圣诞忆旧集——来客

感恩节来客（节选） 一个生机勃勃的日子，那个感恩节。那么生机勃勃，一阵阵大雨下下停停，又突然放晴，一束束太阳直射下来，还有突来的疾风攫走了残留的秋叶。 房子里的闹声也是那么可爱：锅碗瓢盆，B叔穿着吱扭响的礼拜天西服站在大厅里，用他那久置不用生锈的嗓音欢迎客人的到来。有几个客人是坐在马背上或骡车上过来的，大部分都是坐着洗亮的农场卡车或摇晃的小汽车过来的。康科林先生和太太以及他们四个美丽的女儿开着一辆薄荷绿的1932款雪佛莱来了（康科林先生很有钱，他拥有好几艘渔帆船，在牟拜尔以外的地方经营），这样东西引发了在场男士们热烈的好奇心，他们又是研究又是察探，只差没把它拆了。 第一批来到的客人是玛丽·泰勒·威尔赖特夫人，陪同来的还有她的监护人，一个孙子和孙媳。威尔赖特夫人是个漂亮的小东西。年龄于她就像头上的小红帽一样轻巧，而那帽子又像香草圣代上的樱桃，轻巧地栖落在她牛奶样的白发上。“亲爱的波比，”她说着抱住了B叔，“我知道我们来早了一丁点，可你知道我的，总是准时得过头。”这是一个应该的道歉，因为现在还不到九点，而我们预期客人在中午之前一点到就可以了。 不过，每个人都到得比我们期待得早，除了派克·麦克劳德一家，他们在三十里的路途中遭遇了两次爆胎，到的时候气呼呼地直跺脚，尤其是麦克劳德先生，弄得我们直为瓷器担心。大部分人一年到头都住在偏僻不易出行的地方：闭塞的农场，火车见信号才停的小站和岔路口，河边空落的村庄和松林深处的伐木营地。因此当然是迫切的心情促使他们早来，准备着参加一个爱意浓浓，值得纪念的聚会。 事情是这样的。不久前，我收到一封康科林姐妹中的一个写来的信，她现在是一个海军军官的妻子，住在圣地亚哥。她写道：“到了一年的这个时候，我就经常想起你，我想是因为阿拉巴马的感恩节上发生过的事情。那是苏珂小姐去世前几年，是1933年？哦，我永远不会忘记那天。” 到了中午，前厅里再也挤不下另外一个人，那里就像一个蜂巢，嗡嗡响着女人们闲聊的碎语，弥漫着她们的香气：威尔赖特夫人散发着百合水的味道，而安娜贝尔·康科林是雨后天竺葵的香。烟草的气味从门廊处发散开来，尽管变幻莫测的天气，一会儿雨打一会儿风吹日又晒，大多数男人们还是簇拥在那里。烟草对这里来说是陌生的物质。诚然，苏珂小姐时不时会偷偷地吸点鼻烟，可能是有人交给她保管的，但她拒绝讨论这件事。她的姐姐们如果怀疑到这上面的话，会觉得很丢面子的。而B叔也是，因为他对一切刺激品都持强硬反对态度，从道德上和药理上都谴责它们的使用。 雪茄浑厚的芳香、烟斗中强烈的刺鼻气味，以及它们所唤起的龟壳般丰富的感觉，不断地吸引着我，我从前厅走到门廊上，虽然我更喜欢呆在前厅，因为康科林姐妹在那里。她们轮流弹着我们调过音的钢琴，很会弹，却只是弹着玩，嬉闹着没点正经的样子。“印第安爱的呼唤”是他们的保留曲目，还有一首1918战时歌谣，唱一个小孩哀求家中的窃贼时的哀叹，名字叫“别偷爸爸的奖章，那是他用勇敢换取的。”安娜贝尔边弹边唱。她是姐妹中最大和最漂亮的，不过要比较她们其实挺费力，因为她们就像高度不一的四连音。你会想到苹果，紧密、芬芳、香甜但却有点苹果酸。她们的头发，编成松松的辫子，有着一匹驯养得很好的黑色赛马那样的乌蓝光泽，还有一些地方，比如眉毛、眼睛和笑起来时的嘴巴，翘起来的样子很特别，更添风致。最可爱的是她们都有一点丰满，准确地说，是“丰盈”。 正是在听安娜贝尔弹琴，爱上她的时候，我感觉到了奥德·汉得森。我说感觉到，是因为在看到他之前，我就知道他来了：一种危险临近的预感提醒了我，就像一个有经验的伐木人在遭遇眼镜蛇或响尾蛇之前的感觉一样。 我转过身，那家伙站在前厅门口，一半在门里，一半在门外。在别人眼里，他可能只是一个邋遢的十二岁瘦竹竿男孩，为了来到这个场合做了一些努力：把乱糟糟的头发分开梳理了一下，梳子的槽痕还潮湿而清晰。但对我来说，他是不速之客，像从瓶子里放出来的妖怪一样邪恶。我真是个猪头啊，竟然以为他不会出现！只有驴子才会没有想到，他会出于恶意前来，破坏我等待的这一天他会很快乐。 可是奥德还没看到我：安娜贝尔吸引了他的注意力。她坚定而灵敏的手指在翘起的琴键上面翻飞，他望着她，张着嘴，眼睛眯成一条缝，好像他撞见她除掉了衣服，在河水里洗澡一样。他像是沉浸在某种理想的幻象中。本来就红的耳朵现在变得红辣椒一样。门里的情景让他发呆，我因此能够从他身边直接挤出来，跑过大厅来到厨房。“他来了！” 我朋友几小时前就完成了她的工作，而且她还有两个有色女人帮忙。然而从聚会一开始，她就一直躲在厨房里，装着在陪伴被驱逐的奎妮。事实上，她只是害怕混迹任何人群，即便是亲戚们组成的人群。这也是她为什么那么信赖圣经和里面的人物，却很少去教堂的原因。虽然她喜欢所有的孩子，和他们能自在相处，但人们却不能把她当成一个孩子，而她自己，也无法把自己当成一个大人，在他们中间她会像个害羞的大姑娘一样举止无措，沉默，很受惊吓。但聚会这个想法也会令她欣喜。多么遗憾啊，她不能亲临现场，如果那样她本应感到很快乐的。 我注意到我朋友的手在抖，我的也是。她通常的行头包括棉布花裙、网球鞋和B叔的旧毛衣。她没有适合这样拘礼的场合的衣服。可今天她穿的是从她强壮的姐姐那里借来的衣服，人仿佛没在了里面.那是一条恐怖兮兮的藏青裙子，我记得它的主人参加县里每场葬礼的时候都穿着它。 “他来了。”我第三遍告诉她。“奥德·汉得森。” “那么你为什么不和他在一起？”她告诫说。“这样不礼貌，巴迪。他是你的客人，你应该到那里去把他介绍给每个人，让他玩得开心。” “我做不到。我不能和他说话。” 奎妮蜷缩在她的膝盖上，享受着头部抚摩。我朋友站起来，把奎妮倒了出去，露出一段沾着狗毛的藏青的衣料，说：“巴迪，你说你还没和那个孩子说过话！”我的无礼使她忘记了自己的胆怯，抓住我的手，她领我走去前厅。” 她没必要为了奥德的利益而恼火的。安娜贝尔·康科林的魅力已经把他吸引到了钢琴边。事实上，他缩在她旁边的琴凳上，坐着欣赏她悦目的侧影。他的眼睛是半透明的，像那条鲸鱼标本的眼珠，那年夏天一个巡游马戏团经过我们镇，广告上说那个标本就是“大白鲸”里的那一条，要五分钱才能看一眼它的残骸。那些骗子！说到安娜贝尔，她会和所有能走能爬的东西调情。不，这么说不公平，因为那其实只是一种和善慷慨的性情，她的生活态度。可是，看到她对着那个赶骡人卖俏仍然让我很受伤。 我朋友一边把我拉上前，一边向他介绍自己：“巴迪和我，我们很高兴你能来。”奥德的举止像头公山羊：他既没有站起来伸出手，也根本瞧都没瞧我们一眼。我朋友虽然有点气馁，但仍硬着头皮说，“也许奥德能给我们唱支歌，我知道他会唱。她妈妈告诉我的。安娜贝尔，甜心，弹一首奥德能唱的曲子吧。” 往前面翻，我发现我没有仔细描述过奥德·汉得森的耳朵——一个大遗漏，因为它们实在太抓人眼球，就像喜剧片“我们这一伙”里面阿尔法发的一样。现在，因为安娜贝尔非常殷勤地接受了我朋友的请求，他的耳朵都通红透亮得跟甜菜一样了，能让你眼前一亮。他含糊地嘟哝着，羞愧地摇头。安娜贝尔说：“你知道‘我看见了光’吗？”他没有，但对她接下来的一个询问，他以咧嘴傻笑回应。最傻的傻瓜都能看出他的谦逊是装出来的。 安娜贝尔轻声笑着，敲出深沉的和弦，奥德用他那早熟的男子嗓音开唱了：“当那红色的，红色的知更鸟来了，飞呀飞呀飞过来。”亚当的苹果在他紧绷的喉头跳动，安娜贝尔热情高涨。注意到这个节目，女人们的尖声嘈杂也变小了。奥德很棒，他肯定是会唱的。强烈的嫉妒像电流一样从我心里穿过，足够电死一个杀人犯。我当时的想法就是要杀人。我简直能像掴死一只蚊子那样杀了他。还不够。 我再次溜到了门廊上，去找我的岛，甚至连我朋友都没注意到，她沉浸在音乐节目中。岛是我给房子里一个地方取的名字，当我感到忧伤或者莫名兴奋，或者只是想考虑一些事情的时候，我就会去那里。那是一个连着卫生间的巨大壁橱。卫生间本身，除去洁具以外，就像一个温馨的冬日门厅，里面有一个马毛的双人沙发，小地毯，一个柜子，一个壁炉，一些画框，里面是“医生的来访”、“九月早晨”、“天鹅湖”的复制品，还有大量的日历。 壁橱上有两面花玻璃小窗，上面是菱形的玫瑰图案，琥珀色和绿色的光透过玻璃滤进来，窗子外面正对着卫生间。玻璃上到处都是掉色或者缺失的斑点，用一只眼对着这些空白处，就能看清外面的来人。我在那里独坐了一会，思虑着我的敌人的成功，脚步声响了，是玛丽·泰勒·威尔赖特夫人，她站在一面镜子前，用一个粉扑拍了拍脸，给古老的脸颊上了腮红，然后，仔细打量着效果，宣布道：“很好，玛丽。就连玛丽自己也这么说。” 众所周知女人比男人活得长。会不会仅仅是因为这强大的虚荣心使然呢？不管怎样，威尔赖特夫人让我的心情变好了，她走后，房子里响起一阵欢快的午餐铃，我决定离开避难所，去享用一顿美餐，不管奥德·汉得森怎么样。 可就在那时脚步声又响起来。他出现了，看上去不像以前我见他时那么阴沉。他昂首阔步，吹着口哨走进来，解开扣子，放出一股强劲的水流。他一直在吹口哨，快活得像只葵花地里的松鸦。他正要离开时，柜子上一个敞开的盒子招惹了他的注意。那是一个雪茄盒，我朋友用来装从报纸上撕下来的菜谱和其他小玩意儿的，里面还有一个她父亲很早以前给她的一个浮雕胸针。撇开情感价值不说，她的想象力也赋予了这个物件珍贵的价值。