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“Tell me about it.”
“What about it?”
“Tell me what you remember—how it was.”
Helen said nervously, “Well, it was kind of awful and—kind of beautiful.”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know. No flowers, no nothing, but there was—there was a—well, a kind of—
dignity. The Nigger was just laying there in a black wood coffin with the biggest goddam
silver handles. Made you feel—I can’t say it. I don’t know how to say it.”
“Maybe you said it. What did she wear?”
“Wear, ma’am?”
“Yes—wear. They didn’t bury her naked, did they?”
A struggle of effort crossed Helen’s face. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I don’t
remember.”
“Did you go to the cemetery?”
“No, ma’am. Nobody did—except him.”
“Who?”
“Her man.”
Kate said quickly—almost too quickly, “Have you got any regulars tonight?”
“No, ma’am. Day before Thanksgiving. Bound to be slow.”
“I’d forgotten,” said Kate. “Get back out.” She watched the girl out of the room and
moved restlessly back to her desk. And as she looked at an itemized bill for plumbing her
left hand strayed to her neck and touched the chain. It was comfort and reassurance.

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Chapter 49

1

Both Lee and Cal tried to argue Adam out of going to meet the train, the Lark night train
from San Francisco to Los Angeles.

Cal said, “Why don’t we let Abra go alone? He’ll want to see her first.”
“I think he won’t know anybody else is there,” said Lee. “So it doesn’t matter whether
we go or not.”
“I want to see him get off the train,” said Adam. “He’ll be changed. I want to see what
change there is.”
Lee said, “He’s only been gone a couple of months. He can’t be very changed, nor
much older.”
“He’ll be changed. Experience will do that.”
“If you go we’ll all have to go,” said Cal.
“Don’t you want to see your brother?” Adam asked sternly.
“Sure, but he won’t want to see me—not right at first.”
“He will too,” said Adam. “Don’t you underrate Aron.”
Lee threw up his hands. “I guess we all go,” he said.
“Can you imagine?” said Adam. “He’ll know so many new things. I wonder if he’ll
talk different. You know, Lee, in the East a boy takes on the speech of his school. You
can tell a Harvard man from a Princeton man. At least that’s what they say.”
“I’ll listen,” said Lee. “I wonder what dialect they speak at Stanford. “ He smiled at
Cal.
Adam didn’t think it was funny. “Did you put some fruit in his room?” he asked. “He
loves fruit.”
“Pears and apples and muscat grapes,” said Lee.
“Yes, he loves muscats. I remember he loves muscats.”
Under Adam’s urging they got to the Southern Pacific Depot half an hour before the
train was due. Abra was already there.
“I can’t come to dinner tomorrow, Lee,” she said. “My father wants me home. I’ll
come as soon after as I can.”
“You’re a little breathless,” said Lee.
“Aren’t you?”
“I guess I am,” said Lee. “Look up the track and see if the block’s turned green.”
Train schedules are a matter of pride and of apprehension to nearly everyone. When,
far up the track, the block signal snapped from red to green and the long, stabbing probe
of the headlight sheered the bend and blared on the station, men looked at their watches
and said, “On time.”
There was pride in it, and relief too. The split second has been growing more and more
important to us. And as human activities become more and more intermeshed and
integrated, the split tenth of a second will emerge, and then a new name must be made for

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the split hundredth, until one day, although I don’t believe it, we’ll say, “Oh, the hell with
it. What’s wrong with an hour?” But it isn’t silly, this preoccupation with small time
units. One thing late or early can disrupt everything around it, and the disturbance runs
outward in bands like the waves from a dropped stone in a quiet pool.

The Lark came rushing in as though it had no intention of stopping. And only when the
engine and baggage cars were well past did the air brakes give their screaming hiss and
the straining iron protest to a halt.

The train delivered quite a crowd for Salinas, returning relatives home for
Thanksgiving, their hands entangled in cartons and gift-wrapped paper boxes. It was a
moment or two before his family could locate Aron. And then they saw him, and he
seemed bigger than he had been.

He was wearing a flat-topped, narrow-brimmed hat, very stylish, and when he saw
them he broke into a run and yanked off his hat, and they could see that his bright hair
was clipped to a short brush of a pompadour that stood straight up. And his eyes shone so
that they laughed with pleasure to see him.

