![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
||||||||
![]() |
![]() |
![]() |
||||||||
|
![]() |
![]() |
||||||||
Excerpt
The candleflame and the image of the candleflame caught in the
pierglass twisted and righted when he entered the hall and again
when he shut the door. He took off his hat and came slowly forward.
The floorboards creaked under his boots. In his black suit he
stood in the dark glass where the lilies leaned so palely from
their waisted cutglass vase. Along the cold hallway behind him
hung the portraits of forebears only dimly known to him all framed
in glass and dimly lit above the narrow wainscotting. He looked
down at the guttered candlestub. He pressed his thumbprint in
the warm wax pooled on the oak veneer. Lastly he looked at the
face so caved and drawn among the folds of funeral cloth, the
yellowed moustache, the eyelids paper thin. That was not sleeping.
That was not sleeping.
It was dark outside and cold and no wind. In the distance a calf
bawled. He stood with his hat in his hand. You never combed your
hair that way in your life, he said.
Inside the house there was no sound save the ticking of the mantel
clock in the front room. He went out and shut the door.
Dark and cold and no wind and a thin gray reef beginning along
the eastern rim of the world. He walked out on the prairie and
stood holding his hat like some supplicant to the darkness over
them all and he stood there for a long time.
As he turned to go he heard the train. He stopped and waited for
it. He could feel it under his feet. It came boring out of the
east like some ribald satellite of the coming sun howling and
bellowing in the distance and the long light of the headlamp running
through the tangled mesquite brakes and creating out of the night
the endless fenceline down the dead straight right of way and
sucking it back again wire and post mile on mile into the darkness
after where the boilersmoke disbanded slowly along the faint new
horizon and the sound came lagging and he stood still holding
his hat in his hands in the passing groundshudder watching it
till it was gone. Then he turned and went back to the house.
She looked up from the stove when he came in and looked him up
and down in his suit. Buenos días, guapo, she said.
He hung the hat on a peg by the door among slickers and blanketcoats
and odd pieces of tack and came to the stove and got his coffee
and took it to the table. She opened the oven and drew out a pan
of sweetrolls she'd made and put one on a plate and brought it
over and set it in front of him together with a knife for the
butter and she touched the back of his head with her hand before
she returned to the stove.
I appreciate you lightin the candle, he said.
Cómo?
La candela. La vela.
No fui yo, she said.
La señora?
Claro.
Ya se levantó?
Antes que yo.
He drank the coffee. It was just grainy light outside and Arturo
was coming up toward the house. In the evening he saddled his horse and rode out west from the
house. The wind was much abated and it was very cold and the sun
sat blood red and elliptic under the reefs of bloodred cloud before
him. He rode where he would always choose to ride, out where the
western fork of the old Comanche road coming down out of the Kiowa
country to the north passed through the westernmost section of
the ranch and you could see the faint trace of it bearing south
over the low prairie that lay between the north and middle forks
of the Concho River. At the hour he'd always choose when the shadows
were long and the ancient road was shaped before him in the rose
and canted light like a dream of the past where the painted ponies
and the riders of that lost nation came down out of the north
with their faces chalked and their long hair plaited and each
armed for war which was their life and the women and children
and women with children at their breasts all of them pledged in
blood and redeemable in blood only. When the wind was in the north
you could hear them, the horses and the breath of the horses and
the horses' hooves that were shod in rawhide and the rattle of
lances and the constant drag of the travois poles in the sand
like the passing of some enormous serpent and the young boys naked
on wild horses jaunty as circus riders and hazing wild horses
before them and the dogs trotting with their tongues aloll and
footslaves following half naked and sorely burdened and above
all the low chant of their traveling song which the riders sang
as they rode, nation and ghost of nation passing in a soft chorale
across that mineral waste to darkness bearing lost to all history
and all remembrance like a grail the sum of their secular and
transitory and violent lives.
He rode with the sun coppering his face and the red wind blowing
out of the west. He turned south along the old war trail and he
rode out to the crest of a low rise and dismounted and dropped
the reins and walked out and stood like a man come to the end
of something.
There was an old horseskull in the brush and he squatted and picked
it up and turned it in his hands. Frail and brittle. Bleached
paper white. He squatted in the long light holding it, the comicbook
teeth loose in their sockets. The joints in the cranium like a
ragged welding of the bone plates. The muted run of sand in the
brainbox when he turned it.
What he loved in horses was what he loved in men, the blood and
the heat of the blood that ran them. All his reverence and all
his fondness and all the leanings of his life were for the ardenthearted
and they would always be so and never be otherwise.
