and gasoline fumes. The broken speedometer registered a petrified twenty. Rain-streaks and crushed
insects blurred the windshield, of which one section was shattered in a bursting-star pattern. A toy skull
ornamented the gear shift. The wheels bump-bumped over the rising, dipping, curving Paradise Chapel
Highway.
Joel sat scrunched in a corner of the seat, elbow propped on window frame, chin cupped in
hand, trying hard to keep awake. He hadn’t had a proper hour’s rest since leaving New Orleans, for
when he closed his eyes, as now, certain sickening memories slid through his mind. Of these, one in
particular stood out: he was at a grocery counter, his mother waiting next to him, and outside in the street
January rain was making icicles on the naked tree limbs. Together they left the store and walked silently
along the wet pavement, he holding a calico umbrella above his mother, who carried a sack of tangerines.
They passed a house where a piano was playing, and the music sounded sad in the grey afternoon, but
his mother remarked what a pretty song. And when they reached home she was humming it, but she felt
cold and went to bed, and the doctor came, and for over a month he came every day, but she was
always cold, and Aunt Ellen was there, always smiling, and the doctor, always smiling, and the uneaten
tangerines shriveled up in the icebox; and when it was over he went with Ellen to live in a dingy
two-family house near Pontchartrain.
Ellen was a kind, rather gentle woman, and she did the best she knew how. She had five
school-aged children, and her husband clerked in a shoe store, so there was not a great deal of money;
but Joel wasn’t dependent, his mother having left a small legacy. Ellen and her family were good to him,
still he resented them, and often felt compelled to do hateful things, such as tease the older cousin, a
dumb-looking girl named Louise, because she was a little deaf: he’d cup his ear and cry «Aye? Aye?» and
couldn’t stop till she broke into tears. He would not joke or join in the rousing after-supper games his
uncle inaugurated nightly, and he took odd pleasure in bringing to attention a slip of grammar on anyone’s
part, but why this was true puzzled him as much as the Kendalls. It was as if he lived those months
wearing a pair of spectacles with green, cracked lenses, and had wax-plugging in his ears, for everything
seemed to be something it wasn’t, and the days melted in a constant dream. Now Ellen liked to read Sir
Walter Scott and Dickens and Hans Andersen to the children before sending them upstairs, and one
chilly March evening she read «The Snow Queen.» Listening to it, it came to Joel that he had a lot in
common with Little Kay, whose outlook was twisted when a splinter from the Sprite’s evil mirror infected
his eye, changing his heart into a lump of bitter ice: suppose, he thought, hearing Ellen’s gentle voice and
watching the firelight warm his cousins’ faces, suppose, like Little Kay, he also were spirited off to the
Snow Queen’s frozen palace? What living soul would then brave robber barons for his rescue? And there
was no one, really no one.
During the last weeks before the letter came he skipped school three days out of five to loaf
around the Canal Street docks. He got into a habit of sharing the box-lunch Ellen fixed for him with a
giant Negro stevedore who, as they talked together, spun exotic sea-life legends that Joel knew to be lies
even as he listened; but this man was a grown-up, and grown-ups were suddenly the only friends he
wanted. And he spent solitary hours watching the loading and unloading of banana boats that shipped to
Central America, plotting of course a stowaway voyage, for he was certain in some foreign city he could
land a good-paying job. However, on his thirteenth birthday, as it happened, the first letter from Skully’s
Landing arrived.
Ellen had not shown him this letter for several days. It was peculiar, the way she’d behaved, and
whenever her eyes had met his there was a look in them he’d never seen before: a frightened, guilty
expression. In answering the letter she’d asked assurance that, should Joel find himself discontented, he
would be at once allowed to return; a guarantee his education would be cared for; a promise he could
spend Christmas holidays with her. But Joel could sense how relieved she was when, following a long
correspondence, Major Knox’s old honeymoon suitcase was dragged down from the attic.
He was glad to go. He could not think why, nor did he bother wondering, but his father’s more or
less incredible appearance on a scene strangely deserted twelve years before didn’t strike him as in the
least extraordinary, inasmuch as he’d counted on some such happening all along. The miracle he’d
planned, however, was in the nature of a kind old rich lady who, having glimpsed him on a street-corner,
immediately dispatched an envelope stuffed with thousand-dollar bills; or a similar Godlike action on the
part of some goodhearted stranger. And this stranger, as it turned out, was his father, which to his mind
was simply a wonderful piece of luck.