Aron dropped his suitcase and lifted Abra from the ground in a great hug. He set her
down and gave Adam and Cal his two hands. He put his arms around Lee’s shoulders and
nearly crushed him.

On the way home they all talked at once. “Well, how are you?”
“You look fine.”
“Abra, you’re so pretty.”
“I am not. Why did you cut your hair?”
“Oh, everybody wears it that way,”
“But you have such nice hair.”
They hurried up to Main Street and one short block and around the corner on Central
past Reynaud’s with stacked French bread in the window and black-haired Mrs. Reynaud
waved her flour-pale hand at them and they were home.
Adam said, “Coffee, Lee?”
“I made it before we left. It’s on the simmer.” He had the cups laid out too. Suddenly
they were together—Aron and Abra on the couch, Adam in his chair under the light, Lee
passing coffee, and Cal braced in the doorway to the hall. And they were silent, for it was
too late to say hello and too early to begin other things.
Adam did say, “I’ll want to hear all about it. Will you get good marks?”
“Finals aren’t until next month, Father.”
“Oh, I see. Well, you’ll get good marks, all right. I’m sure you will.”
In spite of himself a grimace of impatience crossed Aron’s face.
“I’ll bet you’re tired,” said Adam. “Well, we can talk tomorrow.”
Lee said, “I’ll bet he’s not. I’ll bet he’d like to be alone.”
Adam looked at Lee and said, “Why, of course—of course. Do you think we should all
go to bed?”
Abra solved it for them. “I can’t stay out long,” she said. “Aron, why don’t you walk
me home? We’ll be together tomorrow.”
On the way Aron clung to her arm. He shivered. “There’s going to a frost,” he said.
“You’re glad to be back.”
“Yes, I am. I have a lot to talk about.”
“Good things?”

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“Maybe. I hope you think so.”
“You sound serious.”
“It is serious.”
“When do you have to go back?”
“Not until Sunday night.”
“We’ll have lots of time. I want to tell you some things too. We have tomorrow and
Friday and Saturday and all day Sunday. Would you mind not coming in tonight?”
“Why not?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“I want to know now.”
“Well, my father’s got one of his streaks.”
“Against me?”
“Yes. I can’t go to dinner with you tomorrow, but I won’t eat much at home, so you
can tell Lee to save a plate for me.”
He was turning shy. She could feel it in the relaxing grip on her arm and in his silence,
and she could see it in his raised face. “I shouldn’t have told you that tonight.”
“Yes, you should,” he said slowly. “Tell me the truth. Do you still—want to be with
me?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then all right. I’ll go away now. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He left her on her porch with the feeling of a light-brushed kiss on her lips. She felt
hurt that he had agreed so easily, and she laughed sourly at herself that she could ask a
thing and be hurt when she got it. She watched his tall quick step through the radiance of
the corner streetlight. She thought, I must be crazy. I’ve been imagining things.

2

In his bedroom after he had said his good night, Aron sat on the edge of his bed and
peered down at his hands cupped between his knees. He felt let down and helpless,
packed like a bird’s egg in the cotton of his father’s ambition for him. He had not known
its strength until tonight, and he wondered whether he would have the strength to break
free of its soft, persistent force. His thoughts would not coagulate. The house seemed
cold with a dampness that made him shiver. He got up and softly opened his door. There
was a light under Cal’s door. He tapped and went in without waiting for a reply.

Cal sat at a new desk. He was working with tissue paper and a bolt of red ribbon, and
as Aron came in he hastily covered something on his desk with a large blotter.

Aron smiled. “Presents?”
“Yes,” said Cal and left it at that.
“Can I talk to you?”
“Sure! Come on in. Talk low or Father will come in. He hates to miss a moment.”
Aron sat down on the bed. He was silent so long that Cal asked, “What’s the matter—
you got trouble?”
“No, not trouble. I just wanted to talk to you. Cal, I don’t want to go on at college.”
Cal’s head jerked around. “You don’t? Why not?”
“I just don’t like it.”
“You haven’t told Father, have you? He’ll be disappointed. It’s bad enough that I don’t
want to go. What do you want to do?”
“I thought I’d like to take over the ranch.”