He rode back in the dark. The horse quickened its step. The last
of the day's light fanned slowly upon the plain behind him and
withdrew again down the edges of the world in a cooling blue of
shadow and dusk and chill and a few last chitterings of birds
sequestered in the dark and wiry brush. He crossed the old trace
again and he must turn the pony up onto the plain and homeward
but the warriors would ride on in that darkness they'd become,
rattling past with their stone-age tools of war in default of
all substance and singing softly in blood and longing south across
the plains to Mexico. His grandfather was the oldest of eight boys and the only one
to live past the age of twenty-five. They were drowned, shot,
kicked by horses. They perished in fires. They seemed to fear
only dying in bed. The last two were killed in Puerto Rico in
eighteen ninety-eight and in that year he married and brought
his bride home to the ranch and he must have walked out and stood
looking at his holdings and reflected long upon the ways of God
and the laws of primogeniture. Twelve years later when his wife
was carried off in the influenza epidemic they still had no children.
A year later he married his dead wife's older sister and a year
after this the boy's mother was born and that was all the borning
that there was. The Grady name was buried with that old man the
day the norther blew the lawnchairs over the dead cemetery grass.
The boy's name was Cole. John Grady Cole. The waitress called everybody doll. She took their order and flirted
with him. His father took out his cigarettes and lit one and put
the pack on the table and put his Third Infantry Zippo lighter
on top of it and leaned back and smoked and looked at him. He
told him his uncle Ed Alison had gone up to the preacher after
the funeral was said and shook his hand, the two of them standing
there holding onto their hats and leaning thirty degrees into
the wind like vaudeville comics while the canvas flapped and raged
about them and the funeral attendants raced over the grounds after
the lawnchairs, and he'd leaned into the preacher's face and screamed
at him that it was a good thing they'd held the burial that morning
because the way it was making up this thing could turn off into
a real blow before the day was out.
His father laughed silently. Then he fell to coughing. He took
a drink of water and sat smoking and shaking his head.
Buddy when he come back from up in the panhandle told me one time
it quit blowin up there and all the chickens fell over.
The waitress brought their coffee. Here you go, doll, she said.
I'll have your all's orders up in just a minute.
She's gone to San Antonio, the boy said.
Dont call her she.
Mama.
I know it.
They drank their coffee.
What do you aim to do?
About what?
About anything.
She can go where she wants to.
The boy watched him. You aint got no business smokin them things,
he said.
His father pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the table
and looked up. When I come around askin you what I'm supposed
to do you'll know you're big enough to tell me, he said.
Yessir.
You need any money?
No.
He watched the boy. You'll be all right, he said.
The waitress brought their dinner, thick china lunchplates with
steak and gravy and potatoes and beans.
I'll get your all's bread.
His father tucked his napkin into his shirt.
It aint me I was worried about, the boy said. Can I say that?
His father took up his knife and cut into the steak. Yeah, he
said. You can say that.
The waitress brought the basket of rolls and set it on the table
and went away. They ate. His father didn't eat much. After a while
he pushed the plate back with his thumb and reached and got another
cigarette and tapped it against the lighter and put it in his
mouth and lit it.
You can say whatever's on your mind. Hell. You can bitch at me
about smokin if you want.
The boy didnt answer.
You know it aint what I wanted dont you?
Yeah. I know that.
You lookin after Rosco good?
He aint been rode.
Why dont we go Saturday.
All right.
You dont have to if you got somethin else to do.
I aint got nothin else to do.
His father smoked, he watched him.
You dont have to if you dont want to, he said.
I want to.
Can you and Arturo load and pick me up in town?
Yeah.
What time?
What time'll you be up?
I'll get up.
We'll be there at eight.
I'll be up.
The boy nodded. He ate. His father looked around. I wonder who
you need to see in this place to get some coffee, he said. What do you aim to do? Rawlins said.
I dont know. Nothin.
I dont know what you expect. Him two years oldern you. Got his
own car and everthing.
There aint nothin to him. Never was.
What did she say?
She didnt say nothin. What would she say? There aint nothin to
say.
Well I dont know what you expect.
I dont expect nothin.
Are you goin on Saturday?
No.
Rawlins took a cigarette out of his shirtpocket and sat up and
took a coal from the fire and lit the cigarette. He sat smoking.
I wouldnt let her get the best of me, he said.
He tipped the ash from the end of the cigarette against the heel
of his boot.
She aint worth it. None of em are.
He didnt answer for a while. Then he said: Yes they are.
When he got back he rubbed down the horse and put him up and walked
up to the house to the kitchen. Luisa had gone to bed and the
house was quiet. He put his hand on the coffeepot to test it and
he took down a cup and poured it and walked out and up the hallway.
He entered his grandfather's office and went to the desk and turned
on the lamp and sat down in the old oak swivelchair. On the desk
was a small brass calendar mounted on swivels that changed dates
when you tipped it over in its stand. It still said September
13th. An ashtray. A glass paperweight. A blotter that said Palmer
Feed and Supply. His mother's highschool graduation picture in
a small silver frame.
The room smelled of old cigarsmoke. He leaned and turned off the
little brass lamp and sat in the dark. Through the front window
he could see the starlit prairie falling away to the north. The
black crosses of the old telegraph poles yoked across the constellations
passing east to west. His grandfather said the Comanche would
cut the wires and splice them back with horsehair. He leaned back
and crossed his boots on the desktop. Dry lightning to the north,
forty miles distant. The clock struck eleven in the front room
across the hall.