But afterwards, as he lay in a scaling iron bed above the Morning Star Café, dizzy with heat and
loss and despair, a different picture of his father and of his situation asserted itself: he did not know what
to expect, and he was afraid, for already there were so many disappointments. A panama hat, newly
bought in New Orleans and worn with dashing pride, had been stolen in the train depot in Biloxi; then the
Paradise Chapel bus had run three hot, sweaty hours behind schedule; and finally, topping everything,
there had been no word from Skully’s Landing waiting at the café. All Thursday night he’d left the electric
light burning in the strange room, and read a movie magazine till he knew the latest doings of the
Hollywood stars by heart, for if he let his attention turn inward even a second he would begin to tremble,
and the mean tears would not stay back. Toward dawn he’d taken the magazine and torn it to shreds and
burned the pieces in an ashtray one by one till it was time to go downstairs.
»Reach behind and hand me a match, will you, boy?» said Radclif. «Back there on the shelf, see?»
Joel opened his eyes and looked about him dazedly. A perfect tear of sweat was balanced on the
tip of his nose. «You certainly have a lot of junk,» he said, probing around the shelf, which was littered
with a collection of yellowed newspapers, a slashed inner tube, greasy tools, an air pump, a flashlight
and. . . a pistol. Alongside the pistol was an open carton of ammunition; bullets the bright copper of fresh
pennies. He was tempted to take a whole handful, but ended by artfully dropping just one into his breast
pocket. «Here they are.»
Radclif popped a cigarette between his lips, and Joel, without being asked, struck a match for
him.
«Thanks,» said Radclif, a huge drag of smoke creeping out his nostrils. «Say, ever been in this part
of the country before?»
«Not exactly, but my mother took me to Gulfport once, and that was nice because of the sea.
We passed through there yesterday on the train.»
«Like it round here?»
Joel imagined a queerness in the driver’s tone. He studied Radclif’s blunt profile, wondering if
perhaps the theft had been noticed. If so, Radclif gave no sign. «Well, it’s. . . you know, different.»
«Course I don’t see any difference. Lived hereabouts all my life, and it looks like everywhere else
to me, ha ha!»
The truck hit suddenly a stretch of wide, hard road, unbordered by tree-shade, though a black
skirt of distant pines darkened the rim of a great field that lay to the left. A far-off figure, whether man or
woman you could not tell, rested from hoeing to wave, and Joel waved back. Farther on, two little
white-haired boys astride a scrawny mule shouted their delight when the truck passed, burying them in a
screen of dust. Radclif honked and honked the horn at a tribe of hogs that took their time in getting off
the road. He could swear like nobody Joel had ever heard, except maybe the Negro dock-hand.
A while later, scowling thoughtfully, Joel said: «I’d like to ask you something, o.k.?» He waited till
Radclif nodded consent. «Well, what I wanted to ask was, do you know my. . . Mister Sansom?»
«Yeah, I know who he is, sure,» said Radclif, and swabbed his forehead with a filthy
handkerchief. «You threw me off the track with those two names, Sansom and Knox. Oh sure, he’s the
guy that married Amy Skully.» There was an instant’s pause before he added: «But the real fact is, I never
laid eyes on him.»
Joel chewed his lip, and was silent a moment. He was crazy with questions he wanted answered,
but the idea of asking them embarrassed him, for to be so ignorant of one’s own blood-kin seemed
shameful. Therefore he said what he had to in a very bold voice: «What about this Skully’s Landing? I
mean, who all lives there?»
Radclif squinted his eyes while he considered. «Well,» he said at last, «they’ve got a coupla
niggers out there, and I know them. Then your daddy’s wife, know her: my old lady does dressmaking
for her now and again; used to, anyway.» He sucked in cigarette smoke, and flipped the butt out the
window. «And the cousin. . . yes, by God, the cousin!»
«Oh?» said Joel casually, though never once in all the letters had such a person been mentioned,
and his eyes begged the driver to amplify. But Radclif merely smiled a curious smile, as if amused by a
private joke too secret for sharing.
And that
