Read Online Heed the Thunder by Jim Thompson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jim Thompson
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“Good-by, Ma.”
She didn’t answer, but he thought nothing of that. She was in the habit of taking her time in answering him, valuing his time at nothing and her own at a great deal. Just why he felt impelled to tell her good-by he did not know, but he was sure that he had to. Perhaps, in the back of his mind, there was an admonition of his mother’s: “Always tell Ma if you go off any place.”
“Ma,” he said. “Oh, Ma.”
He stepped up to the side of the bed and said, “ Ma! ” And Mrs. Fargo stirred a little but did not speak. She had been sleeping badly since the night the parson had disappeared with the deed. Now, she was catching up.
“Oh, Ma. Ma! ”
He giggled suddenly, nervously. Maybe she was playing with him, like Mama, or Pa. Pa played like that. He would pretend to be asleep; then, when Bobbie tried to slip up on him, he would reach out and poke him with his cane. Maybe Ma was playing. Maybe she liked him, now, and wanted to play like he and Pa did.
Taking hold of the head of the bedstead, he inserted a foot between the rail and springs, and stood teetering precariously above her. He leaned over her and his feet slipped. With a wild shout of, “MAW!” he fell on top of her.
Mrs. Fargo cried out, wildly, and tried to raise herself. She struck out blindly with both hands, flinging him to the floor. She sat up, hysterical, not fully awake, and clutched her head, sobbing, for a button of his sheeplined coat had caught in her topknot.
Robert got to his feet. “Good-by, Ma,” he said.
“What? What’s that?” said the old woman.
“I just came in to tell you good-by.”
Mrs. Fargo looked at him incredulously, rocking her head. “Up to some meanness again, wasn’t you? What was you tryin’ to do, kill me?”
“Huh-uh. I just—”
“You get out of here!” snapped his grandmother, her face a mask of hatred. “Get out! Get out! Get out!…”
She swung her legs to the floor, grasping for him with a furious, wrinkled hand; and Robert got out.
“Well, did you tell your gran’ma good-by?” asked Sherman.
“Uh-huh. But she didn’t tell me.”
Robert’s face was white, and he was shaking a little. He had hurt Ma, and she would tell Mama; and maybe Mama would go off, way off, some place and leave him.
“I think I made Ma mad,” he said.
“Huh!” Lincoln scowled scornfully. “Well, don’t let it worry you none. I’ll tell you good-by twice. How’ll that be?”
“Fine,” said Robert.
“All right. Good-by, good-by. Take care of him, Sherm.”
“I’ll take care of him,” said Sherman. “I’ll cut his ears off and nail ’em to a fence post.”
And he grinned sourly as the boy burst into laughter.
7
I n the bitter winter dusk, the house of Sherman Fargo rose above the snowbound valley like a friendly wraith. The bleak ridges of the sand-hills echoed with the coyotes’ call; a brazen bobcat’s tracks marked its owner’s fearless passage across the barnyard; and down along the frozen Calamus the wolves wept shiveringly. But the house stood impregnable, protective, challenging.
The house was a good house, structurally; it had to be. From an architectural standpoint it was hideous. Like almost every other well-to-do farmer’s house, it had been built for a family which was only potential, which existed only in the parents’ loins, at the time of construction; and the ambition, the frugality, and the lack of maturity of those parents showed plainly in the building. There were eleven rooms, although Sherman had but five children and would have no more. The inevitable parlor had gained its space, used, perhaps, a half-dozen times a year, at the expense of the living room; and the living room, caught between the drafts of a large stained-glass window and the stairway, was difficult to heat. The kitchen was spacious enough; but because of a milk room (Sherman had all but dropped his dairy business), which practically enclosed it on two sides, it was dark, and, in
She didn’t answer, but he thought nothing of that. She was in the habit of taking her time in answering him, valuing his time at nothing and her own at a great deal. Just why he felt impelled to tell her good-by he did not know, but he was sure that he had to. Perhaps, in the back of his mind, there was an admonition of his mother’s: “Always tell Ma if you go off any place.”
“Ma,” he said. “Oh, Ma.”
He stepped up to the side of the bed and said, “ Ma! ” And Mrs. Fargo stirred a little but did not speak. She had been sleeping badly since the night the parson had disappeared with the deed. Now, she was catching up.
“Oh, Ma. Ma! ”
He giggled suddenly, nervously. Maybe she was playing with him, like Mama, or Pa. Pa played like that. He would pretend to be asleep; then, when Bobbie tried to slip up on him, he would reach out and poke him with his cane. Maybe Ma was playing. Maybe she liked him, now, and wanted to play like he and Pa did.
Taking hold of the head of the bedstead, he inserted a foot between the rail and springs, and stood teetering precariously above her. He leaned over her and his feet slipped. With a wild shout of, “MAW!” he fell on top of her.
Mrs. Fargo cried out, wildly, and tried to raise herself. She struck out blindly with both hands, flinging him to the floor. She sat up, hysterical, not fully awake, and clutched her head, sobbing, for a button of his sheeplined coat had caught in her topknot.
Robert got to his feet. “Good-by, Ma,” he said.
“What? What’s that?” said the old woman.
“I just came in to tell you good-by.”
Mrs. Fargo looked at him incredulously, rocking her head. “Up to some meanness again, wasn’t you? What was you tryin’ to do, kill me?”
“Huh-uh. I just—”
“You get out of here!” snapped his grandmother, her face a mask of hatred. “Get out! Get out! Get out!…”
She swung her legs to the floor, grasping for him with a furious, wrinkled hand; and Robert got out.
“Well, did you tell your gran’ma good-by?” asked Sherman.
“Uh-huh. But she didn’t tell me.”
Robert’s face was white, and he was shaking a little. He had hurt Ma, and she would tell Mama; and maybe Mama would go off, way off, some place and leave him.
“I think I made Ma mad,” he said.
“Huh!” Lincoln scowled scornfully. “Well, don’t let it worry you none. I’ll tell you good-by twice. How’ll that be?”
“Fine,” said Robert.
“All right. Good-by, good-by. Take care of him, Sherm.”
“I’ll take care of him,” said Sherman. “I’ll cut his ears off and nail ’em to a fence post.”
And he grinned sourly as the boy burst into laughter.
7
I n the bitter winter dusk, the house of Sherman Fargo rose above the snowbound valley like a friendly wraith. The bleak ridges of the sand-hills echoed with the coyotes’ call; a brazen bobcat’s tracks marked its owner’s fearless passage across the barnyard; and down along the frozen Calamus the wolves wept shiveringly. But the house stood impregnable, protective, challenging.
The house was a good house, structurally; it had to be. From an architectural standpoint it was hideous. Like almost every other well-to-do farmer’s house, it had been built for a family which was only potential, which existed only in the parents’ loins, at the time of construction; and the ambition, the frugality, and the lack of maturity of those parents showed plainly in the building. There were eleven rooms, although Sherman had but five children and would have no more. The inevitable parlor had gained its space, used, perhaps, a half-dozen times a year, at the expense of the living room; and the living room, caught between the drafts of a large stained-glass window and the stairway, was difficult to heat. The kitchen was spacious enough; but because of a milk room (Sherman had all but dropped his dairy business), which practically enclosed it on two sides, it was dark, and, in
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