The Son-in-Law

LEANING on the kitchen sink and looking out the window, Harm could see the car as it turned past the mailbox into the dusty driveway, and the thought was in his head before he could stop it: two times he’s come and two times he’s brought death. The words sounded strange to him; he was a very deliberate, slow-talking man, and rarely twisted the quick impulses and images that made his thoughts into the artificiality of words. But his thoughts were quick and sure just the same, and they worried him now as he watched his son-in-law drive on along the pasture, which was turning brown near the house, and into the yard. There was no logical reason why he should resent Marvin, no reason why he should connect him with what had happened when he came last year, but there it was in the back of his head before he could stop it: two times he’s come and two times he’s brought death.

By now the car was in the yard; he could see it from the kitchen door. A city car, the tires worn on the tread, but the sidewalls, untried by country roads, still new and strong-looking, and the shininess of the city wash-job still not quite obscured by Dakota dust. There was no use noticing these things, Harm knew. There was no use increasing the distance between them; it was going to be hard enough to find words to say to him, so why not think of something they had in common? But the swift thoughts in the back of his mind went on without heeding him: city boy . . . city car . . . pale city face and hands. Nor could he keep from his mind the picture of his father, sick and going to die, at the time of the wedding last summer, nor of his brother Dick slumped over the tractor wheel when Marvin and Marion had come for a visit last Christmas. Id was crazy, he knew, to think of these things together; they were sheer coincidence. Yet the little impulses in the back of his head went on, stubbornly and viciously. It was hot and dry last summer, too, when he came . . . crops all burned up.

“Harm! Hurry, they’re here already.”

It was Alice out on the porch, just come in from getting the eggs. I’m right here in the kitchen . . . I know they’re here . . . I’ve been watching from the window. The answers to his wife appeared wordlessly, as feelings merely, in his mind, and he let them play there while he considered whether or not to make some words for them, whether they were worth the effort of shaping them in sound and sending them out to Alice on the porch.

They were not, he decided finally. He walked to the door, opened it, and went out onto the porch, closing the door carefully behind him. Alice was there, in worn overalls and her old black-and-white checked shirt. She set down the basket of eggs, her slender body moving quickly. “No time to fix up the place,” she said, straightening again. Her quick eyes ranged over the sunbaked yard from the grain fields past the barn, the garage, the windmill, and the chicken coop back up to the porch. “And us in work clothes, as usual. But nobody notices except me anyway.”

Harm smiled at her with his slow smile, and she turned to him, her eyes suddenly serious and a bit anxious. “Harm—” He nodded, knowing what she was going to say. They had gone over this before, and they had agreed: they had not lost a daughter, they had gained a son. Marvin was one of the family now, and Harm had to make a real effort this time to get to know him, to understand him. He smiled at her again, and together they walked down the steps out to the car.

Marion was getting out, Marvin holding the door for her. Harm was conscious all at once of his striped coveralls, and he felt a hint of jealousy as he tried to picture himself opening the door for his daughter and could not. But then Marion was running toward him, young and slim in her green dress, and then her arms were around his neck, her voice laughing in his ear, “Dad, Dad! It’s so good to see you again!” There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things in the back of his mind: back with us . . . pretty as ever . . . just like your mother. But he could make no words for them; all he could say was “Marion.”He felt the wetness on his check and squeezed her, hard.

Alice was shaking hands with Marvin, and now she turned and laughed at them. “Careful, Marion, he’s not as young as he used to be.” Marion’s arms left him then, and his wife and daughter were greeting each other as women do, talking rapidly and at the same time. He was facing Marvin alone, he in striped coveralls, his head getting bald in front, his face white down to the eyes, and brick red beneath; Marvin in a gray summer suit, pale and crew-cut. They looked into each other’s blue eyes from the same height. He was embarrassed, suddenly, at finding himself alone with his son-in-law, so he stuck out his hand and said, “Marvin —” He said it slowly, letting his voice rise on the second syllable as though he were going to say more, and trying to make his silence stand for all the things that might be said: let’s understand each other, Marvin . . . let’s be men together . . . let’s be father and son. But he could sec that Marvin was too busy himself being embarrassed to read into his silence. Marvin shook his hand and said, “Hello, Dad.” He blushed when he said “Dad” and hurried into other words to cover his blush. “Got here a little early, I guess. Drove in from Sioux City, left early this morning; shouldn’t have left so early, I guess, but y’cannever tell what the traffic’ll be like, and we had better roads than I thought.” Harm knew that there were words he should find, comforting words to make his son-in-law feel at home, but the best he could produce was his all-purpose remark, a kind of fill-in which he used as an answer to anything: “Yeah, I s’pose.” He realized as he made the sounds that they were wrong here, not reassuring, and he tried to compensate with a friendly smile. But Marvin had already turned away toward the porch, where Alice and Marion were standing. Harm looked, too, almost imploringly, and Alice laughed at them. “Well, come on in out of the hot sun, for goodness’ sake — I’ll have coffee ready in a second.”

