Cormac McCarthy - The Orchard Keeper

A young social worker recently retained by the Knox County Welfare Bureau, having been notified through his office of the detention of one aged and impecunious gentleman at the county jail pending hearing of his case (charges ranging from Destruction of Government Property to Assault with Intent to Kill) proceeded to make such investigation as would determine whether the gentleman had relatives, and if not, to what department or agency he might properly be assigned as ward. The agent, having been admitted into the cell where the elderly gentleman was confined, addressed him:

Mr Ownby?

Yessir.

I represent the Welfare Bureau for the county. Welfare?

Yes. We … you see, we help people.

The old man turned that over in his mind. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the thin young man standing just inside the door. He scratched his jaw and then he said, Well, I ain’t got nothin. I don’t reckon I can hep yins any.

The agent made a fleeting effort at comprehension, passed it over. All we need, he said, is some information.

The old man turned and looked at him. You another policeman? he asked.

No, said the agent. I represent the Welfare Bureau for … I have been asked to see you — to see if perhaps we can help you in any way.

Well, the old man said, I kindly doubt it. I’m what you might call Brushy bound.

Yes, said the agent. I mean … you see, Mr Ownby, there are certain benefits to which you may be entitled. You seem to have been overlooked by our department for some time and we would like to have a record of your case for our, our, records, you see. And so I have some forms here that I need your help in filling out.

Hmm, the old man said.

Do you mind answering a few questions?

Don’t reckon, the old man said. Here, set down.

Thank you, said the agent. He lowered himself gingerly onto the cot and began to unstrap his briefcase. His hand disappeared inside and emerged with a sheaf of printed forms intershuffled with carbon paper. Now, he said comfortably, first of all, your age.

Well, I don’t rightly know.

Yes. I beg your pardon?

Don’t know for sure, that is. There’s a part of it I don’t remember too good. Well, could you tell us when you were born? The old man eyed him curiously. If I knowed that, he said patiently, I could figure how old I was. And tell us that.

The agent smiled weakly. Yes. Of course. Well, could you estimate your age then? You are over sixty-five?

Considerable.

Well, about how old would you say?

It ain’t about, the old man said, it’s either. Either eighty-three or eighty-four.

The agent wrote that down on his form, studied it for a moment with satisfaction. Fine, he said. Now, where is your present residence?

If’n I’m eighty-four I’ll live to be a hunerd and five providin I get to eighty-five.

Yes. Your …

When was you born?

The agent looked up from his forms. Nineteen-thirteen, he said, but we …

What date?

June. The thirteenth. Mr Ownby …

The old man tilted his eyes upward in reflection. Hmm, he said. That was a Friday. Kindly a bad start. Was your daddy over twenty-eight when you was born?

No, please, Mr Ownby. These questions, you see …

The old man hushed and the agent sat watching him for a minute. Now, he said. Your present address?

Well, the old man said, I did live on Forked Creek — Twin Fork Road, but I moved to the mountains. I got me a little place up there.

Where is that?

That’s all right where it’s at.

But we have to have an address, Mr Ownby.

Well, put down Twin Fork Road then, the old man said.

You live alone?

Jest me and Scout. Or we did.

Scout?

Dog.

The agent continued to write. You have, I believe, no family or relatives.

Yessir.

The agent looked up. Well, he said, we’ll need their names then.

I mean yes I don’t have none, the old man said wearily.

The agent continued with his questions, the old man answering yes or no or giving information. Upturned upon his knee his right hand opened and closed with a kneading action, as though he were trying to soften something in his palm. Until at length it stopped and the old man sat upright, fist clenched and quivering and the veins like old blue thread imprinted in the paper skin, sat erect and cut the agent off with a question of his own:

Why don’t you say what you come here to say? Why not jest up and ast me?

I beg your pardon? said the agent.

Why I done it. Rung shells and shot your hootnanny all to hell? Where you from, heh? You talk like a Goddamned yankee. What you do for a livin? Ast questions?

Mr Ownby …

Mr Ownby’s ass. I could tell you why — and you stit wouldn’t know. That’s all right. You can set and ast a bunch of idjit questions. But not knowin a thing ain’t never made it not so. Well, I’m a old man and I’ve seen some hard times, so I don’t reckon Brushy Mountain’ll be the worst place I was ever in.

Mr Ownby, I’m sure you’re upset and I assure you …

Ahh, said the old man.

Mr Ownby, there are only a few more questions. If you’d like I could come back another time. I … We at the agency feel …

I reckon you could, the old man said. I ain’t goin nowhere. He leaned back against the wall and passed one hand across his eyes as if to wipe away some image. Then he sat very still with his hands on his knees, his shaggy head against the bricks, restored to patience and a look of tried and inviolate sanctity, the faded blue eyes looking out down the row of cages, a forest of sweating iron dowels, forms of men standing or huddled upon their pallets, and the old man felt the circle of years closing, the final increment of the curve returning him again to the inchoate, the prismatic flux of sound and color wherein he had drifted once before and now beyond the world of men. By the time the agent had gathered his forms and tucked them once again into his briefcase the old man had closed his eyes and the agent called quietly for the jailer and left him.

The jailer walked with him down the corridor. The agent had regained his composure. Well, he said cheerily, he’s a cantankerous old rascal, isn’t he?

The old feller? I reckon. Been pretty quiet here, but then they shore had a time gettin him here.

How’s that? said the agent.

Why, he shot four men. Luther Boyd’s stit hoppin around on crutches.

Did he kill anyone? the agent asked.

No, but it wadn’t from not tryin. That old man’s ornery enough.

Yes, the agent said, musing. Definitely an anomic type.

Mean as a snake, said the jailer. Here, watch the door.

The agent thanked the desk sergeant as he passed through the outer room. He swung the briefcase to his left hand and dabbled his handkerchief upon his forehead. Over the worn runner on the flagged hall floor his steps were soundless and he moved with a slender grace of carriage, delicate and feline.

In the spring of the year you may see them about the grounds walking or sitting perhaps in the wake and swath of the droning mowers lifting up strewn daisyheads white and torn, softly fallen in the grass. Long monologues rise and fall, they speak of great deeds and men and noble eras gone. The mowers return along the fence in martial formation drowning the babble of voices.

The brick buildings atop the hill are dark with age, formidable yet sad, like old fortress ruins. Families come from the reception room into the pale sun, moving slowly, talking, grieving their silent griefs. The un-visited amble hurriedly about the grounds like questing setters, gesticulant and aimless.

There are others who sit quietly and unattended in the grass watching serene and childlike with serious eyes. Tender voices caress their ears endlessly and they are beyond sorrow. Some wave hopefully to the passing cars of picnickers and bathers. The eldest of all sits a little apart, a grass stem revolving between his yellowed teeth, remembering in the summer.