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“How about Abra?”
“She told me a long time ago that’s what she’d like.”
Cal studied him. “The ranch has got a lease to run.”
“Well, I was just thinking about it.”
Cal said, “There’s no money in farming.”
“I don’t want much money. Just to get along.”
“That’s not good enough for me,” said Cal. “I want a lot of money and I’m going to get
it too.”
“How?”
Cal felt older and surer than his brother. He felt protective toward him. “If you’ll go on
at college, why, I’ll get started and lay in a foundation. Then when you finish we can be
partners. I’ll have one kind of thing and you’ll have another. That might be pretty good.”
“I don’t want to go back. Why do I have to go back?”
“Because Father wants you to.”
“That won’t make me go.”
Cal stared fiercely at his brother, at the pale hair and the wide-set eyes, and suddenly he
knew why his father loved Aron, knew it beyond doubt. “Sleep on it,” he said quickly. “It
would be better if you finish out the term at least. Don’t do anything now.”
Aron got up and moved toward the door. “Who’s the present for?” he asked.
“It’s for Father. You’ll see it tomorrow—after dinner.”
“It’s not Christmas.”
“No,” said Cal, “it’s better than Christmas.”
When Aron had gone back to his room Cal uncovered his present. He counted the
fifteen new bills once more, and they were so crisp they made a sharp, cracking sound.
The Monterey County Bank had to send to San Francisco to get them, and only did so
when the reason for them was told. It was a matter of shock and disbelief to the bank that
a seventeen-year-old boy should, first, own them, and, second, carry them about. Bankers
do not like money to be lightly handled even if the handling is sentimental. It had taken
Will Hamilton’s word to make the bank believe that the money belonged to Cal, that it
was honestly come by, and that he could do what he wanted to with it.
Cal wrapped the bills in tissue and tied it with red ribbon finished in a blob that was
faintly recognizable as a bow. The package might have been a handkerchief. He
concealed it under the shirts in his bureau and went to bed. But he could not sleep. He
was excited and at the same time shy. He wished the day was over and the gift given. He
went over what he planned to say.
“This is for you.”
“What is it?”
“A present.”
From then on he didn’t know what would happen. He tossed and rolled in bed, and at
dawn he got up and dressed and crept out of the house.
On Main Street he saw Old Martin sweeping the street with a stable broom. The city
council was discussing the purchase of a mechanical sweeper. Old Martin hoped he
would get to drive it, but he was cynical about it. Young men got the cream of every-
thing. Bacigalupi’s garbage wagon went by, and Martin looked after it spitefully. There
was a good business. Those wops were getting rich.
Main Street was empty except for a few dogs sniffing at closed entrances and the

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sleepy activity around the San Francisco Chop House. Pet Bulene’s new taxi was parked
in front, for Pet had been alerted the night before to take the Williams girls to the
morning train for San Francisco.

Old Martin called to Cal, “Got a cigarette, young fella?”
Cal stopped and took out his cardboard box of Murads.
“Oh, fancy ones!” Martin said. “I ain’t got a match either.”
Cal lighted the cigarette for him, careful not to set fire to the grizzle around Martin’s
mouth.
Martin leaned on the handle of his brush and puffed disconsolately. “Young fellas gets
the cream,” he said. “They won’t let me drive it.”
“What?” Cal asked.
“Why, the new sweeper. Ain’t you heard? Where you been, boy?” It was incredible to
him that any reasonably informed human did not know about the sweeper. He forgot Cal.
Maybe the Bacigalupis would give him a job. They were coining money. Three wagons
and a new truck.
Cal turned down Alisal Street, went into the post office, and looked in the glass
window of box 632. It was empty. He wandered back home and found Lee up and
stuffing a very large turkey.
“Up all night?” Lee asked.
“No. I just went for a walk.”
“Nervous?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t blame you. I would be too. It’s hard to give people things—I guess it’s harder
to be given things, though. Seems silly, doesn’t it? Want some coffee?”
“I don’t mind.”
Lee wiped his hands and poured coffee for himself and for Cal. “How do you think
Aron looks?”
“All right, I guess.”
“Did you get to talk to him?”
“No,” said Cal. It was easier that way. Lee would want to know what he said. It wasn’t
Aron’s day. It was Cal’s day. He had carved this day out for himself and he wanted it. He
meant to have it.
Aron came in, his eyes still misty with sleep. “What time do you plan to have dinner,
Lee?”
“Oh, I don’t know—three-thirty or four.”
“Could you make it about five?”
“I guess so, if Adam says it’s all right. Why?”
“Well, Abra can’t get here before then. I’ve got a plan I want to put to my father and I
want her to be here.”
“I guess that will be all right,” said Lee.
Cal got up quickly and went to his room. He sat at his desk with the student light
turned on and he churned with uneasiness and resentment. Without effort, Aron was
taking his day away from him. It would turn out to be Aron’s day. Then, suddenly, he
was bitterly ashamed. He covered his eyes with his hands and he said, “It’s just jealousy.
I’m jealous. That’s what I am. I’m jealous. I don’t want to be jealous.” And he repeated
over and over, “Jealous—jealous—jealous,” as though bringing it into the open might