IT WAS better in the kitchen. There was Alice to fill the silence with words; they all sat around the porcelain-topped table, Harm sitting rather stiffly, and Alice explained that he had strained his back trying to start the old tractor. Marion talked about their life at school, and about how well Marvin was doing. It was comfortable to listen: Harm could do some talking to his son-in-law by passing him the cookies, by putting sugar in his coffee, while his wife and daughter made words. But Harm knew his turn was coming; Alice would look at him expectantly, wanting him to say something. And he would look back at her, trying to tell her with his eyes that it took time, that he couldn’t get to know anyone just by jabbering a little, that he used words only for serious, important things — like buying a tractor or praying at the table — and how could he say serious, important things to Marvin here, over coffee? He knew that she who was so quick with speech would understand, had always understood, how hard it was for him to trust the content of his feelings to the deceptive forms of words. Yet he knew equally well that she would insist that he say something, because Marvin, after all, did not understand.

Harm sat stiffly in his chair, stirring his coffee and watching his wife and daughter and son-inlaw talk. Alice moved easily about the kitchen, and Marion relaxed in the chair across from him, her brown eyes taking in the familiar yellow walls, white appliances, and dark cupboards, the basement stairway crowded with old shirts, rope, jackets, boots, rifles, and shotguns. Marvin sat tensely, sweating a little above his collar, perhaps from the long, hot drive, or perhaps just from feeling uncomfortable. He might ask Marvin something about school, Harm thought, and quickly decided against it. He knew nothing about schools. He was startled to hear his own voice, a little hoarse and a little too loud: “How are things back east, Marvin?”

Marvin seemed startled too. “Why, pretty good, I guess, that is, in Illinois they were making hay, I think it was, but Iowa looked kind of dry — to me, anyway.”

“I s’pose,” Harm said. “It’s getting dry here, too.” He looked up expectantly, and Marvin nodded.

It had been a long speech for Harm, and he was disappointed at Marvin’s small, understanding nod. How could he understand what “getting dry” meant, unless he had lived on the prairie? How could he understand unless he had lived without water, unless he had seen the green things burn away and the cattle die and the dust blow? He felt helpless and frustrated as he realized how his words had failed him. It took time, he thought, to learn what “getting dry” meant. It would take time for Marvin to become his son.

There was a clatter in the yard, and Alice at the window said, “It’s the truck from town. He must have brought the tractor parts.”

Harm got up, slowly because of his back, and walked out onto the porch. As he closed the door behind him, he heard Alice explaining: “. . . brought the piston rods for the tractor. It wouldn’t turn over . . . that’s how Dad hurt his back.”

There were a few dark clouds in the east, where the flat stretching prairie met the broad edge of the sky, but Harm knew they would do no good. Their weather always came from the west. The truck had already turned out of the yard; Harm found the box of parts where the driver had left them, pushed back the sliding door of the garage, and went in. He switched on the light and slid the door shut again, to keep the chickens out. The tractor stood in the middle of the garage surrounded by greasy parts and tools. Harm put the box of parts on the tractor seat and sighed; he knew he would have to bend his back to work on the pistons, and he hated to start. There was a front tire that leaked, he remembered; the tire and tube were already off, lying at his feet. He could start with that. He picked up the tube, squatting carefully, and began to scrape the puncture with his knife, leaning against the big rear tire of the tractor.

He had finished the patch, and was pulling the tube and tire back on the rim, when the door slid open and Marvin came in. He was wearing a faded blue shirt and a pair of Harm’s old overalls. “C’n I help?” he said quickly, softly, looking down at the tire.

Harm was puffing; the front tire was small and hard to get on the rim, and his back hurt from bending. “Yeah,” he said. “Better close the door. Chickens.”

“Saw some clouds out there,” Marvin said. “It might rain. There’s a rainbow, too.” He pointed out the door to the big bow above the hayfield on the eastern horizon.

He would have to explain about the weather coming from the west, Harm realized; then he saw the rainbow, and suddenly the remembered story of Noah brought the words to his mind without his thinking about them. “There ain’t gonna be no flood,” he said. He smiled at the unexpectedness of his own joke, shyly at first, and then, seeing Marvin’s chuckle, he let the smile spread till it showed his white teeth and made crinkles around his eyes.

