East of Eden

A gray, quilted melancholy descended on him. He wished with all his heart that Aron had not walked away from him out of the wagon shed. He wished with all his heart that he had not crouched listening at the hall door. He moved his lips in the darkness and made the words silently in his head and yet he could hear them.

“Dear Lord,” he said, “let me be like Aron. Don’t make me mean. I don’t want to be. If you will let everybody like me, why, I’ll give you anything in the world, and if I haven’t got it, why, I’ll go for to get it. I don’t want to be mean. I don’t want to be lonely. For Jesus’ sake, Amen.” Slow warm tears were running down his cheeks. His muscles were tight and he fought against making any crying sound or sniffle.

Aron whispered from his pillow in the dark, “You’re cold. You’ve got a chill.” He stretched out his hand to Cal’s arm and felt the goose bumps there. He asked softly, “Did Uncle Charles have any money?”

“No,” said Cal.

“Well, you were out there long enough. What did Father want to talk about?”

Cal lay still, trying to control his breathing.

“Don’t you want to tell me?” Aron asked. “I don’t care if you don’t tell me.”

“I’ll tell,” Cal whispered. He turned on his side so that his back was toward his brother. “Father is going to send a wreath to our mother. A great big goddam wreath of carnations.”

Aron half sat up in bed and asked excitedly, “He is? How’s he going to get it clear there?”

“On the train. Don’t talk so loud.”

Aron dropped back to a whisper. “But how’s it going to keep fresh?”

“With ice,” said Cal. “They’re going to pack ice all around it.”

Aron asked, “Won’t it take a lot of ice?”

“A whole hell of a lot of ice,” said Cal. “Go to sleep now.”

Aron was silent, and then he said, “I hope it gets there fresh and nice.”

“It will,” said Cal. And in his mind he cried, “Don’t let me be mean.”

Chapter 31

1

Adam brooded around the house all morning, and at noon he went to find Lee, who was spading the dark composted earth of his vegetable garden and planting his spring vegetables, carrots and beets, turnips, peas, and string beans, rutabaga and kale. The rows were straight planted under a tight-stretched string, and the pegs at the row ends carried the seed package to identify the row. On the edge of the garden in a cold frame the tomato and bell pepper and cabbage sets were nearly ready for transplanting, waiting only for the passing of the frost danger.

Adam said, “I guess I was stupid.”

Lee leaned on his spading fork and regarded him quietly.

“When are you going?” he asked.

“I thought I would catch the two-forty. Then I can get the eight o’clock back.”

“You could put it in a letter, you know,” said Lee.

“I’ve thought of that. Would you write a letter?”

“No. You’re right. I’m the stupid one there. No letters.”

“I have to go,” said Adam. “I thought in all directions and always a leash snapped me back.”

Lee said, “You can be unhonest in many ways, but not in that way. Well, good luck. I’ll be interested to hear what she says and does.”

“I’ll take the rig,” said Adam. “I’ll leave it at the stable in King City. I’m nervous about driving the Ford alone.”

It was four-fifteen when Adam climbed the rickety steps and knocked on the weather-beaten door of Kate’s place. A new man opened the door, a square-faced Finn, dressed in shirt and trousers; red silk armbands held up his full sleeves. He left Adam standing on the porch and in a moment came back and led him to the dining room.

It was a large undecorated room, the walls and woodwork painted white. A long square table filled the center of the room, and on the white oilcloth cover the places were set—plates, cups and saucers, and the cups upside down in the saucers.

Kate sat at the head of the table with an account book open before her. Her dress was severe. She wore a green eyeshade, and she rolled a yellow pencil restlessly in her fingers. She looked coldly at Adam as he stood in the doorway.

“What do you want now?” she asked.

The Finn stood behind Adam.

Adam did not reply. He walked to the table and laid the letter in front of her on top of the account book.

“What’s this?” she asked, and without waiting for a reply she read the letter quickly. “Go out and close the door,” she told the Finn.

Adam sat at the table beside her. He pushed the dishes aside to make a place for his hat.

When the door was closed Kate said, “Is this a joke? No, you haven’t got a joke in you.” She considered. “Your brother might be joking. You sure he’s dead?”

“All I have is the letter,” said Adam.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

Adam shrugged his shoulders.

Kate said, “If you want me to sign anything, you’re wasting your time. What do you want?”

Adam drew his finger slowly around his black ribbon hatband. “Why don’t you write down the name of the firm and get in touch with them yourself?”

“What have you told them about me?”

“Nothing,” said Adam. “I wrote to Charles and said you were living in another town, nothing more. He was dead when the letter got there. The letter went to the lawyers. It tells about it.”

“The one who wrote the postscript seems to be a friend of yours. What have you written him?”

“I haven’t answered the letter yet.”

“What do you intend to say when you answer it?”

“The same thing—that you live in another town.”

“You can’t say we’ve been divorced. We haven’t been.”

“I don’t intend to.”

“Do you want to know how much it will take to buy me off? I’ll take forty-five thousand in cash.”

“No.”

“What do you mean—no? You can’t bargain.”

“I’m not bargaining. You have the letter, you know as much as I do. Do what you want.”

“What makes you so cocky?”

“I feel safe.”

She peered at him from under the green transparent eyeshade. Little curls of her hair lay on the bill like vines on a green roof. “Adam, you’re a fool. If you had kept your mouth shut nobody would ever have known I was alive.”