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destroy it. And having gone this far, he proceeded with his self-punishment. “Why am I
giving the money to my father? Is it for his good? No. It’s for my good. Will Hamilton
said it—I’m trying to buy him. There’s not one decent thing about it. There’s not one
decent thing about me. I sit here wallowing in jealousy of my brother. Why not call
things by their names?”

He whispered hoarsely to himself. “Why not be honest? I know why my father loves
Aron. It’s because he looks like her. My father never got over her. He may not know it,
but it’s true. I wonder if he does know it. That makes me jealous of her too. Why don’t I
take my money and go away? They wouldn’t miss me. In a little while they’d forget I
ever existed—all except Lee. And I wonder whether Lee likes me. Maybe not.” He dou-
bled his fists against his forehead. “Does Aron have to fight himself like this? I don’t
think so, but how do I know? I could ask him. He wouldn’t say.”

Cal’s mind careened in anger at himself and in pity for himself. And then a new voice
came into it, saying coolly and with contempt, “If you’re being honest—why not say you
are enjoying this beating you’re giving yourself? That would be the truth. Why not be just
what you are and do just what you do?” Cal sat in shock from this thought. Enjoying?—
of course. By whipping himself he protected himself against whipping by someone else.
His mind tightened up. Give the money, but give it lightly. Don’t depend on anything.
Don’t foresee anything. Just give it and forget it. And forget it now. Give—give. Give the
day to Aron. Why not? He jumped up and hurried out to the kitchen.

Aron was holding open the skin of the turkey while Lee forced stuffing into the cavity.
The oven cricked and snapped with growing heat.

Lee said, “Let’s see, eighteen pounds, twenty minutes to the pound—that’s eighteen
times twenty—that’s three hundred and sixty minutes, six hours even—eleven to twelve,
twelve to one—” He counted on his fingers.

Cal said, “When you get through, Aron, let’s take a walk.”
“Where to?” Aron asked.
“Just around town. I want to ask you something.”
Cal led his brother across the street to Berges and Garrisiere, who imported fine wines
and liquors. Cal said, “I’ve got a little money, Aron. I thought you might like to buy some
wine for dinner. I’ll give you the money.”
“What kind of wine?”
“Let’s make a real celebration. Let’s get champagne—it can be your present.”
Joe Garrisiere said, “You boys aren’t old enough.”
“For dinner? Sure we are.”
“Can’t sell it to you. I’m sorry.”
Cal said, “I know what you can do. We can pay for it and you can send it to our
father.”
“That I can do,” Joe Garrisiere said. “We’ve got some Oeil de Perdrix—” His lips
pursed as though he were tasting it.
“What’s that?” Cal asked.
“Champagne—but very pretty, same color as a partridge eye—pink but a little darker
than pink, and dry too. Four-fifty a bottle.”
“Isn’t that high?” Aron asked.
“Sure it’s high!” Cal laughed. “Send three bottles over, Joe.” To Aron he said, “It’s
your present.”

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3

To Cal the day was endless. He wanted to leave the house and couldn’t. At eleven
o’clock Adam went to the closed draft-board office to brood over the records of a new
batch of boys coming up.

