. I took out my bandanna and wiped the sweat from my face, wiped my hands.
I didn't need to imagine. I knew what they--what all of her was like. And why shouldn't I? I thought. Why shouldn't I know and remember? She'd been like a mother to me. She'd been almost the same as the mother I'd never known.
No, there hadn't been anything wrong back then, back when I was a tot. There was nothing wrong in knowing and remembering; and there was nothing wrong now. It was right to kiss her goodnight; it was right to hug her and pat her when she was feeling blue and lonesome and beaten down.
It was right. It was just as it should be. Everything was the same as it always had been except that I'd let Donna put a crazy notion in my head. That was the whole trouble, and I'd better get over it fast. Because I had some real troubles to worry about.
I'd have a mess to face at school tomorrow. And, probably, if Pa did what I thought he would, there'd be an even worse fracas tonight with Matthew Ontime.
Mary called out that supper was ready.
We all sat down at the oilcloth-covered kitchen table, and Pa said a bless-this-bounty-eord, and we ate.
I'd been half-starved fifteen minutes before. But sometimes, you know, when you get too hungry, you lose your appetite; and I guess that was the trouble with me. Mary kept passing me dishes, and I'd pass 'em back. I'd take a little sometimes, but more often I wouldn't. I just couldn't eat much.
"You sick?" she said, finally.
"Oh, no," I said. "Just not very hungry."
"You ought to be hungry. What's the matter?"
"What's the matter with _you?_" said Pa, looking up from his plate. "Why'n't you stop gabbing all the time?"
"Y-yes, sir," said Mary.
"He knows whether he's hungry or not. He ain't no baby."
"Yes, sir," said Mary again.
It was funny to watch her. Kind of sad-funny. The minute his back was turned she couldn't say enough against him or do enough; although there wasn't really anything that she could do. But she couldn't face up to him for as much as a second. When he spoke to her or looked at her, she went down like a sunflower under a hoe. That was one side of Pa, the way he treated Mary, that was awfully hard to take.
Pa pushed back his plate and poured coffee into his saucer. He lifted it up, letting his eyes stray off to the right. And my heart skipped a beat. I knew what he was considering as he stared at the long shelf where the doublebarreled shotgun lay.
He squinted thoughtfully. Then, he sighed and gave his head a little shake. He put the saucer down on the oilcloth. His mouth twitched.
"God damn him," he said, and he was praying not cursing. "God damn his black soul to hell!"
He glared from me to Mary, his leathery face working; and he raised his hand and slapped it against the table.
"I'm gonna _make_ him! I'm gonna make him, you hear me?"
"All right, Pa," I said. I knew there wasn't any use arguing with him.
"Come on! We'll go right now."
I pushed my chair back and got up. All I could hope for was that he would not say anything to Matthew Ontime about Donna. Matthew had taken a lot off of Pa--more than he had any call to--but I knew there'd be fireworks if Pa said anything about his only daughter. Donna was the only family he had, his wife being dead, and Indians set a heap of store by their families.
"Pa"--I hesitated--"there's just one thing . . ."
"Yes," said Mary, her voice strangely loud. "Don't forget to tell him off about that crazy girl of his!"
It was probably the only time in her life she'd ever spoken up to Pa, and you can imagine how he took it. Up until then, I'm pretty sure, he had intended to speak his mind about Donna. But wild horses couldn't have made him do it now. He couldn't do something that she told him to do.
If I hadn't been a little sore at Mary, I'd have felt sorry for her.
"Now, that'd make a lot of sense, wouldn't it?" he jeered, his head thrust forward on his neck like a turkey gobbler's.
Mary didn't say anything. She'd started to fold up as soon as the words were out of her mouth.