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Awakening on the morning after the Festival, Becky felt sick. She had overslept and her
husband was up before her. In the gray dawn light she rose from her bed and looked out
the window. A misty rain was falling. Shivering, she draped a thick coat about her
shoulders and stepped out into the living room. A fire was already burning in the stove,
water was boiling in the pot and breakfast had been cooked. The Shopkeeper, dressed
and ready to go out was warming himself by the fire. 'Good morning, dear. You're late this morning. How do you feel?' His words were absorbed by the cold damp air, lost among the dark crevices of the room. 'Not well.' She hugged her body tightly. 'I'm sickening for something.' 'With the excitement of the last few days it's not surprising.' The Shopkeeper handed his wife some water in a mug, then kissed her gently on the forehead and left. As he closed the door behind him he smiled and stretched himself with the ease of morning. Becky sat shivering by the fire. A few minutes later Carl entered the room. 'You're late son. Your father's already gone.' Carl went to the stove in search of breakfast. He obviously thought the food was meager. 'It doesn't seem the same without Ruth, does it, Ma?' 'It's about time you were thinking of taking a woman of your own,' she said with an ironic laugh. Carl blushed and avoided her eyes. Before he had finished eating Becky said, 'I'm going back to bed. Tell your father when you see him to bring me some powders when he comes.' Later that morning Carl passed on his mother's message and the Shopkeeper returned home with the medication immediately. He found his wife in the vegetable garden, on her knees in mud, planting. 'I've a bit of a headache,' she said. 'But I can't stay in bed all day on account of that.' The next day the Shopkeeper began his spring accounting so that he could present his records to the new Pastor within the month. That day also Carl supervised one of many transactions. In the enclave of the 'Men Apart' a young metal collector called Willis was selling a piece of irregularly shaped and very rusty metal tubing to the smith Vernon Harding, one of Jacob Harding's nephews. 'What a useless piece of junk!' said Harding. 'It'll have to be melted down.' Willis was in his early twenties: a short wiry man, thin like a wraith with black hair and a large wart on the side of his nose. He looked very hungry. 'No! That ain't useless!' he protested vehemently. 'that can be used as is. A valuable piece the Keeper told me. A... a bicycle frame. Very rare for it be in so good condition as it is' 'Junk!' said Harding. 'I'm not paying a fancy price for junk!' 'A bicycle frame!' Willis repeated the object's name over and over again as if it would make a difference to the price. Carl agreed with the smith: 'It's worthless, Willis. It's too rusty.' 'What would you know?' The veins stood out on Willis' brown forehead and his eyes bulged. 'A kid like you! You ain't got no right to do a man out of his hard earned winnings. You know how far I had to go before I found this piece. You think you can take that all away from me? You know how much I have to pay in tax?' He shook his fist in Carl's face and looked as if he might even strike him. Carl was about the same size as Willis, and only slightly younger although he was certainly not nearly as tough. He knew that Willis was trying to browbeat him and that he could not afford to allow this. His eyes flashed with anger and he grabbed Willis' wrist and twisted it behind his back. 'I will not be threatened. Accept the price or keep what you have to sell.' Willis cried out with pain, but surprisingly made no effort to resist. 'Alright, let me go! Don't mind me, Carl,' he said after Carl released his arm. 'I get a touch carried away at times, is all.' He agreed to the transaction without further ado and ambled off quite cheerfully. The manner in which Carl handled such transactions had already gained Carl a reputation among the 'Men Apart'. They considered that he was just. That evening Becky had a fever. To the consternation of the household she tossed and turned all night, crying out in her sleep. The next morning the fever moderated but by evening it had worsened again. As Becky's condition deteriorated the family became increasingly concerned. The Shopkeeper was the most deeply affected. He wandered about with downcast eyes and, after the third day, he was afraid she would die. His world began to collapse about him. Distracted, the Shopkeeper continued with his inventory. He discovered a discrepancy in a transaction his son had entered the Book of Records. He searched everywhere for the article the boy had bartered for the corkscrew but he could not find it. Preoccupied, suspecting nothing but a mistake, looking for nothing but the saving of his wife, he finally asked Carl where it was. Though Carl pitied his father, there was no escape. He fetched the corkscrew and laid it before the man, his face red, stammering 'I... I wanted it for a souvenir.' The old man stared at the corkscrew for a long time in astonishment. Then, without a word he picked it up and left the room. Martha Wilson was nursing Becky. She sat by her bedside, her face a screwed up mask. Occasionally she would wail or chant an unintelligible dirge but mostly she sat silently, wiping Becky's hot face with a damp cloth. 'Yes,' she thought sadly, 'that old man will outlive us all.' The three Sisters from the Mission came to see what they could do. The youngest, a girl of Carl's own age was Sister Helen, newly made a Sister, assertive and full of enthusiasm for her task. After the other two had said some compassionate prayers and sung a hymn they left but Sister Helen stayed on, relieving Martha Wilson, who was far too old in any case. Not that there was much that anyone could do. Though everyone felt better having a Sister in the house at a time like this. Carl remained in constant terror of the consequences of his action. His father neither spoke nor looked at him for an entire day. Then, unexpectedly, he took Carl aside. The boy was sick with fear. 'Tell me,' said the father desperately, still unable to look his son in the eye. 'I want to understand what made you do it.' Though Carl gave his father the best explanation that he could, there was no real reason. The truth was that he took it because he wanted it. Even old Thomas had told him to give it up. The Shopkeeper thought of his dying wife and wondered what she would say, though she could not be troubled or asked for advice now. Could he destroy his own son? Should he give him up to the Pastor? Had he no pride in what he had created? Sometimes even the most rigid man must break the law. The Shopkeeper took the corkscrew from his pocket. 'This time it is right that you should have it.' After a week Becky's fever disappeared and all breathed hope again. But there was no hope. She was emaciated, drained of vitality and life. She could hardly move: only the sinews of her form remained and she had neither the strength nor will to live. Sensing the inevitable the Shopkeeper went to the new Pastor and asked if him to come to his house to say a prayer for his wife and the Pastor was agreeable, glad of an opportunity to impress his presence on the town in a ritual way. He came, wearing his crimson-lined robe and his flat hat with all the Sisters in tow and people lined the way to see him. For the ceremony of taking leave all were there just has they had been at the christening: the family: the town notables and the friends. One by one they filed in as the Pastor stood by Becky's bedside and Sister Helen held her hand. 'Our Father, look kindly upon this poor woman whose every living moment has been spent striving in Your service and the service of those things you love the best: this Great State, this town of Dentonsville, your Church. Our Father, love only those who love the things You love the best, and bless her soul.' In the night she died. |
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