Aron seemed perfectly calm. He sat in the living room, looking at cartoons in old
numbers of the Review of Reviews. From the kitchen the odor of the bursting juices of
roasting turkey began to fill the house.

Cal went into his room and took out his present and laid it on his desk. He tried to write
a card to put on it. “To my father from Caleb”—“To Adam Trask from Caleb Trask.” He
tore the cards in tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet.

He thought, Why give it to him today? Maybe tomorrow I could go to him quietly and
say, This is for you, and then walk away. That would be easier. “No,” he said aloud. “I
want the others to see.” It had to be that way. But his lungs were compressed and the
palms of his hands were wet with stage fright. And then he thought of the morning when
his father got him out of jail. The warmth and closeness—they were the things to
remember—and his father’s trust. Why, he had even said it. “I trust you.” He felt much
better then.

At about three o’clock he heard Adam come in and there was the low sound of voices
conversing in the living room. Cal joined his father and Aron.

Adam was saying, “The times are changed. A boy must be a specialist or he will get
nowhere. I guess that’s why I’m so glad you’re going to college.”

Aron said, “I’ve been thinking about that, and I wonder.”
“Well, don’t think any more. Your first choice is right. Look at me. I know a little bit
about a great many things and not enough about any one of them to make a living in these
times.”
Cal sat down quietly. Adam did not notice him. His face was concentrated on his
thought.
“It’s natural for a man to want his son to succeed,” Adam went on. “And maybe I can
see better than you can.”
Lee looked in. “The kitchen scales must be way off,” he said. “The turkey’s going to be
done earlier than the chart says. I’ll bet that bird doesn’t weigh eighteen pounds.”
Adam said, “Well, you can keep it warm,” and he continued, “Old Sam Hamilton saw
this coming. He said there couldn’t be any more universal philosophers. The weight of
knowledge is too great for one mind to absorb. He saw a time when one man would know
only one little fragment, but he would know it well.”
“Yes,” Lee said from the doorway, “and he deplored it. He hated it.”
“Did he now?” Adam asked.
Lee came into the room. He held his big basting spoon in his right hand, and he cupped
his left under the bowl for fear it would drip on the carpet. He came into the room and
forgot and waved his spoon and drops of turkey fat fell to the floor. “Now you question
it, I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know whether he hated it or I hate it for him.”
“Don’t get so excited,” said Adam. “Seems to me we can’t discuss anything any more
but you take it as a personal insult.”
“Maybe the knowledge is too great and maybe men are growing too small,” said Lee.
“Maybe, kneeling down to atoms, they’re becoming atom-sized in their souls. Maybe a
specialist is only a coward, afraid to look out of his little cage. And think what any

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specialist misses—the whole world over his fence.”
“We’re only talking about making a living.”
“A living—or money,” Lee said excitedly. “Money’s easy to make if it’s money you

want. But with a few exceptions people don’t want money. They want luxury and they
want love and they want admiration.”

“All right. But do you have any objection to college? That’s what we’re talking about.”
“I’m sorry,” said Lee. “You’re right, I do seem to get too excited. No, if college is
where a man can go to find his relation to his whole world, I don’t object. Is it that? Is it
that, Aron?”
“I don’t know,” said Aron.
A hissing sound came from the kitchen. Lee said, “The goddam giblets are boiling
over,” and he bolted through the door.
Adam gazed after him affectionately. “What a good man! What a good friend!”
Aron said, “I hope he lives to be a hundred.”
His father chuckled. “How do you know he’s not a hundred now?”
Cal asked, “How is the ice plant doing, Father?”
“Why, all right. Pays for itself and makes a little profit. Why?”
“I thought of a couple of things to make it really pay.”
“Not today,” said Adam quickly. “Monday, if you remember, but not today. You
know,” Adam said, “I don’t remember when I’ve felt so good. I feel—well, you might
call it fulfilled. Maybe it’s only a good night’s sleep and a good trip to the bathroom. And
maybe it’s because we’re all together and at peace.” He smiled at Aron. “We didn’t know
what we felt about you until you went away.”
“I was homesick,” Aron confessed. “The first few days I thought I’d die of it.”
Abra came in with a little rush. Her cheeks were pink and she was happy. “Did you
notice there’s snow on Mount Toro?” she asked.
“Yes, I saw it,” Adam said. “They say that means a good year to come. And we could
use it.”
“I just nibbled,” said Abra. “I wanted to be hungry for here.”
Lee apologized for the dinner like an old fool. He blamed the gas oven which didn’t
heat like a good wood stove. He blamed the new breed of turkeys which lacked a
something turkeys used to have. But he laughed with them when they told him he was
acting like an old woman fishing for compliments.
With the plum pudding Adam opened the champagne, and they treated it with
ceremony. A courtliness settled over the table. They proposed toasts. Each one had his
health drunk, and Adam made a little speech to Abra when he drank her health.
Her eyes were shining and under the table Aron held her hand. The wine dulled Cal’s
nervousness and he was not afraid about his present.
When Adam had finished his plum pudding he said, “I guess we never have had such a
good Thanksgiving.”
Cal reached in his jacket pocket, took out the red-ribboned package, and pushed it over
in front of his father.
“What’s this?” Adam asked.
“It’s a present.”
Adam was pleased. “Not even Christmas and we have presents. I wonder what it can
be!”

