things
I’ve seen him do, some time when it’s possible to have a little
conversation without these constant interruptions?
Gwen smiled at him again, and nodded. He was
encouraged.
“ G0 ahead and eat, my dear,” he said expansively.
"We should have waited for you, but sometimes it seems to me
we’ve lost even the most ordinary consideration in this wilderness,
all sense of the amenities of civilization. You have no idea the
pleasure it is, if only for that reason, to have you under this roof.
It may remind us of ourselves a little, and heaven knows we need to
be reminded."
He leaned toward her and smiled at her and raised his
glass. "A most left-handed compliment, I fear, but not intended
as such. The true pleasure, of course, is your presence."
Gwen hushed and made the quick, little smile again,
and looked back at her plate.
"Thank you," she said.
"N0, no; thank you," the father said, and
flourished the glass at her, and drank from it, and sat back with it
in his move or look at her.
Gwen picked up her fork, but then, to loosen the
close hold of his attention, looked away and watched
the mother set a plate of potato and bacon on the floor in front of
Joe Sam, and a mug of coffee beside it. The old Indian, so upright,
and with his eyes gleaming, appeared unnaturally alert, as if he saw
and heard something none of the rest of them could, and had become
their sentry against what was waiting outside the door he stared at.
This black panther they all joke about, she thought.
He isn’t really seeing anything, though, she thought uneasily. Mrs.
Bridges is right in front of him now, but he’s staring at her the
same way he was at the door. He doesn’t even know she’s there.
“ There’s your breakfast, Joe Sam," the
mother said, raising her voice as if the old Indian were deaf. After
a moment she said, "Joe Sam," still more loudly. Joe Sam
didn’t move or look at her.
The father stirred uneasily in his chair and set his
glass down. "The old fool," he said, laughing a little.
"He’s seeing things again. The first snow always upsets him,"
he explained to Gwen. "Sometimes it puts him into a regular
trance. He can’t sleep, and he forgets to eat unless we make him.
But there’s no reason to be alarmed," he added quickly. "He’s
perfectly harmless. When he’s himself," he went on, "he’s
not at all bad help, either, as Indians go. We just have to put up
with these little spells now and again. But he’s all right, really.
Gentle as a lamb. There isn’t a mean streak in the old codger."
Gwen made the diilicult smile again, but clenched her
left hand in her lap, and thought passionately, Oh, stop it, stop it.
Stop talking about the poor old man as if he wasn’t even here.
The mother was prodding Joe Sam’s knee with her
foot. At last he looked up at her slowly and asked, "What do?"
"He’s as old as the hills, to hear him tell
it," the father said, laughing. "He can’t remember
exactly how old, though. Too old to remember, even, I guess."
Gwen looked at Harold for help, but he was staring at
his hands folded together on the table, and seemed to be thinking of
something else.
"Eat," the mother told Joe Sam. "Drink
your coffee. It’ll warm you."
"Not cold," he said.
His voice was deep, surprisingly deep out of such a
small, fat, old man, and with a heavy, male resonance in it that was
stirring. Yet he spoke small too, reluctant to make a sound, as if,
being compelled to speak, he was robbed of a power he stored for
greater uses, as if he were violated by the presence of another.
"Go on, drink it," the mother said. "You’re
shaking like a leaf still."
"Coffee good," he said politely, although
he hadn’t yet touched the mug.
The mother waited, looking down at him, bearing her
presence down heavily upon him. Finally Joe Sam took up the mug in
both hands and sipped at the coffee, holding the mug against his
mouth between sips. He appeared to test the coffee in his mouth like
an unfamiliar wine, and to
I’ve seen him do, some time when it’s possible to have a little
conversation without these constant interruptions?
Gwen smiled at him again, and nodded. He was
encouraged.
“ G0 ahead and eat, my dear,” he said expansively.
"We should have waited for you, but sometimes it seems to me
we’ve lost even the most ordinary consideration in this wilderness,
all sense of the amenities of civilization. You have no idea the
pleasure it is, if only for that reason, to have you under this roof.
It may remind us of ourselves a little, and heaven knows we need to
be reminded."
He leaned toward her and smiled at her and raised his
glass. "A most left-handed compliment, I fear, but not intended
as such. The true pleasure, of course, is your presence."
Gwen hushed and made the quick, little smile again,
and looked back at her plate.
"Thank you," she said.
"N0, no; thank you," the father said, and
flourished the glass at her, and drank from it, and sat back with it
in his move or look at her.
Gwen picked up her fork, but then, to loosen the
close hold of his attention, looked away and watched
the mother set a plate of potato and bacon on the floor in front of
Joe Sam, and a mug of coffee beside it. The old Indian, so upright,
and with his eyes gleaming, appeared unnaturally alert, as if he saw
and heard something none of the rest of them could, and had become
their sentry against what was waiting outside the door he stared at.
This black panther they all joke about, she thought.
He isn’t really seeing anything, though, she thought uneasily. Mrs.
Bridges is right in front of him now, but he’s staring at her the
same way he was at the door. He doesn’t even know she’s there.
“ There’s your breakfast, Joe Sam," the
mother said, raising her voice as if the old Indian were deaf. After
a moment she said, "Joe Sam," still more loudly. Joe Sam
didn’t move or look at her.
The father stirred uneasily in his chair and set his
glass down. "The old fool," he said, laughing a little.
"He’s seeing things again. The first snow always upsets him,"
he explained to Gwen. "Sometimes it puts him into a regular
trance. He can’t sleep, and he forgets to eat unless we make him.
But there’s no reason to be alarmed," he added quickly. "He’s
perfectly harmless. When he’s himself," he went on, "he’s
not at all bad help, either, as Indians go. We just have to put up
with these little spells now and again. But he’s all right, really.
Gentle as a lamb. There isn’t a mean streak in the old codger."
Gwen made the diilicult smile again, but clenched her
left hand in her lap, and thought passionately, Oh, stop it, stop it.
Stop talking about the poor old man as if he wasn’t even here.
The mother was prodding Joe Sam’s knee with her
foot. At last he looked up at her slowly and asked, "What do?"
"He’s as old as the hills, to hear him tell
it," the father said, laughing. "He can’t remember
exactly how old, though. Too old to remember, even, I guess."
Gwen looked at Harold for help, but he was staring at
his hands folded together on the table, and seemed to be thinking of
something else.
"Eat," the mother told Joe Sam. "Drink
your coffee. It’ll warm you."
"Not cold," he said.
His voice was deep, surprisingly deep out of such a
small, fat, old man, and with a heavy, male resonance in it that was
stirring. Yet he spoke small too, reluctant to make a sound, as if,
being compelled to speak, he was robbed of a power he stored for
greater uses, as if he were violated by the presence of another.
"Go on, drink it," the mother said. "You’re
shaking like a leaf still."
"Coffee good," he said politely, although
he hadn’t yet touched the mug.
The mother waited, looking down at him, bearing her
presence down heavily upon him. Finally Joe Sam took up the mug in
both hands and sipped at the coffee, holding the mug against his
mouth between sips. He appeared to test the coffee in his mouth like
an unfamiliar wine, and to
Similar Books