She came down the stairs and stood in the office doorway and turned
on the wall switch light. She was in her robe and she stood with
her arms cradled against her, her elbows in her palms. He looked
at her and looked out the window again.
What are you doing? she said.
Settin.
She stood there in her robe for a long time. Then she turned and
went back down the hall and up the stairs again. When he heard
her door close he got up and turned off the light.
There were a few last warm days yet and in the afternoon sometimes
he and his father would sit in the hotel room in the white wicker
furniture with the window open and the thin crocheted curtains
blowing into the room and they'd drink coffee and his father would
pour a little whiskey in his own cup and sit sipping it and smoking
and looking down at the street. There were oilfield scouts' cars
parked along the street that looked like they'd been in a warzone.
If you had the money would you buy it? the boy said.
I had the money and I didnt.
You mean your backpay from the army?
No. Since then.
What's the most you ever won?
You dont need to know. Learn bad habits.
Why dont I bring the chessboard up some afternoon?
I aint got the patience to play.
You got the patience to play poker.
That's different.
What's different about it?
Money is what's different about it.
They sat.
There's still a lot of money in the ground out there, his father
said. Number one I C Clark that come in last year was a big well.
He sipped his coffee. He reached and got his cigarettes off the
table and lit one and looked at the boy and looked down at the
street again. After a while he said:
I won twenty-six thousand dollars in twenty-two hours of play.
There was four thousand dollars in the last pot, three of us in.
Two boys from Houston. I won the hand with three natural queens.
He turned and looked at the boy. The boy sat with the cup in front
of him halfway to his mouth. He turned and looked back out the
window. I dont have a dime of it, he said.
What do you think I should do?
I dont think there's much you can do.
Will you talk to her?
I caint talk to her.
You could talk to her.
Last conversation we had was in San Diego California in nineteen
forty-two. It aint her fault. I aint the same as I was. I'd like
to think I am. But I aint.
You are inside. Inside you are.
His father coughed. He drank from his cup. Inside, he said.
They sat for a long time.
She's in a play or somethin over there.
Yeah. I know.
The boy reached and got his hat off the floor and put it on his
knee. I better get back, he said.
You know I thought the world of that old man, dont you?
The boy looked out the window. Yeah, he said.
Dont go to cryin on me now.
I aint.
Well dont.
He never give up, the boy said. He was the one told me not to.
He said let's not have a funeral till we got somethin to bury,
if it aint nothin but his dogtags. They were fixin to give your
clothes away.
His father smiled. They might as well of, he said. Only thing
fit me was the boots.
He always thought you all would get back together.
Yeah, I know he did.
The boy stood and put on his hat. I better get on back, he said.
He used to get in fights over her. Even as a old man. Anybody
said anything about her. If he heard about it. It wasnt even dignified.
I better get on.
Well.
He unpropped his feet from the windowsill. I'll walk down with
you. I need to get the paper.
They stood in the tiled lobby while his father scanned the headlines.
How can Shirley Temple be getting divorced? he said.
He looked up. Early winter twilight in the streets. I might just
get a haircut, he said.
He looked at the boy.
I know how you feel. I felt the same way.
The boy nodded. His father looked at the paper again and folded
it.
The Good Book says that the meek shall inherit the earth and I
expect that's probably the truth. I aint no freethinker, but I'll
tell you what. I'm a long way from bein convinced that it's all
that good a thing.
He looked at the boy. He took his key out of his coatpocket and
handed it to him.
Go on back up there. There's somethin belongs to you in the closet.
The boy took the key. What is it? he said.
Just somethin I got for you. I was goin to give it to you at Christmas
but I'm tired of walkin over it.
Yessir.
Anyway you look like you could use some cheerin up. Just leave
the key at the desk when you come down.
Yessir.
I'll see you.
All right.
He rode back up in the elevator and walked down the hall and put
the key in the door and walked in and went to the closet and opened
it. Standing on the floor along with two pairs of boots and a
pile of dirty shirts was a brand new Hamley Formfitter saddle.
He picked it up by the horn and shut the closet door and carried
it to the bed and swung it up and stood looking at it.
Hell fire and damnation, he said.
He left the key at the desk and swung out through the doors into
the street with the saddle over his shoulder.
He walked down to South Concho Street and swung the saddle down
and stood it in front of him. It was just dark and the streetlights
had come on. The first vehicle along was a Model A Ford truck
and it came skidding quarterwise to a halt on its mechanical brakes
and the driver leaned across and rolled down the window part way
and boomed at him in a whiskey voice: Throw that hull up in the
bed, cowboy, and get in here.
Yessir, he said.
(Excerpted from All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy. Copyright © 1992 by Cormac McCarthy. Excerpted by
permission of Vintage Books, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No
part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing
from the publisher.)
|
![]() |
|||||||||
![]() |
||||||||||
|