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“A handkerchief,” said Abra.
Adam slipped off the grubby bow and unfolded the tissue paper. He stared down at the
money.
Abra said, “What is it?” and stood up to look. Aron leaned forward. Lee, in the
doorway, tried to keep the look of worry from his face. He darted a glance at Cal and saw
the light of joy and triumph in his eyes.
Very slowly Adam moved his fingers and fanned the gold certificates. His voice
seemed to come from far away. “What is it? What—” He stopped.
Cal swallowed. “It’s—I made it—to give to you—to make up for losing the lettuce.”
Adam raised his head slowly. “You made it? How?”
“Mr. Hamilton—we made it—on beans.” He hurried on, “We bought futures at five
cents and when the price jumped—It’s for you, fifteen thousand dollars. It’s for you.”
Adam touched the new bills so that their edges came together, folded the tissue over
them and turned the ends up. He looked helplessly at Lee. Cal caught a feeling—a feeling
of calamity, of destruction in the air, and a weight of sickness overwhelmed him. He
heard his father say, “You’ll have to give it back.”
Almost as remotely his own voice said, “Give it back? Give it back to who?”
“To the people you got it from.”
“The British Purchasing Agency? They can’t take it back. They’re paying twelve and a
half cents for beans all over the country.”
“Then give it to the farmers you robbed.”
“Robbed?” Cal cried. “Why, we paid them two cents a pound over the market. We
didn’t rob them.” Cal felt suspended in space, and time seemed very slow.
His father took a long time to answer. There seemed to be long spaces between his
words. “I send boys out,” he said. “I sign my name and they go out. And some will die
and some will lie helpless without arms and legs. Not one will come back untorn. Son, do
you think I could take a profit on that?”
“I did it for you,”. Cal said. “I wanted you to have the money to make up your loss.”
“I don’t want the money, Cal. And the lettuce—I don’t think I did that for a profit. It
was a kind of game to see if I could get the lettuce there, and I lost. I don’t want the
money.”
Cal looked straight ahead. He could feel the eyes of Lee and Aron and Abra crawling
on his cheeks. He kept his eyes on his father’s lips.
“I like the idea of a present,” Adam went on. “I thank you for the thought—”
“I’ll put it away. I’ll keep it for you,” Cal broke in.
“No. I won’t want it ever. I would have been so happy if you could have given me—
well, what your brother has—pride in the thing he’s doing, gladness in his progress.
Money, even clean money, doesn’t stack up with that.” His eyes widened a little and he
said, “Have I made you angry, son? Don’t be angry. If you want to give me a present—
give me a good life. That would be something I could value.”
Cal felt that he was choking. His forehead streamed with perspiration and he tasted salt
on his tongue. He stood up suddenly and his chair fell over. He ran from the room,
holding his breath.
Adam called after him, “Don’t be angry, son.”
They let him alone. He sat in his room, his elbows on his desk. He thought he would
cry but he did not. He tried to let weeping start but tears could not pass the hot iron in his

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