Джеймс Кейн - Rainbow’s End

I had a Boy Scout knife in my pocket. I opened it and gave it to her. She tried to take it from me but couldn’t hang onto whatever it was she had and stretch far enough to get it. I held onto the oar in the water with one hand, then with the other picked up the second oar, laid it on the cross-seat, put the knife on it, and that way lifted it to her. She took it, cut, and then flung something into the boat. Then she stooped down to the front seat and at last was back in. I said: “Let’s go home. Let’s look at what you found.”

“Yes, I think we better.”

We rowed back, beached the boat, then felt our way up the path, and on into the house, both afraid to wonder what we had, yet both hoping. But when we turned the light on we saw what we always knew it would be. There was the red zipper bag, the one Shaw had had, all stuffed out tight, with the end of one strap cut off, where it had caught in some crack inside the hollow. We looked at each other and kissed. Then we pulled the zipper and there the money was, pack after pack of twenties, 100 to the pack, with printed wrappers around them, each reading $2,000. When we felt them, they were damp but not soaking wet.

“Of course,” she exclaimed. “The bag went in the river, too, and water would seep in, but only a little bit at a time, through the zipper. It wasn’t more than a minute before he climbed out beside me.”

“I think we could dry those bills in the oven,” and I snapped it on.

But after a moment or two, she said, “Dave, why couldn’t we use your plate, that steel thing you have, for cooking fritters? We could heat it, then turn off the heat, put the packs on, and let them stay there and bake. That way, they couldn’t burn, but at the same time, we could see what we’re doing.”

“OK.”

So that’s how we did it and pretty soon came out with nice new money, all dry, all perfect. “And you know what, Dave?” she whispered. “What the beauty part is? It’s all mine! I have the paper to show — Bob York gave it to me.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Wonderful.”

“But that’s not all.”

“Yeah? What else?”

“It’s all ours.”

“Little Jill, it’s yours.”

“But what’s mine is yours. After all, you’re God.”

It was beautiful being with her in the kitchen, knowing it had all turned out right and that now we could be happy. She got the paper out of her bag and let me read it. It was in the form of a letter, signed by Russell Morgan, president of Trans-U.S.&C., and listing the bills by number.

Then it said something like: “I hereby, as president of Trans-U.S.&C, and by the authority of its directors, do give, assign, and convey the said bills to you, in acknowledgment of your gallantry, bravery, and quick thinking, in saving a valuable plane and the lives of twenty-eight passengers, a pilot, copilot, and stewardess—” I read it, and then she let go of my hand to get up and kiss the money, every pack. I said: “Hey, watch it, you’ll blister your mouth.”

“You can kiss it and make it well.”

“Come here.”

She came, and we started being happy all over again. Then she asked: “Dave, what about her?”

“What about who?”

“Well, who do you think? We know who put it there. She has to be the one.”

“Then — she put it there.”

“Well, what do we do about her?”

“Leave me out.”

“What do I do about her?”

After a long time, I asked: “Do you have to do anything?”

“OK, but what do I say?”

“In what way, say?”

I knew what she meant, of course. She couldn’t just find this money, bank it, and not tell anyone. She would have to tell Mr. Morgan, and from then on the thing would have to come out — in the papers, to Edgren, to Mantle, to everyone. And yet, I couldn’t make myself face it. Face up to it, is what I’m trying to say. Because Mom had stolen that money, of that there could be no doubt. And it belonged to Jill, of that there could be no doubt. And Mom had tried to get her killed, of that most of all, there could be no doubt. And yet I was ducking the rap, and I knew why. I was mountain and that’s how we do — stand by our kin regardless, no matter how guilty they are.

But over and above that, Mom was still Mom to me, no matter how silly she was or what ideas she’d got in her head. And over and above that was what I couldn’t sidestep: she’d stashed that money for me, so we could go off with it, to Florida or some other place, and lay out on the beach with it, and then go inside now and then, to take off our clothes or whatever. Pretty soon Jill asked:

“And what do I do ?”

When you’re backed in a corner, you yell. “OK,” I told her, “prosecute. Call Edgren, call Mantle, tell them come out and take it as evidence. Could be a year before you see it again — if you ever see it again. Have you thought of that? Suppose somebody steals it, out of the sheriff’s office? Are you sure Washington County is going to be nice about it and pay it back to you, pack for pack and dollar for dollar?”

“You’re just saying that.”

“OK, you say.”

“Let’s go in the other room”

We started into the living room, but halfway there she stopped and went back to the kitchen. “I can’t leave it here,” she whispered. “I can’t bear to. I have to have it with me.”

By then the red bag was dried out or pretty near dried out, and she stuffed the money back in it. Then, carrying it by the two straps she led to the sitting room and sat down on the sofa — still in my pants and jacket. After some time she asked: “You don’t want me to prosecute?”

“Well? Would you?”

“Suppose they prosecute anyway.”

“You mean Edgren and Mantle?”

“And Knight, if that’s his name. That lawyer from the state’s attorney’s office.”

“It’s your money, don’t forget. If you don’t charge her, they can’t.”

“I’m not so sure of that.”

“If it’s your money she took—”

“The money’s not all.”

“What else is there?”

“Her lying to the police — the sheriff, whatever he is, deputy sheriff, if that’s it. Giving false information’s against the law, and whose money it is is not the whole point.”

“So?”

“They could prosecute you .”

“Me? For what?”

“Yes you, Dave Howell, who looks like God and acts like a mountain outlaw.”

“I asked you, for what?”

“Giving false information — giving no information, about this Mom character and how she blew. Listen, I have to report this money. I can’t let them go on looking for it, trying to find it for me, and not say I already have it.”

“OK, then, you have to report it.”

“Well, don’t I?”

“Listen, it’s your money.”

“You want me prosecuted for lying to them? Not telling the truth is lying, I would think.”

“OK, that’s what you think.”

“What do you think?”

“Do I have to think?”

“I’m going back to town.”

“I was hoping you’d spend the night.”

“I was hoping to, too.”

“I’m telling you right now, if I’d found a hundred grand, the place I’d take it wouldn’t be to a Marietta motel, that—”

We sat there, suddenly so self-conscious we couldn’t talk or look at each other. Then she went in the den and came out with one of my blankets. “OK,” she told me, “I’m spending the night.” She put a sofa pillow under her head, stretched out on the sofa, and pulled the blanket over her.

“What’s the big idea?” I asked her.

“I’m sleeping here, that’s what.”

“Oh no, you’re not.”

I went over and started to pick up the blanket, but a foot drove into my gut. I staggered back against the table. She pulled the blanket on again. “Dave,” she said, “good night.”