East of Eden

“How do you mean?”

“What you got to bet?”

“Nothing,” said Aron.

“How about your deer’s-leg whistle? I bet you this-here taw against that deer’s-leg whistle that we get sent to bed right after supper. Is it a bet?”

“I guess so,” Aron said vaguely. “I don’t see why.”

Cal said, “Father will want to talk to Lee. And I’m going to listen.”

“You won’t dare.”

“You think I won’t.”

“ ’Spose I was to tell.”

Cal’s eyes turned cold and his face darkened. He leaned so close that his voice dropped to a whisper. “You won’t tell. Because if you do—I’ll tell who stole his knife.”

“Nobody stole his knife. He’s got his knife. He opened the letter with it.”

Cal smiled bleakly. “I mean tomorrow,” he said. And Aron saw what he meant and he knew he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t do anything about it. Cal was perfectly safe.

Cal saw the confusion and helplessness on Aron’s face and felt his power, and it made him glad. He could outthink and outplan his brother. He was beginning to think he could do the same thing to his father. With Lee, Cal’s tricks did not work, for Lee’s bland mind moved effortlessly ahead of him and was always there waiting, understanding, and at the last moment cautioning quietly, “Don’t do it.” Cal had respect for Lee and a little fear of him. But Aron here, looking helplessly at him, was a lump of soft mud in his hands. Cal suddenly felt a deep love for his brother and an impulse to protect him in his weakness. He put his arm around Aron.

Aron did not flinch or respond. He drew back a little to see Cal’s face.

Cal said, “See any green grass growing out of my head?”

Aron said, “I don’t know why you go for to do it.”

“How do you mean? Do what?”

“All the tricky, sneaky things,” said Aron.

“What do you mean, sneaky?”

“Well, about the rabbit, and sneaking here in the car. And you did something to Abra. I don’t know what, but it was you made her throw the box away.”

“Ho,” said Cal. “Wouldn’t you like to know!” But he was uneasy.

Aron said slowly. “I wouldn’t want to know that. I’d like to know why you do it. You’re always at something. I just wonder why you do it. I wonder what’s it good for.”

A pain pierced Cal’s heart. His planning suddenly seemed mean and dirty to him. He knew that his brother had found him out. And he felt a longing for Aron to love him. He felt lost and hungry and he didn’t know what to do.

Aron opened the door of the Ford and climbed down and walked out of the wagon shed. For a few moments Cal twisted the steering wheel and tried to imagine he was racing down the road. But it wasn’t any good, and soon he followed Aron back toward the house.

2

When supper was finished and Lee had washed the dishes Adam said, “I think you boys had better go to bed. It’s been a big day.”

Aron looked quickly at Cal and slowly took his deer’s-leg whistle out of his pocket.

Cal said, “I don’t want it.”

Aron said, “It’s yours now.”

“Well, I don’t want it. I won’t have it.”

Aron laid the bone whistle on the table. “It’ll be here for you,” he said.

Adam broke in, “Say, what is this argument? I said you boys should go to bed.”

Cal put on his “little boy” face. “Why?” he asked. “It’s too early to go to bed.”

Adam said, “That wasn’t quite the truth I told you. I want to talk privately to Lee. And it’s getting dark so you can’t go outside, so I want you boys to go to bed—at least to your room. Do you understand?”

Both boys said, “Yes, sir,” and they followed Lee down the hall to their bedroom at the back of the house. In their nightgowns they returned to say good night to their father.

Lee came back to the living room and closed the door to the hall. He picked up the deer’s-leg whistle and inspected it and laid it down. “I wonder what went on there,” he said.

“How do you mean, Lee?”

“Well, some bet was made before supper, and just after supper Aron lost the bet and paid off. What were we talking about?”

“All I can remember is telling them to go to bed.”

“Well, maybe it will come out later,” said Lee.

“Seems to me you put too much stock in the affairs of children. It probably didn’t mean anything.”

“Yes, it meant something.” Then he said, “Mr. Trask, do you think the thoughts of people suddenly become important at a given age? Do you have sharper feelings or clearer thoughts now than when you were ten? Do you see as well, hear as well, taste as vitally?”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Adam.

“It’s one of the great fallacies, it seems to me,” said Lee, “that time gives much of anything but years and sadness to a man.”

“And memory.”

“Yes, memory. Without that, time would be unarmed against us. What did you want to talk to me about?”

Adam took the letter from his pocket and put it on the table. “I want you to read this, to read it carefully, and then—I want to talk about it.” Lee took out his half-glasses and put them on. He opened the letter under the lamp and read it.

Adam asked, “Well?”

“Is there an opening here for a lawyer?”

“How do you mean? Oh, I see. Are you making a joke?”

“No, said Lee, “I was not making a joke. In my obscure but courteous Oriental manner I was indicating to you that I would prefer to know your opinion before I offered mine.”

“Are you speaking sharply to me?”

“Yes, I am,” said Lee. “I’ll lay aside my Oriental manner. I’m getting old and cantankerous. I am growing impatient. Haven’t you heard of all Chinese servants that when they get old they remain loyal but they turn mean?”

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“They aren’t hurt. You want to talk about this letter. Then talk, and I will know from your talk whether I can offer an honest opinion or whether it is better to reassure you in your own.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Adam helplessly.

“Well, you knew your brother. If you don’t understand it, how can I, who never saw him?”