The Orchard Keeper(61)

Oh. No … I was wrecked all right, but I didn’t wreck. He fingered sorely the particolored swellings on his cheek and forehead. Kindly a bang-up job, ain’t it? Mutual acquaintance helped out with the decoratin … the deacon Gifford. With two buddies to hold me. Wadn’t even much spirited about it till I kicked him in the nuts. Now they got to worry about gettin me unswole so as I can appear in court. I got some busted ribs too that they don’t know about yet. I’m sort of holdin em for a ace. Here, set down. He grimaced and dropped his feet down off the bed to clear a seat.

The boy hadn’t said anything else. He lowered himself onto the bunk, still staring at Sylder. Then he said:

That son of a bitch.

Ah, said Sylder.

How’d they … you said you never wrecked, how did they …

Catch me? It wadn’t hard. I had my choice though, I could of jumped off the bridge. They live ever oncet in a while.

What?

Water in the gas. A little too much rain, I reckon. Too much for old Eller’s leaky-assed tank leastways. There’s one bill the son of a bitch’ll play hell collectin.—It quit in the middle of the Henley Street Bridge.

Oh.

Sylder had leaned back against the concrete wall and was tapping a cigarette from its package. Ain’t that a hell of a note? he said.

I’ll get him.

Hmm?

I’m goin to get the son of a bitch.

What! That old fart? Why I’ll be dipped in … Then he said Oh.

That’s right, the boy said. The deacon.

The smile had fallen from Sylder’s face. Wait a minute, he said. You don’t get nobody.

Him, the boy said.

No, Sylder said. He was looking very hard at the boy but the boy knew he was in the right.

Why? he said.

You jest stay away from Jefferson Gifford, that’s all.

You hear?

You jest think I’ll get in trouble, the boy said. That I …

Stubborn little bastard, ain’t you? Look.

Sylder paused, he seemed to be trying to think of something, a word perhaps. Look, he said, what’s between him and me is between him and me. It don’t need nobody else. So I thank ye kindly but no thank ye, you don’t owe me nothin and I ain’t crippled. I’ll tend to my own Giffords. All right?

The boy didn’t answer, didn’t seem to be listening. Sylder lit the cigarette and watched him. He turned and looked once at Sylder and then he seemed to remember something and he reached into the watchpocket of his jeans and took out two folded dollar bills and handed them to him.

What’s that? Sylder said.

The two dollars I owe you. That you loant me for traps.

Naw … Sylder started. Then he stopped and looked at the boy still holding out the two dirty bills. Okay, he said. He took the money and crammed it into his shirtpocket. Okay, that makes us square.

The boy was silent for a minute. Then he said:

No.

No what?

No it don’t make us square. Because maybe I lost the traps on your account but that’s okay and I earned em back and paid for em and that’s okay … but you got beat up on my account and maybe in jail too that … and that’s why it ain’t square yet, that part of it not square.

Sylder started to reach for the money, thought better of it and sat up, grinding the cigarette out beneath his heel. Then he looked at the boy. Square be damned, he said. I ast you to stay away from Gifford, that’s all. Will you?

The boy didn’t say anything.

Swear it? Sylder said.

No.

Sylder watched him, the still childish face set with truculent purpose. Look, he said, you’re fixin to get me in worse trouble than I already am, you …

I won’t get no …

No, wait a damn minute.

He did. They sat looking at each other, the man’s face misshapen as if bee-stung, him leaning forward gaunt and huge and the boy perched delicately on the edge of the metal pallet as if loath to sit too easily where so many had lain in such hard rest.

Look, Sylder said, taking a long breath, you want to talk about square, all right. Me and Gif are square.

The boy looked at him curiously.

Yes, he said. I busted him and he busted me. That’s fair, ain’t it?

The boy was still silent, calmly incredulous.

No, Sylder went on, I ain’t forgettin about jail. You think because he arrested me that thows it off again I reckon? I don’t. It’s his job. It’s what he gets paid for. To arrest people that break the law. And I didn’t jest break the law, I made a livin at it. He leaned forward and looked the boy in the face. More money in three hours than a workin man makes in a week. Why is that? Because it’s harder work? No, because a man who makes a livin doin somethin that has to get him in jail sooner or later has to be paid for the jail, has to be paid in advance not jest for his time breakin the law but for the time he has to build when he gets caught at it. So I been paid. Gifford’s been paid. Nobody owes nobody. If it wadn’t for Gifford, the law, I wouldn’t of had the job I had blockadin and if it wadn’t for me blockadin, Gifford wouldn’t of had his job arrestin blockaders. Now who owes who?