每当我们为什么事情对她姐姐们和B叔产生严重不满时，她就会说：“别介意，巴迪。我们可以卖掉我的胸针然后走掉。我们可以坐巴士去新奥尔良。”虽然从未讨论过到达新奥尔良之后我们能做什么，或者胸针款用完了之后我们何以为生，但我们都很珍视这个幻想。也许我们两个心里都知道这个胸针只是一个西尔斯罗巴克公司[ 美国著名零售邮购公司。]卖的新巧小玩意。但还是一样，它在我们似乎是一样具有真正魔力的法宝，虽未检验过，但如果我们真的决定到外面寓言般的世界里去碰碰运气的话，它就是一种能承诺我们自由的魔法。因此我朋友从来不戴着它，那是太珍贵的宝物，我们冒不起丢失或者毁坏的风险。 现在我看见奥德渎圣的手指伸了过去，看着他把它放在手掌上掂了几下，又放回盒子里，转身走了。然后又回来了，这次他飞快地拿回了胸针，偷偷放进口袋。我怒火中烧，第一反应是想冲出壁橱向他发难。在那一刻，我相信我能将奥德按到地板上。可是——你记得吗，在淳朴年代里，那些漫画家常常在马特或者杰夫或别的什么人眉头上画一个白炽灯泡，来代表一个想法的诞生。我现在就是这么回事，一个嘶嘶作响的灯泡突然在我脑子里亮了起来。其震撼力与光芒让我感觉灼热和颤抖——也让我大笑。奥德给了我一个理想的报复机会，一个可以抵消所有苍耳之耻的机会。 在餐厅里，长长的餐桌已经被联排成一个T字形，B叔坐在上首中央，玛丽·泰勒·威尔赖特夫人坐在他右边，康科林夫人在他左边。奥德坐在两个康科林姐妹中间，其中一个是安娜贝尔，她的恭维让他一直处在最佳状态。我朋友把自己安排在下手和最小的孩子们坐一起。根据她的说法，她选择这个位置是因为离厨房近，但当然这是因为她就想坐这儿。奎妮，不知怎么获得了自由，在桌子底下，兴奋地摇头摆尾，穿梭在一排排的人腿中间。这样似乎没有人反对，可能是因为大家都被桌上的美食给催眠了：未切的整只火鸡呈现出美味诱人的光泽，而俄克拉马菜肴、玉米，炸葱圈和热馅饼上则散发出诱人的香气。 若不是因为想到全面报复计划而心跳加速，口干舌燥的话，我自己的嘴肯定也大流口水了。有一刻，瞥到奥德·汉得森红光满面的脸，我感觉有一点点遗憾，但我真的没有不安。 B叔诵读祷词。他垂下头，闭上眼，粗皮厚茧的手虔诚地合拢，吟诵道：“感谢你，哦主，为餐桌上这慷慨的赐予，这各色的水果，我们在这艰难一年的感恩节还能够满怀感激，”——他那不常听到的嗓音，低沉沙哑，带着空洞的杂音，宛如废弃教堂里的一把旧风琴——“阿门。” 然后，大家把椅子放正，摆放餐巾的声音窸窣作响，我一直在留神听着，等待中那必要的安静时分终于来临。“这里有个贼。”我咬字清楚地说，接着又用更加沉着的调子重复这一指控：“奥德·汉得森是个贼。他偷了苏珂小姐的胸针。” 餐巾在人们伸出去却僵在那里的手中闪动。男人们咳嗽着，康科林姐妹齐声惊叹，小派克·麦克劳德开始打嗝，就像非常小的小孩受惊吓时那样。 我朋友结结巴巴地说：“巴迪不是那个意思，他只是在逗笑。”语气既责备又难过。 “我就是那个意思，你如果不相信我，就去看一下你的盒子。胸针不在那里。奥德·汉得森把它放在口袋里了。” “巴迪患了严重的咽炎，”她喃喃说着，“别怪他，奥德。他不知道自己在说什么。” 我说：“去看看你的盒子。我看见他拿的。” B叔用一种警告式的冷酷表情瞪着我，发话了。“你最好去看看。”他对苏珂小姐说，“这样才能弄清楚。” 我朋友一向不会违背哥哥的意思。现在也不会。可她面色苍白，双肩羞愤地弯起，这表明她是多么不情愿接受这个差遣。她只去了一分钟，可她的消失似乎持续了一万年。敌意萌发，又顺着餐桌蔓延，就像一根以不可思议的速度迅速生长的棘藤，可被困在藤蔓里的却不是被告，而是他的原告。我胃里直犯恶心。可那一边奥德却平静得像具尸体。 苏珂小姐回来了，面带笑容。“巴迪，我很难过。”她责备说，一个手指点了点。“你怎么开这样的玩笑。我的胸针就在原来的地方。” B叔说：“巴迪，我希望听到你向我们的客人道歉。” “不，他不需要这么做。”奥德·汉得森说着站起来。“他说的是真话。”他从口袋里掏出胸针放在桌上。“我希望自己能找到一个借口。可是我没有。”他一边向门口走，一边说：“你一定是一位特别的夫人，苏珂小姐。为我撒这样的谎。”然后，可恶的人，他就径直走出去了。 我也是。但我是跑的。我把椅子往后一推，把它弄翻了。撞击声惊吓了奎妮。她从桌子底下飞窜出来，吠叫着眦出它的牙齿。苏珂小姐在我经过她身边时，想要拦住我：“巴迪！”可是我不想再理她和奎妮了。一条朝我凶巴巴叫的狗，一个站到奥德·汉得森那边的朋友。她为挽救他的面子撒谎，背叛了我们的友谊，我的爱：这些我以为永远都不会发生的事情。 房子下面是辛普森家的草地，十一月金黄色的高草茂密而明亮。草地边上有一个灰色谷仓，一个猪圈，一个鸡舍和一个烟房。我钻进烟房里，那是一个漆黑的房间，即便在最热的夏天也很凉快。里面是泥土地面，有一个散发胡桃木屑和杂酚气味的烟窖。一排排的火腿从椽子上挂下来。这里本是我刻意避开的地方，可现在里面的黑暗似乎是一种庇护。我倒在地上，肋骨猛烈地起伏，像被搁浅在沙滩上的鱼的鱼鳃。我也不在意这样会糟蹋了身上的好衣服，一套配长裤的西服，在地上的泥巴灰屑和猪油混合物中间打起滚来。 有件事我知道：我要离开这个家，这个镇子，就在这个晚上。我要上路，跳上一辆货车，去加利福尼亚。到好莱坞以擦鞋为生。弗莱德·阿斯泰尔的鞋。克拉克·盖博的。或许我自己也会成为一个明星。看看杰基·库柏。哦，到那时他们会难过的。当我有钱有名之后，我会拒绝回他们的信和电报。很可能。 忽然我想到一件会令他们更难过的事情来。烟房的门半开着，一刀阳光照亮了一个架子上的几个瓶子。落满尘灰的瓶子上贴着骷髅头和交叉骨的标签。如果我喝下其中一瓶，那么餐厅里那些人，那些正在猛吃海喝的家伙，就会知道什么是难过的滋味了。这是值得的，只要能见到B叔发现我冰冷而僵硬地躺在地板上时的悔恨；这是值得的，为了听到我的棺材下到墓穴底下时人们的号哭和奎妮的嗥吠。 不过忽然又一个想法把我拉住了：我不会听得到这些的，我都死了，怎么听得到呢？除非你能看见哀悼者的悔恨和负疚，做死人显然没有什么能令人满足的地方。 肯定是B叔阻止苏珂小姐出来找我，直到最后一个客人离桌。到了半下午我才听到她的声音隔着草地传过来。她轻轻地唤我的名字，忧伤得像一只哀鸠。我呆在原地，没有答应。 是奎妮找到了我。她跑过来沿着烟房嗅了嗅，闻到我的气味便狂吠起来，又跑进来爬到我身边，舔我的手，一只耳朵和一边脸。她知道她对我不好了。 一会儿门被大开，光亮带变宽。我朋友说：“到这里来，巴迪。”我想过去。她看到我时，大笑起来。“天哪，孩子。你看上去像在焦油里浸过，可以沾羽毛了。”她没有责备我，也没有提到被糟蹋了的西服。 奎妮跑开去骚扰几头牛，我们跟着她走进草地。我们在一个树桩上坐下来。“我给你留了个鸡腿。”她说着递过来一个蜡纸包。“还有你喜欢的那块火鸡肉。拉拉肉。” 被悲惨情绪掩盖的饥饿感现在像拳头一样敲击着我的肚子。我把鸡腿啃得干干净净，又开始撕拉拉肉，许愿骨[ 火鸡的锁骨，呈Y字型。美国人有一种吃法是，两人用力拉开，得到大的那半边的人，可以持骨许愿。因此叫许愿骨。]锁着的那块最香甜的火鸡肉。 我吃的时候，苏珂小姐抱着我的肩膀。“我只想说一样事，巴迪。两个错误相加不等于正确。他拿胸针是做错了。可我们不知道他为什么拿。也许他没想就这么拿走。不管他出于什么原因，我们本是没法揣测的。这就是为什么你想做的事情就更错了：你想要让他难堪。这是故意的。听我说，巴迪：只有一种罪不能被原谅，那就是故意的残忍。所有其他都能被原谅。这个永远不会。你理解我吗，巴迪？” 我理解，模糊地。时间过去了，我明白她是对的。可那时我能理解的，是因为我的报复失败了，我的方法肯定错了。奥德·汉得森——他怎么做到的？为什么？——表现得比我好，甚至比我更诚实。 “巴迪，你理解吗？” “可能吧。拉一下。”我说，递给她一条许愿骨。 我们撕开它，我那一半更大，于是我可以许一个愿。她想知道我许的是什么愿。 “希望你仍旧是我朋友。” “傻瓜。”她说着抱住我。 “永远吗？” “我不会永远都在的，巴迪。你也不会。”她的声音像草地远处地平线上的太阳一样低了下去，接着，一秒钟寂静后，又像旭日初升那样高了起来。“不过是的，永远。主的意愿。我走了你还要过上很久，只要你记得我，我们就永远在一起。”…… 从那以后，奥德·汉得森放过了我。他开始纠缠一个和他一般年纪的男生，斯奎罗·麦克米兰。第二年，奥德因为成绩太差和行为恶劣，我们校长不许他再来上课，所以他冬天就在一个牛奶场做帮手。我最后一次看到他之后不久，他搭车去了牟拜尔参加商船队，然后就消失了。那应该是在我被悲惨地打发到一个军事学院去的前一年,两年后,我朋友去世。这样是算来那是1934年秋天。 苏珂小姐把我唤到花园里。她移栽了一株正在开花的菊花到一个铁皮浴桶里，需要有人帮忙把它拖到前廊上，在那里好好地展示一下。那玩意比四十个肥海盗还重，我们徒劳无功地与之搏斗时，奥德·汉得森顺着大路走过来。他在园门外停了一下，然后就打开门，说：“夫人，让我来帮你吧。”牛奶场的生活对他大有好处。他更健壮了，胳膊上肌肉突起，脸上的红色加深为一种红宝石的深棕红。他轻松地举起大桶，放到了走廊上。 我朋友说：“非常感激，先生。你如此友善。” “没什么。”他说，仍旧忽略我。 苏珂小姐剪下一些最漂亮的花朵。“这些带给你妈妈。”