MARVIN closed the door and came toward Harm, then stopped and stood looking down at the big rear tire on which Harm had been leaning. There was a dog beneath the tire, Harm saw as he looked down; a little brown-and-white puppy crouched beneath the tire, looking almost lifeless except for its big brown eyes which stared up at him. It made a faint effort at wagging its tail as Marvin bent down to pet it, and then whined as though in pain.

“Ma’s collie,” Harm said, still standing. Alice had wanted a thoroughbred collie for so long that he had finally ordered one, all the way from Minnesota. They had named it Pal. They had only had it for a week, but already they both loved it. “Like a member of the family,” Alice had said.

“Looks pretty sick,” Marvin said. “His eyes are all red.”

Harm tapped his foot on the cement floor, and the puppy looked up at him inquiringly. Harm could see that his eyes were bloodshot. He bent down, hand outstretched, but straightened quickly as the pain shot up his back. “Feel his nose,” he said to Marvin.

The puppy lay motionless as Marvin rubbed his finger across its nose, once, twice, three times. “Feels hot,” he said, finally.

Harm sighed, and wondered what to tell Alice.

“Hot,” Marvin said again, feeling the puppy’s nose with his finger and looking up at Harm as though to achieve a scientific detachment. “Hot and dry. It’s as dry as — as dust.”

Harm felt a wave of anger as he looked down at Marvin’s crew-cut head. Again the unreasoning thoughts plagued him: hot and dry again . . . this is the third time, and the third death. He leaned against the top of the tractor tire, squeezing the rubber lugs with his hands, and looked down at the puppy for a long time.

At last Marvin stood up, uneasily. “You — you think we’d better take him to the vet?”

Harm turned away. “Yeah,” he said. ”I s’pose.”

THE next morning when Harm went out to do the chores it was already hot and clear, the sky a burning piece of blue that arched from one end of the wide-sweeping prairie to the other without a cloud. But it had rained during the night, Harm noticed—just enough to settle the dust, it was what the newspapers would call “a trace,” he thought; not enough to be measured in the rain gauges, but enough to wet the ground. Already the dust was beginning to puff under his thicksoled shoes as he came back to the house.

They were all around the table eating breakfast when he came into the kitchen. It was Sunday, and they were dressed up, ready to go to church. Harm went into the bathroom, which was just off the kitchen. He had built it himself, five years ago. “Now that it’s finished I suppose Marion will go off and get married,” Alice had said. Alice’s voice came to him now from the kitchen — they were late and should be going; she was sorry he couldn’t go with them but she thought it would be better for his back if he stayed home; and would he turn off the roast in a half hour? Harm put the stopper in the basin carefully, considering his reply and the words it would take, considering too long, until she called again, “Harm?” and then he answered, the syllables forming in his mouth slowly and distinctly: “Okay.”

He turned the faucet open, and then shut it again quickly when there was an inch of water in the basin and began to wash his hands. From the kitchen there came the sound of dishes being cleared away hurriedly, then the sharp click of high heels going out on the porch, and Marvin’s heavier tread after them. Harm was drying his hands, listening for the closing of the door, when Marvin spoke suddenly, his voice surprised and glad: “Say — it looks like it rained last night!” Harm was silent, unable to stop the unreasoning, angry thoughts which sprang at once into his mind: it rained last night . . . everything’s all better now . . . probably read some fool boohs, everybody prays for rain and it finally comes, just the right amount — hurray! the crops are saved.

The door did not close; Marvin was waiting for an answer. “Some,” Harm called. There was a pause; finally the door closed, and Marvin’s steps went across the porch and into the yard. The water was still in the basin, not very dirty, and Harm looked at it, wondering whether to leave it for next time. Then he jerked the stopper out, quickly, angrily. It’s not that dry — yet, he told himself. The water was sucked away, and Harm stood looking at the empty basin, ashamed of the way he felt but unable to change it. Somehow it was always as though Marvin was apart from him, not sharing with him but struggling against him. It’ll take time, he told himself with determination, but desperately, too, as he thought of the puppy. Marvin had been the one who had answered all Alice’s questions about what the vet had said, not showing his usual uncertainty but speaking clearly and with authority: “Septicemia, the vet said; must have been brought on by the trip. He said to put him in a quiet place, like the basement, and set some soft food in front of him, but don’t force him to eat. Yes, he gave him a shot; said it was either septicemia or distemper; if it’s septicemia he might live, but if it’s distemper he’ll be dead by Monday.”

