Philipp Meyer - The Son

Which, of course, saved everyone a good deal of trouble, as proper society now regarded them to be roughly the same as whores, being they’d been raped by buck Indians. And, unlike a whore, who might renounce her immoral choices and properly redeem herself, these women had no power over what had happened to them, and thus had no power to undo it, either.

I WAS ALREADY getting tired of the judge’s house and had taken to sleeping outside. I’d gotten in small trouble for borrowing a neighbor’s horse and for shooting various of the neighborhood hogs full of arrows, not to mention that all the other petty larcenies, which had nothing to do with me, were now attributed to my presence.

I admitted to the judge that the Comanches hated swine and I guess I’d inherited that from them. I was severely understimulated. I had no idea what white children did to occupy themselves. They go to school, he told me. I told him the slaughter of the pigs would look like nothing if I was put into school. Which of course was an exaggeration — I would simply walk out. Meanwhile the judge told the neighbors that the state would reimburse them, as I was still adjusting back to civilized life.

One afternoon he sat me down: “Master McCullough, I don’t mean to suggest you aren’t welcome in my house, but it might be time to pay your father’s new family a visit down in Bastrop. M’lady believes this might do you some good, if you know what I mean.”

“She doesn’t like me.”

“She admires your spirit greatly,” he said. “But one of the Negroes discovered a few items that he believed to be human scalps and reported as much to m’lady.”

“The niggers went into my bag?”

“They are naturally curious,” he said. “My apologies.”

“Where is it now?”

“It has been deposited above the stables for safekeeping. Don’t worry, I told them they would be whipped if even a single item was missing.”

“I guess I will leave today, then.”

“No need for that,” he said. “But soon.”

I gathered my things and asked the Negroes to return the scalps they’d stolen, along with my madstone.

Then I went and found the judge in his study and thanked him and made him a present of my butcher knife and beaded sheath. I had liberated a better one, a fine bowie knife, from one of the judge’s neighbors who had kept it in a glass case: supposedly it had been owned by Jim Bowie himself. I would have given it to the judge, but I did not want to get him in trouble. As for my Indian knife, the judge asked: “This ever raise any hair?”

“Some,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows.

“Only Mexican and Indian,” I lied.

He looked at the knife.

“I’ll have a display case made for it. I know just the man to do it.”

“Whatever you like,” I said.

“I’m honored to meet you, young man. You’re headed for great things if you don’t get yourself hanged. I think you’ll find that not all servants of the law are as liberal minded as yours truly; that judge in Bastrop is a real prick, in fact, he’s one of my greatest enemies and I would not mention our friendship to him if you can avoid it.”

That night I left for Bastrop, over the judge’s objections, as he said I ought to catch a wagon in the morning. I could see the mistress felt guilty about having me removed, and the children, when they found out I was leaving, wept and could not be consoled; their eldest daughter jumped on me and began kissing my neck and crying hysterically.

But I felt free again, as the judge’s forty acres, though he was quite proud of it, seemed to me like a postage stamp; I was used to having twenty or so million at my disposal. And Austin was overrun with people, five thousand and climbing; it was impossible to walk along the river without being interrupted by the clinking of horsebells and the cries of boatmen. Anyone could see there were too many pigs for the tits.

It was near first light when she fell asleep and sometime later she heard him calling. She opened her eyes. By the sound of it he was right outside her door and though she’d been thinking about him all night, she found herself afraid and not sure what to do so she stayed quiet. She could hear him there in the hallway.

Finally she got the nerve to call out, “I’ll be down in a minute. Tell Flores to make you coffee.”

She heard him go downstairs. Then she was sorry. She told herself it was only because she didn’t want him seeing her like this, puffy faced and without makeup, but she knew that wasn’t true. I’m a coward, she thought. She washed and put her hair back and made herself up. Then she went to the kitchen.

“How’d you sleep?” she said.

“Pretty good, I guess.”

If the comment hurt her, she didn’t show it.

After breakfast, he went to fiddle with the maps and as she was carrying the lunch basket out to the truck, her eye caught on the serving cart with its bottle of whiskey and silver cocktail shaker. She put them into the basket, chiding herself the entire time, wondering how she might explain it if she were somehow caught, or if he objected, but it occurred to her there was no one to catch her, and this made her feel both better and worse, and then it seemed to her that as far as Hank was concerned, things could not move quickly enough. She went back to the kitchen and wrapped a block of ice in some towels and she needed sugar as well. She could always get rid of it if she changed her mind.

As they were driving away from the house, she said, “Pull up next to that stock tank.”

He complied. She got out and picked a big handful of mint and put it in the basket. “What is that for?” he said.

“Refreshments.”

“I will take your word for it.”

A few hours later, when he was satisfied he had seen enough of the country to take a break, they ate lunch at the stream by the old Garcia house. Along the stream were a few young cottonwoods; she excused herself and picked her way down the steep embankment and plucked a handful of the buds, then walked back up to see him. She scraped the sap of the buds with her fingernail.

“Here,” she said.

“What is it?”

“Just smell it.”

He gave her a skeptical look and then she put her hand near his face.

“Whoa,” he said. He seized her arm and pulled her whole hand in and they sat like that. She could feel his breath on her wrist.

“I wish I could smell that the rest of my life.”

“It’s the sap of the buds,” she said. “You can only get it a few times a year.”

“What’s it taste like?”

“Try it.”

“Off your fingers?”

She shrugged. She watched him… hoping for… she didn’t know. But he put only the tip of her finger into his mouth, then removed it quickly.

“Smells better than it tastes,” he said, and laughed.

She sat there hoping he would kiss her, but he didn’t move, in fact he let go of her wrist.

“This is country,” he said, looking out over the savannah.

She forced herself to nod. Something had settled over her which blotted out the light.

“The company is not bad, either.”

She nodded again. They could hear the stream running and the locusts.

“And if you are telling me that I am hard to beat as well, I agree with you.”

“I didn’t say anything at all,” she said.

“That is what I am choosing to hear.”

“Well, you have not said anything like that to me.” Thinking, He is an idiot . She was in no mood for clever talk, the moment had passed, it was ruined.

“You are a beautiful girl.” He reached his hand toward her cheek, then stopped. “But…”