她说着，把花束递给他，“致以我的爱。” “谢谢，夫人。我会的。” “哦，奥德，”他返身上路后，她冲他喊道，“小心。它们是狮子，你知道。”但他已经听不见了，我们望着他，直到他过了转角。他对自己携带的危险一无所知，那些菊花，冲着黄昏时低垂的青色天幕燃烧，咆哮，吼叫。 A lively day, that Thanksgiving. Lively with on-and- off showers and abrupt sky clearings accompanied by thrusts of raw sun and sudden bandit winds snatching autumn’s leftover leaves. The noises of the house were lovely, too: pots and pans and Uncle B.’s unused and rusty voice as he stood in the hall in his creaking Sunday suit, greeting our guests as they arrived. A few came by horseback or mule-drawn wagon, the majority in shined-up farm trucks and rackety flivvers. Mr. and Mrs. Conklin and their four beautiful daughters drove up in a mint-green 1932 Chevrolet (Mr. Conklin was well off; he owned several fishing smackers that operated out of Mobile), an object which aroused warm curiosity among the men present; they studied and poked it and all but took it apart. The first guests to arrive were Mrs. Mary Taylor Wheelwright, escorted by her custodians, a grandson and his wife. She was a pretty little thing, Mrs. Wheelwright; she wore her age as lightly as the tiny red bonnet that, like the cherry on a vanilla sundae, sat perkily atop her milky hair. “Darlin’ Bobby,” she said, hugging Uncle B., “I realize we’re an itty-bit early, but you know me, always punctual to a fault.” Which was an apology deserved, for it was not yet nine o’clock and guests weren’t expected much before noon. However, everybody arrived earlier than we intended—except the Perk McCloud family, who suffered two blowouts in the space of thirty miles and arrived in such a stomping temper, particularly Mr. McCloud, that we feared for the china. Most of these people lived year-round in lonesome places hard to get away from: isolated farms, whistle-stops and crossroads, empty river hamlets or lumber-camp communities deep in the pine forests; so of course it was eagerness that caused them to be early, primed for an affectionate and memorable gathering. And so it was. Some while ago, I had a letter from one of the Conklin sisters, now the wife of a naval captain and living in San Diego; she wrote: “I think of you often around this time of year, I suppose because of what happened at one of our Alabama Thanksgivings. It was a few years before Miss Sook died—would it be 1933? Golly, I’ll never forget that day.” By noon, not another soul could be accommodated in the parlor, a hive humming with women’s tattle and womanly aromas: Mrs. Wheelwright smelled of lilac water and Annabel Conklin like geraniums after rain. The odor of tobacco fanned out across the porch, where most of the men had clustered, despite the wavering weather, the alternations between sprinkles of rain and sunlit wind squalls. Tobacco was a substance alien to the setting; true, Miss Sook now and again secretly dipped snuff, a taste acquired under unknown tutelage and one she refused to discuss; her sisters would have been mortified had they suspected, and Uncle B., too, for he took a harsh stand on all stimulants, condemning them morally and medically. The virile redolence of cigars, the pungent nip of pipe smoke, the tortoiseshell richness they evoked, constantly lured me out of the parlor onto the porch, though it was the parlor I preferred, due to the presence of the Conklin sisters, who played by turn our untuned piano with a gifted, rollicking lack of airs. “Indian Love Call” was among their repertoire, and also a 1918 war ballad, the lament of a child pleading with a house thief, entitled “Don’t Steal Daddy’s Medals, He Won T hem for Bravery.” Annabel played and sang it; she was the oldest of the sisters and the loveliest, though it was a chore to pick among them, for they were like quadruplets of unequal height. One thought of apples, compact and flavorful, sweet but cider-tart; their hair, loosely plaited, had the blue luster