drink and did not condemn others, come to be blamed for something like this?
Ian, who was not only primarily moral but primarily loyal—even if the tendency among those who knew him was to dismiss him—had gone on the Sunday before he was to visit Evan Young to Joyce Fitzroy’s house, hoping to buy a small travelling trunk in the old fellow’s possession, one that had come over to the river on a ship out of Liverpool in 1840. He had seen it as a boy, and once again when his grandmother died. He had thought to himself, late the night before, while eating supper alone and listening to the transistor radio in his small room, that he would buy it as a wedding present for Evan and Molly.
He had the funds from saving for three years toward the store he would not be able to buy, since he could not secure a loan, and so he decided he would buy the trunk if the old man would part with it, which he believed he might. If he wouldn’t, Ian decided he would give Evan and Molly the three or four hundred dollars he was willing to spend on it, to do with what they wished.
He remembered from years gone by that the trunk was in remarkable condition, made of teakwood, with leather straps, spotlessly polished and never damaged in any way. He had been thinking this before he went to see the banks, and thinking more about it after he was refused his loan. How foolish he had been to think that the banks would give him a loan. Now he wanted to part with all ridiculous notions about himself. He was, he thought romantically, tough and brave enough to labour as a common working man.
He said to himself: Since I will never get the store, why be so scrupulous about saving for it? I haven’t spent a dime in three years. So I’ll buy the chest for Evan and Molly.
This decent thought was to cause his calamity, and the calamity of many around him, even some as yet unborn.
Ian was prepared to offer three hundred dollars for this trunk, and had the money in his pocket. He could not have known that the trunk was worth more than that—in fact much, much more. (At an auction in New York City, I could have easily sold it for twenty-five hundred dollars.)
However, the trunk was long gone. The old man did not remember where it had gone, but knew he had lost or given it away some time before.
“I don’t know. It’s gone away, boy, wherever,” Joyce said. “I might have given it away. I don’t much remember—I was probably drunk at the time!”
Joyce sat by the stove chewing snuff, and every few moments he would lift the lid, and spit into it, and after hearing the scald of his spit, he would put the lid back on and then wipe his chin with his hand. They talked of Lonnie Sullivan—always putting boys to work, and how it was a shame at that, for now Rueben Sores was working in the woods for him. And that Lonnie went to Sara Robb’s mother to get his tea leaves read.
“Does he still?” Ian asked, proud to be away from all of these things. Proud that he had escaped when his two good friends, his blood brothers, had not. Proud that he would have nothing to do with Sullivan again.
“More now than ever,” Joyce said, almost gleefully. “He still thinks he should be rich—that is all he ever wanted! He believes he is thesmartest one on the river. You know that! All his conniving and cigar smoking, and looking up land deeds, and trying to find riverfront that is back-taxed. And that young one of Harold’s is here half the week—asking to help me out.” Here he laughed. “Annette is pretty, though—and don’t mind showing herself off!”
Ian said nothing. He felt hot and horrible. Even the mention of Annette caused him to feel a pang. Would he still kill for her? Gladly, he thought, and then cringed at the idea. He was well away from all of it. And now he was so temperate and so stingy that no one would want him, he decided. His whole life had been to scrimp and to save and to be alone. And right now that suited him just fine.
Then
Ian, who was not only primarily moral but primarily loyal—even if the tendency among those who knew him was to dismiss him—had gone on the Sunday before he was to visit Evan Young to Joyce Fitzroy’s house, hoping to buy a small travelling trunk in the old fellow’s possession, one that had come over to the river on a ship out of Liverpool in 1840. He had seen it as a boy, and once again when his grandmother died. He had thought to himself, late the night before, while eating supper alone and listening to the transistor radio in his small room, that he would buy it as a wedding present for Evan and Molly.
He had the funds from saving for three years toward the store he would not be able to buy, since he could not secure a loan, and so he decided he would buy the trunk if the old man would part with it, which he believed he might. If he wouldn’t, Ian decided he would give Evan and Molly the three or four hundred dollars he was willing to spend on it, to do with what they wished.
He remembered from years gone by that the trunk was in remarkable condition, made of teakwood, with leather straps, spotlessly polished and never damaged in any way. He had been thinking this before he went to see the banks, and thinking more about it after he was refused his loan. How foolish he had been to think that the banks would give him a loan. Now he wanted to part with all ridiculous notions about himself. He was, he thought romantically, tough and brave enough to labour as a common working man.
He said to himself: Since I will never get the store, why be so scrupulous about saving for it? I haven’t spent a dime in three years. So I’ll buy the chest for Evan and Molly.
This decent thought was to cause his calamity, and the calamity of many around him, even some as yet unborn.
Ian was prepared to offer three hundred dollars for this trunk, and had the money in his pocket. He could not have known that the trunk was worth more than that—in fact much, much more. (At an auction in New York City, I could have easily sold it for twenty-five hundred dollars.)
However, the trunk was long gone. The old man did not remember where it had gone, but knew he had lost or given it away some time before.
“I don’t know. It’s gone away, boy, wherever,” Joyce said. “I might have given it away. I don’t much remember—I was probably drunk at the time!”
Joyce sat by the stove chewing snuff, and every few moments he would lift the lid, and spit into it, and after hearing the scald of his spit, he would put the lid back on and then wipe his chin with his hand. They talked of Lonnie Sullivan—always putting boys to work, and how it was a shame at that, for now Rueben Sores was working in the woods for him. And that Lonnie went to Sara Robb’s mother to get his tea leaves read.
“Does he still?” Ian asked, proud to be away from all of these things. Proud that he had escaped when his two good friends, his blood brothers, had not. Proud that he would have nothing to do with Sullivan again.
“More now than ever,” Joyce said, almost gleefully. “He still thinks he should be rich—that is all he ever wanted! He believes he is thesmartest one on the river. You know that! All his conniving and cigar smoking, and looking up land deeds, and trying to find riverfront that is back-taxed. And that young one of Harold’s is here half the week—asking to help me out.” Here he laughed. “Annette is pretty, though—and don’t mind showing herself off!”
Ian said nothing. He felt hot and horrible. Even the mention of Annette caused him to feel a pang. Would he still kill for her? Gladly, he thought, and then cringed at the idea. He was well away from all of it. And now he was so temperate and so stingy that no one would want him, he decided. His whole life had been to scrimp and to save and to be alone. And right now that suited him just fine.
Then
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