Harm did not want the puppy to die, and it was as though Marvin with his words was killing it, his words becoming brighter, stronger, and more confident as the puppy grew weaker and weaker. He was ashamed now, remembering his thoughts, but they stayed with him in spite of his shame until he crossed the kitchen to the basement stairway and peered down at the cardboard box at the foot of the stairs. The saucer of milk and bread was untouched, but the puppy was asleep and breathing regularly. Harm smiled and went back into the kitchen, closing the door softly behind him.

There were twenty-five minutes yet until he had to check the stove. Harm went into the living room, put on his slippers, and sat down carefully in his rocking chair, the blue leather one where he could sit with his work clothes on. On the end table near him were his glasses and the leatherbound Bible. He got them now, pushed the blue leather hassock in front of his chair, and then leaned backwards until his back was comfortable. It was strange not to be in church on Sunday. His neighbors would think so too, it occurred to him, and he remembered last year when some steers had got out and he had spent all Sunday morning chasing them; how Art Fowler and Harry Bierly had asked rather anxiously about it during the week, as though to reassure themselves of the goodness of the world. They must look for his car every Sunday as it passed their places on the way to town — as though he were their spiritual congressman, and they were checking on his attendance. “A symbol of piety” were the words that came to him, and he smiled to himself at the bookishness of his thoughts when put into words.

But then he was serious, turning over in his mind the fact that he, too, considered himself a religious man, and wondering why he did so. It was not just that he went to church and said grace, nor was it because his neighbors knew him as a soft touch for every charity drive. There was something more; it was connected with the way he sometimes felt at night when he looked into the big prairie sky, and with his whole life on the prairie, with his digging the well, building the house and barns, with fighting the frost and the drought to bring water and plumbing, and fighting politics to get electricity; it was connected with the planting every spring and the harvest every fall.

His eye fell on the Bible in his lap; it had opened to where he had been reading last time in Genesis, and he knew now why he liked to read about Abraham and Jacob — they too were men of flocks and fields, and they too had met God under the countless stars of a vast prairie sky. And at times, when he looked out toward the weather working up on the westward edge of that big sky, it was as though God spoke to him out of it as He had spoken to Abraham, telling him to build a home here on the prairie, to work the land, to subdue it and make it bring forth. And when he wrestled with the sod, with the drought, with the hail and frost, he was wrestling, like Jacob, with God. He thought of his back and then of Jacob’s thighbone, and smiled, but the thought was exciting to him. Every day he met his God on the prairie and wrestled with Him, a God who was at the same time both his opponent and his strength.

He knew, then, that this was what Marvin had to know to be his son. This was what his life meant; this was the reason for his dread of the land’s getting dry, and this was why he wanted the puppy to live. But again there could be no words for such a thing. Marvin would have to understand for himself. Suddenly he was doubtful whether Marvin could understand; perhaps he worshiped the soft little gods of the cities, female, mothering gods, gods to be expected where running water was not a personal triumph but an unquestioned right. Then he was ashamed again. “It’ll take time, that’s all,” he told himself uneasily, and, suddenly reminded, he pulled out his silver pocket watch and looked at the black Roman numerals. It was almost time to turn out the fire under the roast.

SOON after that they were home again for dinner, and in the afternoon Marvin and Marion sat in the living room, reading, and Harm and Alice took a nap. Toward evening Harm went out to do the chores, and Marvin came after him in old overalls and faded shirt. There were two buckets of water to carry from the windmill tank near the barn to the chicken house, two more for the pigs behind the shed, and two more for the pullets across the yard. Marvin wanted to help, Harm saw; he carried one of the buckets each time, not realizing that it would have been easier to carry two. When Harm opened the pasture gate for the two cows to go into the barn, Marvin opened the barn door for them but then stood in front of it so that the cows, frightened of a stranger, ran into the chicken house instead and had to be chased out. It was some time before they could get the cows into the barn and the door closed behind them.