of a well-groomed ebony racehorse, and certain features, eyebrows, noses, lips when smiling, titled in an original style that added humor to their charms. T he nicest thing was that they were a bit plump: “pleasingly plump” describes it precisely. It was while listening to Annabel at the piano, and falling in love with her, that I felt Odd Henderson. I say felt because I was aware of him before I saw him: the sense of peril that warns, say, an experienced woodsman of an impending encounter with a rattler or bobcat alerted me. I turned, and there the fellow stood at the parlor entrance, half in, half out. T o others he must have seemed simply a grubby twelve-year-old beanpole who had made some attempt to rise to the event by parting and slicking his difficult hair, the comb grooves were still damply intact. But to me he was as unexpected and sinister as a genie released from a bottle. What a dumb head I’d been to think he wouldn’t show up! Only a dunce wouldn’t have guessed that he would come out of spite: the joy of spoiling for me this awaited day. However, Odd had not yet seen me: Annabel, her firm, acrobatic fingers somersaulting over the warped piano keys, had diverted him, for he was watching her, lips separated, eyes slitted, as though he had come upon her disrobed and cooling herself in the local river. It was as if he were contemplating some wished-for vision; his already red ears had become pimiento. T he entrancing scene so dazed him I was able to squeeze directly past him and run along the hall to the kitchen. “He’s here!” My friend had completed her work hours earlier; moreover she had two colored women helping out. Nevertheless she had been hiding in the kitchen since our party started, under a pretense of keeping the exiled Queenie company. In truth, she was afraid of mingling with any group, even one composed of relatives, which was why, despite her reliance on the Bible and its Hero, she rarely went to church. Although she loved all chil dren and was at ease with them, she was not acceptable as a child, yet she could not accept herself as a peer of grownups and in a collection of them behaved like an awkward young lady, silent and rather astonished. But the idea of parties exhilarated her; what a pity she couldn’t take part invisibly, for then how festive she would have felt. I noticed that my friend’s hands were trembling; so were mine. Her usual outfit consisted of calico dresses, tennis shoes and Uncle B.’s discarded sweaters; she had no clothes appropriate to starchy occasions. Today she was lost inside something borrowed from one of her stout sisters, a creepy navy-blue dress its owner had worn to every funeral in the county since time remem-bered. “He’s here,” I informed her for the third time. “Odd Henderson.” “T hen why aren’t you with him?” she said admonishingly. “T hat’s not polite, Buddy. He’s your particular guest. You ought to be out there seeing he meets everybody and has a good time.” I can’t. I can’t speak to him.” Queenie was curled on her lap, having a head rub; my friend stood up, dumping Queenie and disclosing a stretch of navy-blue material sprinkled with dog hair, said “Buddy. You mean you haven’t spoken to that boy!” My rudeness obliterated her timidity; taking me by the hand, she steered me to the parlor. She need not have fretted over Odd’s welfare. The charms of Annabel Conklin had drawn him to the piano. Indeed, he was scrunched up beside her on the piano seat, sitting there studying her delightful profile, his eyes opaque as the orbs of the stuffed whale I’d seen that summer when a touring honky-tonk passed through town (it was advertised as The Original Moby Dick, and it cost five cents to view the remains—what a bunch of crooks!). As for Annabel, she would flirt with anything that walked or crawled—no, that’s unfair, for it was