Kent Haruf - Plainsong

But Beckman was in it now too. He grabbed Guthrie’s arms. Let him go, he was hollering. Let him go.

I’m warning you, Guthrie said, shouting, his voice still awkward and strained, his face inches away from the boy’s. Goddamn you. He rocked the boy’s head back against the house wall, the boy’s eyes flaring in alarm and surprise and anger, his chin tilted up above Guthrie’s fist, his head canted back; he was pulled up onto his toes, his hands scrabbling at Guthrie’s wrists.

Let go, goddamn it! Beckman yelled. His wife was slapping at Guthrie from the back, clawing at his jacket, screeching something unintelligible, not even words, just a high-pitched furious noise. Beckman was still jerking at Guthrie’s arms, then he stopped and drew back and hit Guthrie at the side of the face and Guthrie went over sideways, pulling the boy with him. Guthrie’s glasses hung crookedly from his face. Beckman bent over and swung again, hitting him above the ear.

Next door the Fraisers were watching. Mrs. Fraiser went running into the house to call the police, and her husband came hurrying across the yard between the two houses. Here now, he called. Here, you men, stop this.

Guthrie rose up and shoved the boy away, and Beckman came at him again, swinging wildly, and Guthrie ducked under his arm and hit him in the throat at the open neck of his white shirt. Beckman fell back choking. His wife screamed and tried to help him but he pushed her away. The boy rushed Guthrie from the side, his head lowered, and tackled him backward. They hit the porch rail and Guthrie felt something pop in his side, then they dropped down, the boy on top of him.

Guthrie fought with the boy on the floorboards and Beckman, recovered now, came once more and leaned over his son and found an opening and hit Guthrie in the face. Guthrie released the boy, then father and son worked on him together, punishing him, while he tried to roll over. When they stopped, Mrs. Beckman rushed forward and kicked him in the back. Guthrie rolled toward her and when she drew back to kick again he caught her foot, and she sat down violently on the porch boards, her dress flung up onto her thighs, and she sat just screaming until her husband lifted under her arms and raised her to her feet and told her to shut up. She sobered and straightened her dress. Guthrie got onto his knees, then stood. His face was smeared with the blood that ran from his nose and there was a cut over his eye. The chest pocket of his jacket was torn open, flapping like a tongue. He stood panting. One eye was already swelling shut and his side hurt where he’d hit the rail. He looked around for his glasses but couldn’t find them.

You men, Fraiser said. Here now. This isn’t the way.

Guthrie, you better get out of here, Beckman said. I’m telling you.

You son of a bitch, Guthrie panted.

You better go on. We’ll take you again.

You tell that boy. .

I’m not telling him a goddamn thing. You leave him alone.

Guthrie looked at him. You tell him he better never touch my boys again. I’m telling all of you that now.

Wait, Fraiser said. Listen, you men.

Out in the street Bud Sealy suddenly pulled up in the blue sheriff’s car and got out in a hurry, the door swinging open, and he came hustling toward the house. He was a heavy red-faced man with a hard stomach. What’s going on here? he said. This don’t look like no Sunday school church meeting to me. He stepped onto the porch and looked at them. What’s all this? Who’s going to tell me?

Guthrie here attacked my boy, Beckman said. Come right to the house this morning raising hell, claiming some bullshit story about his kids. He called my boy outside and attacked him. But we fixed him.

That right, Tom? Is that what happened?

Guthrie didn’t answer. He was still looking at the Beckmans. Don’t you ever touch them again, he said. This is the one time I’m going to tell you.

Do I have to listen to this? Beckman said to the sheriff. This is my house. I don’t have to listen to this shit on my own front porch.

I’ll tell you what, Bud Sealy said. You all three better come down to the station with me. We’re going to talk this out. Tom, you better ride with me. And Beckman, you and the boy there follow us in your car.

What about me? Mrs. Beckman said. He attacked me too.

You come too, the sheriff said. With them in the car.

She told them about it that morning. About Dwayne coming to the school to get her and about climbing in his car and driving to Denver without even knowing why, and how she hoped for it to be one way but how it was another, and how it was generally in his little apartment on the second floor in Denver. The McPheron brothers listened to her, watching her face all the time she talked. And after breakfast they went outside and fed out and then came back to the house and cleaned up and put on their good Bailey hats and took her into town to see Dr. Martin.

On the way she told them what she hadn’t said two hours earlier while they were still seated at the kitchen table. She said she’d gone to a party with him and had let herself go and had gotten to drinking too much, and then she stopped talking and was just quiet, riding between the two old men in the pickup, her hands cupped in her lap under her stomach as though she were holding it up, supporting it.

Did you? they said.

Yes, she said, I did. Then without warning her eyes filled and tears ran down her cheeks and she looked straight ahead over the dashboard at the highway.

Is there something else? Raymond said. You seem like there is, Victoria.

Yes, she said.

What is it?

I got high smoking pot.

Is that marijuana?

Yes, and I don’t know what all I did. I couldn’t remember the next day and I had bruises and cuts on me and didn’t know where I got them.

Did you do it again? Go out to them parties with him?

No. That one time. But I’m scared. I’m afraid I might have done something to my baby.

Oh. Well. Do you think so?

Well, I don’t know. That’s just it.

I wouldn’t guess so, Raymond said. I knew of this heifer we had one time that was carrying a calf, and she got a length of fencewire down her some way and it never hurt her or the calf.

It didn’t?

No. Never bothered either one.

The girl looked at him, examining his face under the brim of his hat. They were okay?

Yes ma’am.

They were? You’re telling the truth?

That’s right. They were no worse for it.

She looked at him for a time and Raymond met her gaze, simply looking back at her and nodding once or twice.

Thank you. She swiped at her cheeks and eyes. Thank you for telling me that.

A heifer calf, as I remember, Raymond said. Good-sized.

They went on. They drove on into Holt to the clinic beside the hospital, on this bright clear day, the sky as pure and blue as the inside of a bowl from China. At the clinic the girl told the middle-aged woman behind the window at the front counter who she was and what she was there for.

We haven’t seen you for months, the woman said.

I’ve been out of town.

Take a seat, the woman said.

She sat down in the waiting room with the McPheron brothers and they waited and would not talk very much even to one another because there were other people in the room, and about an hour later they were still waiting.

Harold turned and looked at the girl and abruptly he got up and crossed to the counter and spoke to the woman through the window. I guess you don’t know what we’re here for.

What? the woman said.

This girl right over here come in to see the doctor.

I know.

We been here a hour, Harold said. Tell him that.

You’ll have to wait your turn.