It was late when they finally finished the milking and came out into the yard again. Marvin picked up a stone from the yard and tossed it away as though he were disgusted with himself. He should say something reassuring, Harm thought; Marvin was like a puppy, in his bungling eagerness to please. But he was reminded then of the sick puppy in the basement. He brought the milk pail to the kitchen quickly, and then went downstairs, hearing Marvin’s footsteps behind him. The saucer of milk and bread before the cardboard box was still untouched, but the puppy had retched, and white foam covered his jaws. He lay on his left side in the box, his eyes open and staring, his feet moving as though he were running a race, the little white forepaws waving wildly and pattering against the side of the box. He was trembling violently, and Harm bent down, ignoring the sudden pain in his back, and put his hands behind the silky ears, pressing down softly. For a moment the trembling ceased; then it began again, and Harm was forced to jerk back his hands as the puppy twisted, his eyes wild, and bit furiously at himself as though there were a flea buried in his fuzzy tan flank. Then he stopped and began running again, growling and barking loudly, his feet hitting the side of the box in staccato rhythm. There was nothing to do but stand and watch. Harm gradually became aware of Marvin behind him, watching too. The barking increased until Harm could stand it no longer. He picked up the box, then went out the basement door into {lie yard to the garage. Marvin stayed behind.

Harm set the puppy down in the quiet darkness inside the garage and shut the door on its barking. The sun was red on the horizon as he stepped back into the yard, and he could not still the unreasoning thought in his head: the third time . . . the third death. The puppy was very important to him now, and he didn’t want it to die. It would take time, he had thought, for him and Marvin to understand each other. But how could any length of time be enough if the puppy died?

MONDAY morning was bright and clear again, and there had been no rain during the night. Monday was the day of the cattle sale in town; Harm had shipped some Herefords there, and went in to watch the bidding. Marvin went along with him, and Harm explained some of the things that happened. But he was uneasy. His back hurt from sitting on the hard bleachers around the auction ring, and he kept thinking of the puppy. Somehow, illogical though he knew the feeling was, he felt that it had to live if he were to still his nagging thoughts about Marvin.

It was late in the afternoon when they finally left the sale. Harm drove faster than usual; the dust rose behind them like a jet stream as they flew down the straight gravel roads.

When they were home at last, Harm was out of the car first, heading toward the garage. There was no sound as he approached it. When he slid back the door he saw the box by the tractor tire, the puppy lying in it quietly. His eyes were open, his tongue hung out of the side of his mouth, and one white forepaw was held up in the air as though he were still running. But his fuzzy brown sides were stiff and rigid. He had stopped breathing.

There was nothing at all in Harm’s mind as he picked up the box. He felt empty, drained out. He got the spade from the corner and carried it and the box toward the little grove of pine trees behind the garage which he had planted as a windbreak nearly forty years before, Midway between two rows of pines Harm set the box down and began to dig. The ground was hard; the covering of brown pine needles was difficult to break. Suddenly Harm felt a great bitterness. He hated to see the young grain turn brown and die; he hated to look at the frozen small body in the box; he hated the hard, dry ground. Putting all his weight on the shovel, he leaned too far forward, and the pain shot up his back again. The ground began to waver gently under him. Perhaps this time the wrestling was a little too much for him, he thought; he felt old, alone, and very tired.

Marvin took the shovel from him. As Harm sat down, carefully and gratefully, on the dry pine needles, Marvin began to dig. He slammed down on the shovel; there were sharp reports as the needles were broken through and the spade went deeply and cleanly into the tough sod. Harm was surprised at Marvin’s force; somewhere he had learned how to handle a shovel.

Marvin was rough as he threw down the spade, but gentle as he took the stiff little brown-andwhite body in his hands and laid it softly down in the dry, black dirt. He covered the body with dirt, then replaced the squares of sod and began tamping them into place with his feet. His face, pale above the blue shirt, looked angry — like one who shares death, not like one who brings it. From his place on the ground, Harm was surprised at Marvin’s height; he looked like a tall, young plant growing from the grave. He remembered what Alice had said of the puppy: “He’s like a member of the family.” Maybe Marvin was meant to take his place.

Marvin came over and reached down his hand to pull him up. The grip around his hand was firm, Harm felt; he pulled hard on it and came up slowly. Marvin picked up the box and the spade. Harm took the box from him, and they started back toward the yard. As they came out of the trees, Harm saw that the sun was low and red on the horizon, and the sky was changing to a softer blue.

Then there was a puff of dust as Marvin snatched up a stone and flung it with all his might. Straight up it went, higher and higher, a black dot splitting the vastness of the sky. “Rain!” Marvin shouted. “We need rain!” He stood glaring up at the gleaming sky, clutching the spade fiercely, like a spear.

The black dot went up and up, almost out of sight, then came down again, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. They heard it hit in the trees behind them. Marvin looked at Harm and grinned sheepishly. “Guess that was kind of silly,” he said.

Harm wanted to say that it wasn’t silly, not silly at all, but there were no words. He gripped Marvin’s arm in his hand and squeezed it, then looked into his face and smiled, shyly at first, and then broadly so that it showed his teeth and crinkled his eyes. Together they walked toward the house.