really a form of generosity, of simply being alive. Still, it gave me a hurt to see her playing cute with that mule skinner. Hauling me onward, my friend introduced herself to him: “Buddy and I, we’re so happy you could come.” Odd had the manners of a billy goat: he didn’t stand up or offer his hand, hardly looked at her and at me not at all. Daunted but dead game, my friend said: “Maybe Odd will sing us a tune. I know he can; his mother told me so. Annabel, sugar, play something Odd can sing.” Reading back, I see that I haven’t thoroughly described Odd Henderson’s ears—a major omission, for they were a pair of eye-catchers, like Alfalfa’s in the Our Gang comedy pictures. Now, because of Annabel’s flat tering receptivity to my friend’s request, his ears be came so beet-bright it made your eyes smart. He mum bled, he shook his head handog; but Annabel said: “Do you know ‘I Have Seen the Light’? ”He didn’t, but her next suggestion was greeted with a grin of recognition; the biggest fool could tell his modesty was all put on. Giggling, Annabel struck a rich chord, and Odd, in a voice precociously manly, sang: “When the red, red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin’along.” The Adam’s apple in his tense throat jumped; Annabel’s enthusiasm accelerated; the women’s shrill hen chatter slackened as they became aware of the entertainment. Odd was good, he could sing for sure, and the jealousy charging through me had enough power to electrocute a murder-er. Murder was what I had in mind; I could have killed him as easily as swat a mosquito. Easier. Once more, unnoticed even by my friend, who was absorbed in the musicale, I escaped the parlor and sought T he Island. T hat was the name I had given a place in the house where I went when I felt blue or inexplicably exuberant or just when I wanted to think things over. It was a mammoth closet attached to our only bathroom; the bathroom itself, except for its sanitary fixtures, was like a cozy winter parlor, with a horsehair love seat, scatter rugs, a bureau, a fireplace and framed reproductions of “The Doctor’s Visit,” “September Morn,” “The Swan Pool” and calendars galore. There were two small stained-glass windows in the closet; lozenge-like patterns of rose, amber and green light filtered through the windows, which looked out on the bathroom proper. Here and there patches of color had faded from the glass or been chipped away; by applying an eye to one of these clearings, it was possible to identify the room’s visitors. After I’d been secluded there awhile, brooding over my enemy’s success, foot-steps intruded: Mrs. Mary Taylor Wheelwright, who stopped before a mirror, smacked her face with a powder puff, rouged her antique cheeks and then, perusing the effect, announced: “Very nice, Mary. Even if Mary says so herself.” It is well known that women outlive men; could it merely be superior vanity that keeps them going? Anyway, Mrs. Wheelwright sweetened my mood, so when, following her departure, a heartily rung dinner bell sounded through the house, I decided to quit my refuge and enjoy the feast, regardless of Odd Henderson. But just then footsteps echoed again. He appeared, looking less sullen than I’d ever seen him. Strutty, Whistling, Unbuttoning his trousers and letting go with a forceful splash, he whistled along, jaunty as a jaybird in a field of sunflowers. As he was leaving, an open box on the bureau summoned his attention. It was a cigar box in which my friend kept recipes torn out of newspapers and other junk, as well as a cameo brooch her father had long ago given her. Sentimental value aside, her imagination had conferred upon the object a rare costliness; whenever we had cause for serious grievance against her sisters or Uncle B., she would say, “Never mind, Buddy. We’ll sell my cameo and go away. We’ll take