he and Kenyon had come to call,
bringing a load of pumpkins and squash. All through that first hard year, gifts had arrived, of
produce that the Ashidas had not yet planted — baskets of asparagus, lettuce. And Nancy often
brought Babe by for the children to ride. «You know, in most ways, this is the best place we’ve
ever lived. Hideo says the same. We sure hate to think about leaving. Starting all over again.»
«Leaving?» protested Mr. Clutter, and slowed the car.
«Well, Herb. The farm here, the people we’re working for — Hideo thinks we could do better.
Maybe in Nebraska. But nothing’s settled. It’s just talk so far.» Her hearty voice, always on the
verge of laughter, made the melancholy news sound somehow cheerful, but seeing that she had
saddened Mr. Clutter, she turned to other matters. «Herb, give me a man’s opinion,» she said.
«Me and the kids, we’ve been saving up, we want to give Hideo something on the grand side for
Christmas. What he needs is teeth. Now, if your wife was to give you three gold teeth, would that
strike you as a wrong kind of present? I mean, asking a man to spend Christmas in the dentist’s
chair?»
«You beat all. Don’t ever try to get away from here. We’ll hogtie you,» said Mr. Clutter. «Yes, yes,
by all means gold teeth. Was me, I’d be tickled.»
His reaction delighted Mrs. Ashida, for she knew he would not approve her plan unless he meant
it; he was a gentleman. She had never known him to «act the Squire,» or to take advantage or
break a promise. She ventured to obtain a promise now. «Look, Herb. At the banquet — no
speeches, huh? Not for me. You, you’re different. The way you can stand up and talk to hundreds
of people. Thousands. And be so easy — convince anybody about whatever. Just nothing scares
you,» she said, commenting upon a generally recognized quality of Mr. Clutter’s: a fearless selfassurance that set him apart, and while it created respect, also limited the affections of others a
little. «I can’t imagine you afraid. No matter what happened, you’d talk your way out of it.»
By midafternoon the black Chevrolet had reached Emporia, Kansas — a large town, almost a city,
and a safe place, so the occupants of the car had decided, to do a bit of shopping. They parked
on a side street, then wandered about until a suitably crowded variety store presented itself.
The first purchase was a pair of rubber gloves; these were for Perry, who, unlike Dick, had
neglected to bring old gloves of his own.
They moved on to a counter displaying women’s hosiery, a spell of indecisive quibbling, Perry
said, «I’m for it.»
Dick was not. «What about my eye? They’re all too light colored to hide that.»
«Miss,» said Perry, attracting a salesgirl’s attention. «You got any black stockings?» When she told
him no, he proposed that they try another store. «Black’s foolproof.»
But Dick had made up his mind: stockings of any shade were unnecessary, an encumbrance, a
useless expense («I’ve already invested enough money in this operation»), and, after all, anyone
they encountered would not live to bear witness. «No witnesses,» he reminded Perry, for what
seemed to Perry the millionth time. It rankled in him, the way Dick mouthed those two words, as
though they solved every problem; it was stupid not to admit that there might be a witness they
hadn’t seen. «The ineffable happens, things do take a turn,» he said. But Dick, smiling boastfully,
boyishly, did not agree: «Get the bubbles out of your blood. Nothing can go wrong.» No. Because
the plan was Dick’s, and from first footfall to final silence, flawlessly devised.
Next they were interested in rope. Perry studied the stock, tested it. Having once served in the
Merchant Marine, he understood rope and was clever with knots. He chose a white nylon cord, as
strong as wire and not much thicker. They discussed how many yards of it they required. The
question irritated Dick, for it was part of a greater quandary, and he could not, despite the alleged
perfection of his over-all design, be certain of the answer. Eventually, he said, «Christ, how the
hell should I know?»
«You damn well better.»
Dick tried. «There’s him. Her. The kid and the girl. And maybe the other two. But it’s Saturday.
They might have guests. Let’s count on eight, or even twelve. The only sure thing is everyone of
them has got to go.»
«Seems like a lot of it. To be so sure about.» »Ain’t that what I promised you, honey — plenty of hair on them-those walls?»
Perry shrugged. «Then we’d better buy the whole roll.»
It was a hundred yards long — quite enough for twelve.
