Rainbow's End by James M. Cain

her?”
    â€œMom—I thought you knew.”
    â€œDavid, call me Mother.”
    â€œI’d love to. I want to. Mother.” And then, after holding her close: “Mother, who is my father?”
    â€œHe’ll tell you.”
    â€œYes, but when?”
    â€œAs soon as he’s free to speak. It won’t be long—but don’t ask me to say more, David. If I do, I may find myself hoping—and I mustn’t, mustn’t, ever.”
    â€œYou mean that someone would die?”
    â€œYes, that’s what I mean.”
    â€œAnd when that happens, what?”
    â€œYour father and I can be married.”
    â€œAnd it’s going to be soon, you say?”
    â€œI didn’t say! Don’t ask me.”
    â€œYou said it wouldn’t be long.”
    â€œThen all right, I said that. I didn’t say how long is long.”
    Then at last she turned to Jill and took her face in both hands. She kissed her, then picked up the mink coat, which she had thrown over a chair, put it on, and pulled it around her. Then she opened the door and went out. We both followed, and I put her into her car. She started it, pulled ahead, and swung around the circle in front of the house. As she made the turn, where the circle joined on to the lane, she blew kisses, one to me, one to Jill.
    â€œWhat did I do?” asked Jill. “I must have done something to change her.”
    â€œShe didn’t change. She blew you a kiss, didn’t she?”
    â€œShe changed from warm to ice.”
    â€œYou said you were telling the officers, so they could find Mom.”
    â€œWell? Why shouldn’t I?”
    â€œOK, but don’t ask any help of me.”
    â€œHer, we’re talking about.”
    â€œOr her .”
    â€œI’m going nuts. Why not?”
    â€œI’ve tried to explain to you. I’m mountain. She’s mountain. Mom’s her kin, that’s all.”
    â€œDidn’t you hear what she said? She doesn’t respect her.”
    â€œYou can say that again.”
    â€œAnd yet, on account of this Mom being kin, she’d block me off from making her give back what’s mine?”
    â€œI didn’t notice any blocking.”
    â€œFor Christ’s sake, I’m going nuts.”
    â€œDon’t ask her to help.”
    â€œOr you to help?”
    â€œI told you, she and I have been close.”
    â€œI have to think this over.”
    She went in the house and sat down off by herself. I sat down and put my arm around her. But she got up, put on her coat, and went out.

13
    S HE WAS GONE FOR some time. I didn’t peep, except to keep track that she hadn’t gone off, that her car was still in the driveway. But then I went out to look: she wasn’t there. I went around the house, wondering where she could be, and took a chance on the river. Sure enough, there she was. But she hardly turned around when I came. “Dave,” she whispered, “it talks.”
    â€œYou have to be putting me on.”
    We both kept still to listen. Each time they’d come in clear, the sounds of the river at night, which you don’t hear by daylight, how it whispers and burbles and gurgles, and tinkles and tankles and glugs, and sometimes lets go with a roar. She stood drawing deep breaths and listening. “It’s beautiful, just beautiful,” she murmured. Then she jumped at the sound of a slap. “What was that?” she asked.
    â€œFish jumping, was all.”
    â€œSounded big.”
    â€œWell, why not? Flood time’s food time, for him. Plenty to eat, so he grows.”
    â€œI never even thought of fish while I was out there—I mean in it. I was, you know.”
    â€œWell, they thought of you. They were looking right at you, probably.”
    â€œCould we catch one and have him for supper?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œDo you have a pole?”
    â€œHandline, good enough.”
    â€œAw, I forgot, we have