the bus to New Orleans.” Though never discussing what we would do once we arrived in New Orleans, or what we would live on after the cameo money ran out, we both relished this fantasy. Perhaps each of us secretly realized the brooch was only a Sears Roebuck novelty; all the same, it seemed to us a talisman of true, though untested, magic: a charm that promised us our freedom if indeed we did decide to pursue our luck in fabled spheres. So my friend never wore it, for it was too much a treasure to risk its loss or damage. Now I saw Odd’s sacrilegious fingers reach toward it, watched him bounce it in the palm of his hand, drop it back in the box and turn to go. Then return. This time he swiftly retrieved the cameo and sneaked it into his pocket. My boiling first instinct was to rush out of the closet and challenge him; at that moment, I believe I could have pinned Odd to the floor. But—Well, do you recall how, in simpler days, funny-paper artists used to illustrate the birth of an idea by sketching an incandescent light bulb above the brow of Mutt or Jeff or whomever? T hat’s how it was with me: a sizzling light bulb suddenly radiated my brain. T he shock and brilliance of it made me burn and shiver—laugh, too. Odd had handed me an ideal instrument for revenge, one that would make up for all the cockleburs. In the dining room, long tables had been joined to shape a T. Uncle B. was at the upper center, Mrs. Mary T aylor Wheelwright at his right and Mrs. Conklin at his left. Odd was seated between two of the Conklin sisters, one of them Annabel, whose compliments kept him in top condition. My friend had put herself at the foot of the table among the youngest children; according to her, she had chosen the position because it provided quicker access to the kitchen, but of course it was because that was where she wished to be. Queenie, who had somehow got loose, was under the table—trembling and wagging with ecstasy as she skittered between the rows of legs—but nobody seemed to object, probably because they were hypnotized by the uncarved, lusciously glazed turkeys and the excellent aromas rising from dishes of okra and corn, onion fritters and hot mince pies. My own mouth would have watered if it hadn’t gone bone-dry at the heart-pounding prospect of total revenge. For a second, glancing at Odd Henderson’s suffused face, I experienced a fragmentary regret, but I really had no qualms. Uncle B. recited grace. Head bowed, eyes shut, calloused hands prayerfully placed, he intoned: “Bless You, O Lord, for the bounty of our table, the varied fruits we can be thankful for on this Thanksgiving Day of a troubled year”—his voice, so infrequently heard, croaked with the hollow imperfections of an old organ in an abandoned church—“Amen.” T hen, as chairs were adjusted and napkins rustled, the necessary pause I’d been listening for arrived. “Someone here is a thief.” I spoke clearly and repeated the accusation in even more measured tones: “Odd Henderson is a thief. He stole Miss Sook’s cameo.” Napkins gleamed in suspended, immobilized hands. Men coughed, the Conklin sisters gasped in quadruplet unison and little Perk McCloud, Jr., began to hiccup, as very young children will when startled. My friend, in a voice teetering between reproach and anguish, said, “Buddy doesn’t mean that. He’s only teasing.” “I do mean it. If you don’t believe me, go look in your box. T he cameo isn’t there. Odd Henderson has it in his pocket.” “Buddy’s had a bad croup,” she murmured. “Don’t blame him, Odd. He hasn’t a notion what he’s saying.” I said, “Go look in your box. I saw him take it.” Uncle B., staring at me with an alarming wintriness, took charge. “Maybe you’d better,” he told Miss Sook. “T hat should settle the matter.” It was not often that my friend disobeyed her brother; she did not now. But her pallor, the