Read Online A World Lost: A Novel (Port William) by Wendell Berry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wendell Berry
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Minnie Branch's kitchen on the day of Uncle Andrew's dance with Mrs. Partlet, and that
was unusual.
When the meal was over, we went through the cold hall to the living
room and sat down. Grandpa and my father sat on opposite sides of the
stove, in which there was a fire. Grandma sat in her little spindle-backed
rocker. I sat off to myself by the stand table on which was Grandma's
small brown radio. Perhaps, feeling the sorrow in the room, I wanted to
turn on the radio, but I did not turn it on. I could not have turned it on,
or asked to do so. As several times before in the months since Uncle
Andrew's death, I felt as if I had just happened into a world that I had not
imagined, in which I found no comfort. I had an obscure feeling that it
would be politest to be somewhere else but that there would be no polite
way to leave. The grown-ups sat in their chairs for a while, not speaking,
and then they started to cry - all three of them. They wept without moving or speaking, each as if alone. And then they ceased. My father and
Grandma removed their glasses and wiped away their tears, my father
with his handkerchief, my grandmother with a corner of her apron.
Grandpa simply raised his right hand and passed his forefinger under his
eyes.
No more was said in the car that night as my father and I drove home.
I can imagine now that he was searching his mind for something to say
to me. He would have been aware of the difficulty for me of what I had
witnessed, for he was not unaware of much. Demanding as he could be
at times, when sympathy was needed he was generous, and he was good
at finding the words. But I cannot imagine what he could have said to
ease or mitigate the grief that had shown itself so nakedly to me. I was
glad he said nothing.
Carp Harmon was tried and sentenced to two years in the penitentiary.
This also was never explained to me, though I knew that my elders
resented the lightness of the punishment. I learned of the trial itself only
from Jess Brightleaf, who told me that my father had asked him not to
attend. If Jess had gone to the trial, then my grandfather would have
wanted to go too. The reason for that I understood without being told.
Given my grandfather's character, his age, his grief and anger, he would not have considered himself subject to the restraints of the court, and my
father did not want him raging there.
Later, after I knew that his sentence had expired, I spent a lot of time
wondering what would happen if Carp Harmon gave me a ride while I
was hitchhiking. Hitchhiking was another thing Henry and I did that we
were absolutely forbidden to do. Our mother had read of many horrible
things that had happened to hitchhikers, none of which I thought would
happen to me. As I knew from experience, people I did not know who
picked me up on the road I traveled, the Port William road, were likely
to greet me by asking, 'Ain't you one of Wheeler Catlett's boys?" or "I
don't reckon you'd be a Catlett, would you?" What I worried about was
getting picked up by Carp Harmon. Though I had not knowingly ever
seen him, I had no doubt that I would recognize him. And I knew that I
would need great courage, greater courage than I was sure I had, to speak
the necessary words, which I had rehearsed: "Carp Harmon, you son of
a bitch, you killed my uncle." And then perhaps he would pull out his .38
pistol and shoot me?
But he never gave me a ride; as far as I know, I never laid eyes on him
in his life.
Another encounter that I grew to expect, as I grew into understanding
of what I remembered of Uncle Andrew, was with a first cousin, some
strange boy or young man, as I put it to myself, whom I would recognize
because he would look something like Uncle Andrew, or even something
like me. But if he exists, he has not come forward. As far as I know, I have
not laid eyes on him either.
8
Widowhood gave new impetus to Aunt Judith's role as a sufferer. In the
eighteen
was unusual.
When the meal was over, we went through the cold hall to the living
room and sat down. Grandpa and my father sat on opposite sides of the
stove, in which there was a fire. Grandma sat in her little spindle-backed
rocker. I sat off to myself by the stand table on which was Grandma's
small brown radio. Perhaps, feeling the sorrow in the room, I wanted to
turn on the radio, but I did not turn it on. I could not have turned it on,
or asked to do so. As several times before in the months since Uncle
Andrew's death, I felt as if I had just happened into a world that I had not
imagined, in which I found no comfort. I had an obscure feeling that it
would be politest to be somewhere else but that there would be no polite
way to leave. The grown-ups sat in their chairs for a while, not speaking,
and then they started to cry - all three of them. They wept without moving or speaking, each as if alone. And then they ceased. My father and
Grandma removed their glasses and wiped away their tears, my father
with his handkerchief, my grandmother with a corner of her apron.
Grandpa simply raised his right hand and passed his forefinger under his
eyes.
No more was said in the car that night as my father and I drove home.
I can imagine now that he was searching his mind for something to say
to me. He would have been aware of the difficulty for me of what I had
witnessed, for he was not unaware of much. Demanding as he could be
at times, when sympathy was needed he was generous, and he was good
at finding the words. But I cannot imagine what he could have said to
ease or mitigate the grief that had shown itself so nakedly to me. I was
glad he said nothing.
Carp Harmon was tried and sentenced to two years in the penitentiary.
This also was never explained to me, though I knew that my elders
resented the lightness of the punishment. I learned of the trial itself only
from Jess Brightleaf, who told me that my father had asked him not to
attend. If Jess had gone to the trial, then my grandfather would have
wanted to go too. The reason for that I understood without being told.
Given my grandfather's character, his age, his grief and anger, he would not have considered himself subject to the restraints of the court, and my
father did not want him raging there.
Later, after I knew that his sentence had expired, I spent a lot of time
wondering what would happen if Carp Harmon gave me a ride while I
was hitchhiking. Hitchhiking was another thing Henry and I did that we
were absolutely forbidden to do. Our mother had read of many horrible
things that had happened to hitchhikers, none of which I thought would
happen to me. As I knew from experience, people I did not know who
picked me up on the road I traveled, the Port William road, were likely
to greet me by asking, 'Ain't you one of Wheeler Catlett's boys?" or "I
don't reckon you'd be a Catlett, would you?" What I worried about was
getting picked up by Carp Harmon. Though I had not knowingly ever
seen him, I had no doubt that I would recognize him. And I knew that I
would need great courage, greater courage than I was sure I had, to speak
the necessary words, which I had rehearsed: "Carp Harmon, you son of
a bitch, you killed my uncle." And then perhaps he would pull out his .38
pistol and shoot me?
But he never gave me a ride; as far as I know, I never laid eyes on him
in his life.
Another encounter that I grew to expect, as I grew into understanding
of what I remembered of Uncle Andrew, was with a first cousin, some
strange boy or young man, as I put it to myself, whom I would recognize
because he would look something like Uncle Andrew, or even something
like me. But if he exists, he has not come forward. As far as I know, I have
not laid eyes on him either.
8
Widowhood gave new impetus to Aunt Judith's role as a sufferer. In the
eighteen
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