Kenyon had built the chest himself: a mahogany hope chest, lined with cedar, which he intended
to give Beverly as a wedding present. Now, working on it in the so-called den in the basement, he
applied a last coat of varnish. The furniture of the den, a cement-floored room that ran the length
of the house, consisted almost entirely of examples of his carpentry (shelves, tables, stools, a
ping-pong table) and Nancy’s needlework (chintz slip covers that rejuvenated a decrepit couch,
curtains, pillows bearing legends: happy? and You don’t have to be crazy to live here but it helps).
Together, Kenyon and Nancy had made a paint-splattered attempt to deprive the basement room
of its un-removable dourness, and neither was aware of failure. In fact, they both thought their
den a triumph and a blessing — Nancy because it was a place where she could entertain «the
gang» without disturbing her mother, and Kenyon because here he could be alone, free to bang,
saw, and mess with his «inventions,» the newest of which was an electric deep-dish frying pan.
Adjoining the den was a furnace room, which contained a tool-littered table piled with some of his
other works-in-progress — an amplifying unit, an elderly wind-up Victrola that he was restoring to
service.
Kenyon resembled neither of his parents physically; his crew-cut hair was hemp-colored, and he
was six feet tall and lanky, though hefty enough to have once rescued a pair of full-grown sheep
by carrying them two miles through a blizzard — sturdy, strong, but cursed with a lanky boy’s lack
of muscular co-ordination. This defect, aggravated by an inability to function without glasses,
prevented him from taking more than a token part in those team sports (basketball, baseball) that
were the main occupation of most of the boys who might have been his friends. He had only one
close friend — Bob Jones, the son of Taylor Jones, whose ranch was a mile west of the Clutter
home. Out in rural Kansas, boys start driving cars very young; Kenyon was eleven when his
father allowed him to buy, with money he had earned raising sheep, an old truck with a Model A
engine — the Coyote Wagon, he and Bob called it. Not far from River Valley Farm there is a
mysterious stretch of countryside known as the Sand Hills; it is like a beach without an ocean,
and at night coyotes slink among the dunes, assembling in hordes to howl. On moonlit evenings
the boys would descend upon them, set them running, and try to outrace them in the wagon; they
seldom did, for the scrawniest coyote can hit fifty miles an hour, whereas the wagon’s top speed
was thirty-five, but it was a wild and beautiful kind of fun, the wagon skidding across the sand, the
fleeing coyotes framed against the moon — as Bob said, it sure made your heart hurry.
Equally intoxicating, and more profitable, were the rabbit roundups the two boys conducted:
Kenyon was a good shot and his friend a better one, and between them they sometimes
delivered half a hundred rabbits to the «rabbit factory» — a Garden City processing plant that paid
ten cents a head for the animals, which were then quick-frozen and shipped to mink growers. But
what meant most to Kenyon — and Bob, too — was their weekend, overnight hunting hikes along
the shores of the river: wandering, wrapping up in blankets, listening at sunrise for the noise of
wings, moving toward the sound on tiptoe, and then, sweetest of all, swaggering homeward with
a dozen duck dinners swinging on their belts. But lately things had changed between Kenyon and
his friend. They had not quarreled, there had been no over falling-out, nothing had happened
except that Bob, who was sixteen, had started «going with a girl,» which meant that Kenyon, a
year younger and still very much the adolescent bachelor, could no longer count on his
companionship. Bob told him, «When you’re my age, you’ll feel different. I used to think the same
as you: Women — so what? But then you get to talking to some woman, and it’s mighty nice. You’ll
see.» Kenyon doubted it; he could not conceive of ever wanting to waste an hour on any girl that
might be spent with guns, horses, tools, machinery, even a book. If Bob was unavailable, then he
would rather be alone, for in temperament he was not in the least Mr. Clutter’s son but rather
Bonnie’s child, a sensitive and reticent boy. His contemporaries thought him «stand-offish,» yet
forgave him, saying, «Oh, Kenyon. It’s just that he lives in a world of his own.»
Leaving the varnish to dry, he went on to another chore — one that took him out-of-doors. He
wanted to tidy up his mother’s flower garden, a treasured patch of disheveled foliage that grew
beneath her bedroom window. When he got there, he found one of the hired men loosening earth
with a spade — Paul Helm, the husband of the housekeeper. »Seen that car?» Mr. Helm asked.
Yes, Kenyon had seen a car in the driveway — a gray Buick, standing outside the entrance to his
father’s office.
«Thought you might know who it was.»
«Not unless it’s Mr. Johnson. Dad said he was expecting him.»
Mr. Helm (the late Mr. Helm; he died of a