mortified angle of her shoulders, revealed with what distaste she accepted the errand. She was gone only a minute, but her absence seemed an eon. Hostility sprouted and surged around the table like a thorn-encrusted vine growing with uncanny speed—and the victim trapped in its tendrils was not the accused, but his accuser. Stomach sickness gripped me; Odd, on the other hand, seemed calm as a corpse. Miss Sook returned, smiling. “Shame on you, Buddy,” she childed, shaking a finger. “Playing that kind of joke. My cameo was exactly where I left it.” Uncle B. said, “Buddy, I want to hear you apologize to our guest.” “No, he don’t have to do that,” Odd Henderson said, rising. “He was telling the truth.” He dug into his pocket and put the cameo on the table. “I wish I had some excuse to give. But I ain’t got none.” Starting for the door, he said, “You must be a special lady, Miss Sook, to fib for me like that.” And then, damn his soul, he walked right out of there. So did I. Except I ran. I pushed back my chair, knocking it over. T he crash triggered Queenie; she scooted from under the table, barked and bared her teeth. And Miss Sook, as I went past her, tried to stop me: “Buddy!” But I wanted no part of her or Queenie. T hat dog had snarled at me and my friend had taken Odd Henderson’s side, she’d lied to save his skin, betrayed our friendship, my love: things I’d thought could never happen. Simpson’s pasture lay below the house, a meadow brilliant with high November gold and russet grass. At the edge of the pasture there were a gray barn, a pig corral, a fenced-in chicken yard and a smokehouse. It was the smokehouse I slipped into, a black chamber cool on even the hottest summer days. It had a dirt floor and a smoke pit that smelled of hickory cinders and creosote; rows of hams hung from rafters. It was a place I’d always been wary of, but now its darkness seemed sheltering. I fell on the ground, my ribs heaving like the gills of a beach-stranded fish; and I didn’t care that I was demolishing my one nice suit, the one with long trousers, by thrashing about on the floor in a messy mixture of earth and ashes and pork grease. One thing I knew: I was going to quit that house, that town, that night. Hit the road. Hop a freight and head for California. Make my living shining shoes in Hollywood. Fred Astaire’s shoes. Clark Gable’s. Or—maybe I just might become a movie star myself. Look at Jackie Cooper. Oh, they’d be sorry then. When I was rich and famous and refused to answer their letters and even telegrams, probably. Suddenly I thought of something that would make them even sorrier. T he door to the shed was ajar, and a knife of sunshine exposed a shelf supporting several bottles. Dusty bottles with skull-and-cross bone labels. If I drank from one of those, then all of them up there in the dining room, the whole swilling and gobbling ca boodle, would know what sorry was. It was worth it, if only to witness Uncle B.’s remorse when they found me cold and stiff on the smokehouse floor; worth it to hear the human wails and Queenie’s howls as my coffin was lowered into cemetery depths. The only hitch was, I wouldn’t actually be able to see or hear any of this: how could I, being dead? And unless one can observe the guilt and regret of the mourners, surely there is nothing satisfactory about being dead? Uncle B. must have forbidden Miss Sook to go look for me until the last guest had left the table. It was late afternoon before I heard her voice floating across the pasture; she called my name softly, forlornly as a mourning dove. I stayed where I was and did not answer. It was Queenie who found me; she came sniffing around the smokehouse and yapped when she caught my scent, then entered and crawled toward me and licked my hand, an ear and a cheek; she knew she had treated me badly. Presently, the