If, on the other hand, Cal came upon the same anthill, he would kick it to pieces and watch while the frantic ants took care of their disaster. Aron was content to be a part of his world, but Cal must change it.
Cal did not question the fact that people liked his brother better, but he had developed a means for making it all right with himself. He planned and waited until one time that admiring person exposed himself, and then something happened and the victim never knew how or why. Out of revenge Cal extracted a fluid of power, and out of power, joy. It was the strongest, purest emotion he knew. Far from disliking Aron, he loved him because he was usually the cause for Cal’s feelings of triumph. He had forgotten—if he had ever known—that he punished because he wished he could be loved as Aron was loved. It had gone so far that he preferred what he had to what Aron had.
Abra had started a process in Cal by touching Aron and by the softness of her voice toward him. Cal’s reaction was automatic. His brain probed for a weakness in Abra, and so clever was he that he found one almost at once in her words. Some children want to be babies and some want to be adults. Few are content with their age. Abra wanted to be an adult. She used adult words and simulated, insofar as she was able, adult attitudes and emotions. She had left babyhood far behind, and she was not capable yet of being one of the grownups she admired. Cal sensed this, and it gave him the instrument to knock down her anthill.
He knew about how long it would take his brother to find the box. He could see in his mind what would happen. Aron would try to wash the blood off the rabbit, and this would take time. Finding string would take more time, and the careful tying of the bow knots still more time. And meanwhile Cal knew he was beginning to win. He felt Abra’s certainty wavering and he knew that he could prod it further.
Abra looked away from him at last and said, “What do you stare at a person for?”
Cal looked at her feet and slowly raised his eyes, going over her as coldly as if she were a chair. This, he knew, could make even an adult nervous.
Abra couldn’t stand it. She said, “See anything green?”
Cal asked, “Do you go to school?”
“Of course I do.”
“What grade?”
“High fifth.”
“How old are you?”
“Going on eleven.”
Cal laughed.
“What’s wrong with that?” she demanded. He didn’t answer her. “Come on, tell me! What’s wrong with that?” Still no answer. “You think you’re mighty smart,” she said, and when he continued to laugh at her she said uneasily, “I wonder what’s taking your brother so long. Look, the rain’s stopped.”
Cal said, “I guess he’s looking around for it.”
“You mean, for the rabbit?”
“Oh, no. He’s got that all right—it’s dead. But maybe he can’t catch the other. It gets away.”
“Catch what? What gets away?”
“He wouldn’t want me to tell,” said Cal. “He wants it to be a surprise. He caught it last Friday. It bit him too.”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“You’ll see,” said Cal, “when you open the box. I bet he tells you not to open it right off.” This was not a guess. Cal knew his brother.
Abra knew she was losing not only the battle but the whole war. She began to hate this boy. In her mind she went over the deadly retorts she knew and gave them all up in helplessness, feeling they would have no effect. She retired into silence. She walked out of the door and looked toward the house where her parents were.
“I think I’ll go back,” she said.
“Wait,” said Cal.
She turned as he came up with her. “What do you want?” she asked coldly.
“Don’t be mad with me,” he said. “You don’t know what goes on here. You should see my brother’s back.”
His change of pace bewildered her. He never let her get set in an attitude, and he had properly read her interest in romantic situations. His voice was low and secret. She lowered her voice to match his.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with his back?”
“All scars,” said Cal. “It’s the Chinaman.”
She shivered and tensed with interest. “What does he do? Does he beat him?”
“Worse than that,” said Cal.
“Why don’t you tell your father?”
“We don’t dare. Do you know what would happen if we told?”
“No. What?”
He shook his head. “No”—he seemed to think carefully—“I don’t even dare tell you.”
At that moment Lee came from the shed leading the Bacons’ horse hitched to the high spindly rig with rubber tires. Mr. and Mrs. Bacon came out of the house and automatically they all looked up at the sky. Cal said, “I can’t tell you now. The Chinaman would know if I told.”
Mrs. Bacon called, “Abra! Hurry! We’re going.” Lee held the restive horse while Mrs. Bacon was helped up into the rig.
Aron came dashing around the house, carrying a cardboard box intricately tied with string in fancy bow knots. He thrust it at Abra. “Here,” he said. “Don’t untie it until you get home.”
Cal saw revulsion on Abra’s face. Her hands shrank away from the box.
“Take it, dear,” her father said. “Hurry, we’re very late.” He thrust the box into her hands.
Cal stepped close to her. “I want to whisper,” he said. He put his mouth to her ear. “You’ve wet your pants,” he said. She blushed and pulled the sunbonnet up over her head. Mrs. Bacon picked her up under the arms and passed her into the buggy.
Lee and Adam and the twins watched the horse pick up a fine trot.
Before the first turn Abra’s hand came up and the box went sailing backward into the road. Cal watched his brother’s face and saw misery come into Aron’s eyes. When Adam had gone back into the house and Lee was moving out with a pan of grain to feed the chickens, Cal put his arm around his brother’s shoulders and hugged him reassuringly.
“I wanted to marry her,” Aron said. “I put a letter in the box, asking her.”
“Don’t be sad,” said Cal. “I’m going to let you use my rifle.”
Aron’s head jerked around. “You haven’t got a rifle.”
“Haven’t I?” Cal said. “Haven’t I though?”
Chapter 28
1
It was at the supper table that the boys discovered the change in their father. They knew him as a presence—as ears that heard but did not listen, eyes that looked and did not notice. He was a cloud of a father. The boys had never learned to tell him of their interests and discoveries, or of their needs. Lee had been their contact with the adult world, and Lee had managed not only to raise, feed, clothe, and discipline the boys, but he had also given them a respect for their father. He was a mystery to the boys, and his word, his law, was carried down by Lee, who naturally made it up himself and ascribed it to Adam.
This night, the first after Adam’s return from Salinas, Cal and Aron were first astonished and then a little embarrassed to find that Adam listened to them and asked questions, looked at them and saw them. The change made them timid.
Adam said, “I hear you were hunting today.”
The boys became cautious as humans always are, faced with a new situation. After a pause Aron admitted, “Yes, sir.”
“Did you get anything?”
This time a longer pause, and then, “Yes, sir.”
“What did you get?”
“A rabbit.”
“With bows and arrows? Who got him?”
Aron said, “We both shot. We don’t know which one hit.”
Adam said, “Don’t you know your own arrows? We used to mark our arrows when I was a boy.”
This time Aron refused to answer and get into trouble. And Cal, after waiting, said, “Well, it was my arrow, all right, but we think it might have got in Aron’s quiver.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I don’t know,” Cal said. “But I think it was Aron hit the rabbit.”
Adam swung his eyes. “And what do you think?”
“I think maybe I hit it—but I’m not sure.”
“Well, you both seem to handle the situation very well.”
The alarm went out of the faces of the boys. It did not seem to be a trap.
“Where is the rabbit?” Adam asked.
Cal said, “Aron gave it to Abra as a present.”
“She threw it out,” said Aron.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to marry her too.”
“You did?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How about you, Cal?”
“I guess I’ll let Aron have her,” said Cal.