After it was all over, he had a good dinner with the warden before he started home again. To some little extent the same emotion occurred to Raymond when the little boys came to watch him kill chickens. He was able to catch a slight spark of their excitement.
The Munroe family had not been long in the Pastures of Heaven before they heard about the fine ranch of Raymond Banks and about his visits to the prison. The people of the valley were interested, fascinated and not a little horrified by the excursions to see men hanged. Before he ever saw Raymond, Bert Munroe pictured him as a traditional executioner, a lank, dark man, with a dull, deathly eye, a cold, nerveless man. The very thought of Raymond filled Bert with a kind of interested foreboding.
When he finally met Raymond Banks and saw the jolly black eyes and the healthy, burned face, Bert. was disillusioned, and at the same time a little disgusted. The very health and heartiness of Raymond seemed incongruous and strangely obscene. The paradox of his good nature and his love for children was unseemly.
On the first of May, the Banks’ gave one of their parties under the oak trees on the flat. It was the loveliest season of the year, lupines and shooting stars, gallitos and wild violets smoldered with color in the new, short grass on the hillsides. The oaks had put on new leaves as shiny and clean as washed holly. The sun was warm enough to drench the air with sage, and all the birds made frantic, noisy holiday. From the chicken yards came the contented gabbling of scratching hens and the cynical, self-satisfied quacking of the ducks.
At least fifty people were standing about the long tables under the trees. Hundreds of bottles of beer were packed in washtubs of salt and ice, a mixture so cold that the beer froze in the necks of the bottles. Mrs. Banks went about among the guests, laughing in greeting and in response to greeting. She rarely said a word. At the barbecue pits, Raymond was grilling little chickens while a group of admiring men stood about, offering jocular advice.
“If any of you can do it better, just step up,” Raymond shouted at them. “I’m going to put on the steaks now for anyone that’s crazy enough not to want chicken.”
Bert Munroe stood nearby watching the red hands of Raymond. He was drinking a bottle of the strong beer. Bert was fascinated by the powerful red hands constantly turning over the chickens on the grill.
When the big platters of broiled chicken were carried to the tables, Raymond went back to the pits to cook some more for those fine men who might require a second or even a third little chicken. Raymond was alone now, for his audience had all flocked to the tables. Bert Munroe looked up from his plate of beefsteak and saw that Raymond was alone by the pits. He put down his fork and strolled over.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Munroe? Wasn’t your chicken good?” Raymond asked with genial anxiety.
“I had steak, and it was fine. I eat pretty fast, I guess. I never eat chicken, you know.”
“That so? I never could understand how anyone wouldn’t like chicken, but I know plenty of people don’t. Let me put on another little piece of meat for you.”
“Oh! I guess I’ve had enough. I always think people eat too much. You ought to get up from the table feeling a little bit hungry. Then you keep well, like the animals.”
“I guess that’s right,” said Raymond. He turned the little carcasses over the fire. “I notice I feel better when I don’t eat so much.”
“Sure you do. So do I. So would everybody. Everybody eats too much.” The two men smiled warmly at each other because they had agreed on this point, although neither of them believed it very strongly.
“You sure got a nice piece of land in here,” Raymond observed, to double their growing friendship with a second agreement.
“Well, I don’t know. They say there’s loco weed on it, but I haven’t seen any yet.”
Raymond laughed. “They used to say the place was haunted before you came and fixed it up so nice. Haven’t seen any ghosts, have you?”
“Not a ghost. I’m more scared of loco weed than I am of ghosts. I sure do hate loco weed.”
“Don’t know as I blame you. Course with chickens it doesn’t bother me much, but it raises hell with you people that run stock.”
Bert picked up a stick from the ground and knocked it gently on the winking coals. “I hear you’re acquainted with the warden up to San Quentin.”
“Know him well. I went to school with Ed when I was a kid. You acquainted with him, Mr. Munroe?”
“Oh, no—no. He’s in the papers quite a bit. A man in his position gets in the papers quite a bit.”
Raymond’s voice was serious and proud. “Yeah. He gets a lot of publicity all right. But he’s a nice fella, Mr. Munroe, as nice a fella as you’d want to meet. And in spite of having all those convicts on his hands, he’s just as jolly and friendly. You wouldn’t think to talk to him., that he had a big responsibility like that.”
“Is that so? You wouldn’t think that. I mean, you’d think he’d be kind of worried with all those convicts on his hands. Do you see him often?”
“Well—yes. I do. I told you I went to school with him. I was kind of chums with him. Well, he hasn’t forgot me. Every once in a while he asks me up to the prison when there’s a hanging.”
Bert shuddered in spite of the fact that he had been digging for this. “Is that so?”
“Yes. I think it’s quite an honor. Not many people get in except newspaper men and official witnesses, sheriffs and police. I have a good visit with Ed every time too, of course.”
A strange thing happened to Bert. He seemed to be standing apart from his body. His voice acted without his volition. He heard himself say, “I don’t suppose the warden would like it if you brought a friend along.” He listened to his words with astonishment. He had not wanted to say that at all.
Raymond was stirring the coals vigorously. He was embarrassed. “Why, I don’t know, Mr. Munroe. I never thought about it. Did you want to go up with me?”
Again Bert’s voice acted alone. “Yes,” it said.
“Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do then. I’ll write to Ed (I write to him pretty often, you see, so he won’t think anything of it) . I’ll just kind of slip it in the letter about you wanting to go up. Then maybe he’ll send two invitations next time. Of course I can’t promise, though. Won’t you have another little piece of steak?”
Bert was nauseated. “No. I’ve had enough,” he said. “I’m not feeling so good. I guess I’ll go lie down under a tree for a little while.”
“Maybe you shook up some of the yeast in that beer, Mr. Munroe. You’ve got to be pretty careful when you pour it.”
Bert sat on the crackling dry leaves at the foot of an oak tree. The tables, lined with noisy guests, were on his right. The hoarse laughing of the men and the shrill cries of communicating women came to him faintly through a wall of thought. Between the tree trunks he could see Raymond Banks still moving about the meat pits, grilling chickens for those few incredible appetites that remained unappeased. The nausea which had forced him away was subtly changing. The choked feeling of illness was becoming a strange panting congestion of desire. The desire puzzled Bert and worried him. He didn’t want to go to San Quentin. It would make him unhappy to see a man hanged. But he was glad he had asked to go. His very gladness worried him. As Bert watched, Raymond rolled his sleeves higher up on his thick red arms before he cleaned the grates. Bert jumped up and started toward the pits. Suddenly the nausea arose in him again. He swerved around and hurried to the table where his wife sat shrilling pleasantries around the gnawed carcass of a chicken.
“My husband never eats chicken,” she was crying.
“I’m going to walk home,” Bert said. “I feel rotten.”
His wife laid down the carcass of the chicken and wiped her fingers and mouth on a paper napkin. “What’s the matter with you, Bert?”
“I don’t know. I just feel kind of rotten.”
“Do you want me to go home with you in the car?”
“No, you stay. Jimmie’ll drive you home.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Munroe, “you better say good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Banks.”