door swung open and the light widened. My friend said, “Come here, Buddy.” And I wanted to go to her. When she saw me, she laughed. “Goodness, boy. You look dipped in tar and all ready for feathering.” But there were no recriminations or references to my ruined suit. Queenie trotted off to pester some cows; and trailing after her into the pasture, we sat down on a tree stump. “I saved you a drumstick,” she said, handing me a parcel wrapped in waxed paper. “And your favorite piece of turkey. The pulley.” The hunger that direr sensations had numbed now hit me like a belly-punch. I gnawed the drumstick clean, then stripped the pulley, the sweet part of the turkey around the wishbone. While I was eating, Miss Sook put her arm around my shoulders. “T here’s just this I want to say, Buddy. Two wrongs never made a right. It was wrong of him to take the cameo. But we don’t know why he took it. Maybe he never meant to keep it. Whatever his reason, it can’t have been calculated. Which is why what you did was much worse: you planned to humiliate him. It was deliberate. Now listen to me, Buddy: there is only one unpardonable sin—deliberate cruelty. All else can be forgiven. That, never. Do you understand me, Buddy?” I did, dimly, and time has taught me that she was right. But at that moment I mainly comprehended that because my revenge had failed, my method must have been wrong. Odd Henderson had emerged—how? Why?—as someone superior to me, even more honest. “Do you, Buddy? Understand?” “Sort of. Pull,” I said, offering her one prong of the wishbone. We split it; my half was the larger, which entitled me to a wish. She wanted to know what I’d wished. “T hat you’re still my friend.” “Dumb head,” she said, and hugged me. “Forever?” “I won’t be here forever, Buddy. Nor will you.” Her voice sank like the sun on the pasture’s horizon, was silent a second and then climbed with the strength of a new sun. “But yes, forever. T he Lord willing, you’ll be here long after I’ve gone. And as long as you remember me, then we’ll always be together.”... Afterward, Odd Henderson let me alone. He started tussling with a boy his own age, Squirrel McMillan. And the next year, because of Odd’s poor grades and general bad conduct, our school principal wouldn’t allow him to attend classes, so he spent the winter working as a hand on a dairy farm. T he last time I saw him was shortly before he hitchhiked to Mobile, joined the Merchant Marine and disappeared. It must have been the year before I was packed off to a miserable fate in a military academy, and two years prior to my friend’s death. T hat would make it the autumn of 1934. Miss Sook had summoned me to the garden; she had transplanted a blossoming chrysanthemum bush into a tin washtub and needed help to haul it up the steps onto the front porch, where it would make a fine display. It was heavier than forty fat pirates, and while we were struggling with it ineffectually, Odd Henderson passed along the road. He paused at the garden gate and then opened it, saying, “Let me do that for you, ma’am.” Life on a dairy farm had done him a lot of good; he’d thickened, his arms were sinewy and his red coloring had deepened to a ruddy brown. Airily he lifted the big tub and placed it on the porch. My friend said, “I’m obliged to you, sir. T hat was neighborly.” “Nothing,” he said, still ignoring me. Miss Sook snapped the stems of her showiest blooms. “Take these to your mother,” she told him, handing him the bouquet. “And give her my love.” “Thank ou, ma’am. I will.” “Oh, Odd,” she called, after he’d regained the road, “be careful! They’re lions, you know.” But he was already out of hearing. We watched until he turned a bend at the corner, innocent of the menace he carried, the chrysanthemums that burned, that growled and roared against a greenly lowering dusk.