Chapter 39
1
At intervals Salinas suffered from a mild eructation of morality. The process never varied much. One burst was like another. Sometimes it started in the pulpit and sometimes with a new ambitious president of the Women’s Civic Club. Gambling was invariably the sin to be eradicated. There were certain advantages in attacking gambling. One could discuss it, which was not true of prostitution. It was an obvious evil and most of the games were operated by Chinese. There was little chance of treading on the toes of a relative.
From church and club the town’s two newspapers caught fire. Editorials demanded a clean-up. The police agreed but pleaded short-handedness and tried for increased budget and sometimes succeeded.
When it got to the editorial stage everyone knew the cards were down. What followed was as carefully produced as a ballet. The police got ready, the gambling houses got ready, and the papers set up congratulatory editorials in advance. Then came the raid, deliberate and sure. Twenty or more Chinese, imported from Pajaro, a few bums, six or eight drummers, who, being strangers, were not warned, fell into the police net, were booked, jailed, and in the morning fined and released. The town relaxed in its new spotlessness and the houses lost only one night of business plus the fines. It is one of the triumphs of the human that he can know a thing and still not believe it.
In the fall of 1916 Cal was watching the fan-tan game at Shorty Lim’s one night when the raid scooped him up. In the dark no one noticed him, and the chief was embarrassed to find him in the tank in the morning. The chief telephoned Adam, got him up from his breakfast. Adam walked the two blocks to the City Hall, picked up Cal, crossed the street to the post office for his mail, and then the two walked home.
Lee had kept Adam’s eggs warm and had fried two for Cal.
Aron walked through the dining room on his way to school. “Want me to wait for you?” he asked Cal.
“No,” said Cal. He kept his eyes down and ate his eggs.
Adam had not spoken except to say, “Come along!” at the City Hall after he had thanked the Chief.
Cal gulped down a breakfast he did not want, darting glances up through his eyelashes at his father’s face. He could make nothing of Adam’s expression. It seemed at once puzzled and angry and thoughtful and sad.
Adam stared down into his coffee cup. The silence grew until it had the weight of age so hard to lift aside.
Lee looked in. “Coffee?” he asked.
Adam shook his head slowly. Lee withdrew and this time closed the kitchen door.
In the clock-ticking silence Cal began to be afraid. He felt a strength flowing out of his father he had never known was there. Itching prickles of agony ran up his legs, and he was afraid to move to restore the circulation. He knocked his fork against his plate to make a noise and the clatter was swallowed up. The clock struck nine deliberate strokes and they were swallowed up.
As the fear began to chill, resentment took its place. So might a trapped fox feel anger at the paw which held him to the trap.
Suddenly Cal jumped up. He hadn’t known he was going to move. He shouted and he hadn’t known he was going to speak. He cried, “Do what you’re going to do to me! Go ahead! Get it over!”
And his shout was sucked into the silence.
Adam slowly raised his head. It is true that Cal had never looked into his father’s eyes before, and it is true that many people never look into their father’s eyes. Adam’s irises were light blue with dark radial lines leading into the vortices of his pupils. And deep down in each pupil Cal saw his own face reflected, as though two Cals looked out at him.
Adam said slowly, “I’ve failed you, haven’t I?”
It was worse than an attack. Cal faltered, “What do you mean?”
“You were picked up in a gambling house. I don’t know how you got there, what you were doing there, why you went there.”
Cal sat limply down and looked at his plate.
“Do you gamble, son?”
“No, sir. I was just watching.”
“Had you been there before?”
“Yes, sir. Many times.”
“Why do you go?”
“I don’t know. I get restless at night—like an alley cat, I guess.” The thought of Kate and his weak joke seemed horrible to him. “When I can’t sleep I walk around,” he said, “to try to blot it out.”
Adam considered his words, inspected each one. “Does your brother walk around too?”
“Oh, no, sir. He wouldn’t think of it. He’s—he’s not restless.”
“You see, I don’t know,” said Adam. “I don’t know anything about you.”
Cal wanted to throw his arms about his father, to hug him and to be hugged by him. He wanted some wild demonstration of sympathy and love. He picked up his wooden napkin ring and thrust his forefinger through it. “I’d tell you if you asked,” he said softly.
“I didn’t ask. I didn’t ask! I’m as bad a father as my father was.”
Cal had never heard this tone in Adam’s voice. It was hoarse and breaking with warmth and he fumbled among his words, feeling for them in the dark.
“My father made a mold and forced me into it,” Adam said. “I was a bad casting but I couldn’t be remelted. Nobody can be remelted. And so I remained a bad casting.”
Cal said, “Sir, don’t be sorry. You’ve had too much of that.”
“Have I? Maybe—but maybe the wrong kind. I don’t know my sons. I wonder whether I could learn.”
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just ask me.”
“Where would I start? Right at the beginning?”
“Are you sad or mad because I was in jail?”
To Cal’s surprise Adam laughed. “You were just there, weren’t you? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Maybe being there was wrong.” Cal wanted a blame for himself.
“One time I was just there,” said Adam. “I was a prisoner for nearly a year for just being there.”
Cal tried to absorb this heresy. “I don’t believe it,” he said.
“Sometimes I don’t either, but I know that when I escaped I robbed a store and stole some clothes.”
“I don’t believe it,” Cal said weakly, but the warmth, the closeness, was so delicious that he clung to it. He breathed shallowly so that the warmth might not be disturbed.
Adam said, “Do you remember Samuel Hamilton?—sure you do. When you were a baby he told me I was a bad father. He hit me, knocked me down, to impress it on me.”
“That old man?”
“He was a tough old man. And now I know what he meant. I’m the same as my father was. He didn’t allow me to be a person, and I haven’t seen my sons as people. That’s what Samuel meant.” He looked right into Cal’s eyes and smiled, and Cal ached with affection for him.
Cal said, “We don’t think you’re a bad father.”
“Poor things,” said Adam. “How would you know? You’ve never had any other kind.”
“I’m glad I was in jail,” said Cal.
“So am I. So am I.” He laughed. “We’ve both been in jail—we can talk together.” A gaiety grew in him. “Maybe you can tell me what kind of a boy you are—can you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, tell me. You see, there’s a responsibility in being a person. It’s more than just taking up space where air would be. What are you like?”
“No joke?” Cal asked shyly.
“No joke—oh, surely, no joke. Tell me about yourself—that is, if you want to.”
Cal began, “Well—I’m—” He stopped. “It’s not so easy when you try,” he said.
“I guess it would be—maybe impossible. Tell me about your brother.”
“What do you want to know about him?”
“What you think of him, I guess. That’s all you could tell me.”
Cal said, “He’s good. He doesn’t do bad things. He doesn’t think bad things.”
“Now you’re telling about yourself.”
“Sir?”
“You’re saying you do and think bad things.”
Cal’s cheeks reddened. “Well, I do.”
“Very bad things?”
“Yes, sir. Do you want me to tell?”
“No, Cal. You’ve told. Your voice tells and your eyes tell you’re at war with yourself. But you shouldn’t be ashamed. It’s awful to be ashamed. Is Aron ever ashamed?”
“He doesn’t do anything to be ashamed of.”
Adam leaned forward. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Tell me, Cal—do you protect him?”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“I mean like this—if you heard something bad or cruel or ugly, would you keep it from him?”
“I—I think so.”
“You think he’s too weak to bear things you can bear?”