Read Online The Beet Fields by Gary Paulsen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gary Paulsen
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on and buttoned it It was too big by a size but he rolled the sleeves up and tucked it into his pants and followed her back into the house.
The inside was like a picture he'd once seen in a library book of a fairy village. There seemed to be glass cases or shelves in every corner and they were all filled with knickknacks; tiny porcelain figurines and animals, litde bouquets of porcelain and glass flowers, painted plates, small silver spoons. There were ironed lace curtains and a crocheted tablecloth on a hardwood dining table in the middle of the room. Off to the back was a kitchen, and a small doorway at the right led to what the boy supposed was a bedroom, but this main room, this sittjng-diningroom dominated the house. It was like a museum. On one wall there was a large tinted color photograph of a young man in a pilot's uniform with a flight helmet and raised goggles on his head. Across the picture diagonally there was a narrow black satin ribbon and on the wall next to it was a framed newspaper obituary and a telegram with a black star on it.
“He was my son,” the old woman said, and then disappeared into the kitchen and came out with a bowl of stew and corrected herself.
“Is
my son—he is Robert and he
is
my son, not was. He was a pilot in the Pacific. Flew one of them P-38s and there was a fight and the Japs shot him down—“
Hazel put the stew down and looked at the picture, her eyes tearing. “He was something. When it rained of a hot day Robert would take off all his clothes and sit in the yard in a puddle. Just sit there laughing.” Her eyes changed, grew hard. “I didn't even get the body back. The son-of-a-bitch army kept it and wouldn't give it back to me. They said he was missing. They said they couldn't find him. Bullshit.
“That's all lies,” she spat, her voice a hiss.“That's lies they tell when they don't want you to know what really happened. He's probably in one of them secret camps. Where they keep them after the war.”
She turned and went back into the kitchen and came back with bread. “I get magazines with stories in them. I read about them camps—the ones where they keep soldiers so they don't bring diseases back to this country….”
She trailed off and gathered bowls to put on the table and when she had placed them she looked at the boy. “Hands.”
“Pardon?”
“I want to see your hands, see if they're clean. I won"t feed those with dirty hands.”
The boy held his hands up and she took them and turned them over, then back, “Wash,” she said. “In the kitchen at the sink you'll find soap and water. Wash them good or you'll take sick.”
He went to the kitchen and it was like stepping back into the past. On the left side there was a big wood cookstove with warming ovens sitting high above the cooktop, all black, trimmed in shiny nickel. Near it, beneath a window looking out on the fields with their old farm equipment,there was a sink with a red hand pump. By the pump was a bar of Lava soap and hanging on the wall next to the window there was a coarse cotton towel. He washed his hands thoroughly and splashed water in his face, dried with the towel and went back into the front room.
Hazel was sitting at the table waiting for him. There were two empty places set on either side of her and he moved to sit to her left but she stopped him.
“Sit here, on my right. That other one is for Robert.”
He nodded and moved around the table to the right and sat and pulled the chair up to the table and it did not seem strange in some way that the other chair and place setting were for Robert. The picture was up there and Robert looked down on them and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to be sitting at the table eating. The food was simple—stew and cold cuts of summer sausage and homemade bread and butter. The boy thought of how the Mexicans had eaten, all taking from the one pot, and of how he had eaten at Bill's, off the tailgate of the truck. He wasn't sure
The inside was like a picture he'd once seen in a library book of a fairy village. There seemed to be glass cases or shelves in every corner and they were all filled with knickknacks; tiny porcelain figurines and animals, litde bouquets of porcelain and glass flowers, painted plates, small silver spoons. There were ironed lace curtains and a crocheted tablecloth on a hardwood dining table in the middle of the room. Off to the back was a kitchen, and a small doorway at the right led to what the boy supposed was a bedroom, but this main room, this sittjng-diningroom dominated the house. It was like a museum. On one wall there was a large tinted color photograph of a young man in a pilot's uniform with a flight helmet and raised goggles on his head. Across the picture diagonally there was a narrow black satin ribbon and on the wall next to it was a framed newspaper obituary and a telegram with a black star on it.
“He was my son,” the old woman said, and then disappeared into the kitchen and came out with a bowl of stew and corrected herself.
“Is
my son—he is Robert and he
is
my son, not was. He was a pilot in the Pacific. Flew one of them P-38s and there was a fight and the Japs shot him down—“
Hazel put the stew down and looked at the picture, her eyes tearing. “He was something. When it rained of a hot day Robert would take off all his clothes and sit in the yard in a puddle. Just sit there laughing.” Her eyes changed, grew hard. “I didn't even get the body back. The son-of-a-bitch army kept it and wouldn't give it back to me. They said he was missing. They said they couldn't find him. Bullshit.
“That's all lies,” she spat, her voice a hiss.“That's lies they tell when they don't want you to know what really happened. He's probably in one of them secret camps. Where they keep them after the war.”
She turned and went back into the kitchen and came back with bread. “I get magazines with stories in them. I read about them camps—the ones where they keep soldiers so they don't bring diseases back to this country….”
She trailed off and gathered bowls to put on the table and when she had placed them she looked at the boy. “Hands.”
“Pardon?”
“I want to see your hands, see if they're clean. I won"t feed those with dirty hands.”
The boy held his hands up and she took them and turned them over, then back, “Wash,” she said. “In the kitchen at the sink you'll find soap and water. Wash them good or you'll take sick.”
He went to the kitchen and it was like stepping back into the past. On the left side there was a big wood cookstove with warming ovens sitting high above the cooktop, all black, trimmed in shiny nickel. Near it, beneath a window looking out on the fields with their old farm equipment,there was a sink with a red hand pump. By the pump was a bar of Lava soap and hanging on the wall next to the window there was a coarse cotton towel. He washed his hands thoroughly and splashed water in his face, dried with the towel and went back into the front room.
Hazel was sitting at the table waiting for him. There were two empty places set on either side of her and he moved to sit to her left but she stopped him.
“Sit here, on my right. That other one is for Robert.”
He nodded and moved around the table to the right and sat and pulled the chair up to the table and it did not seem strange in some way that the other chair and place setting were for Robert. The picture was up there and Robert looked down on them and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to be sitting at the table eating. The food was simple—stew and cold cuts of summer sausage and homemade bread and butter. The boy thought of how the Mexicans had eaten, all taking from the one pot, and of how he had eaten at Bill's, off the tailgate of the truck. He wasn't sure
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