Adam smiled at him when he carried in the steaming pot. Adam sniffed and said, “That’s a smell could raise me out of a concrete grave.”

“It boiled over,” said Cal.

“It has to boil over to taste good,” Adam said. “I wonder where Lee went.”

“Maybe in his room. Shall I look?”

“No. He’d have answered.”

“Sir, when I finish school, will you let me run the ranch?”

“You’re planning early. How about Aron?”

“He wants to go to college. Don’t tell him I told you. Let him tell you, and you be surprised.”

“Why, that’s fine,” said Adam. “But don’t you want to go to college too?”

“I bet I could make money on the ranch—enough to pay Aron’s way through college.”

Adam sipped his coffee. “That’s a generous thing,” he said. “I don’t know whether I ought to tell you this but—well, when I asked you earlier what kind of boy Aron was, you defended him so badly I thought you might dislike him or even hate him.”

“I have hated him,” Cal said vehemently. “And I’ve hurt him too. But, sir, can I tell you something? I don’t hate him now. I won’t ever hate him again. I don’t think I will hate anyone, not even my mother—” He stopped, astonished at his slip, and his mind froze up tight and helpless.

Adam looked straight ahead. He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. Finally he said quietly, “You know about your mother.” It was not a question.

“Yes—yes, sir.”

“All about her?”

“Yes, sir.”

Adam leaned back in his chair. “Does Aron know?”

“Oh, no! No—no, sir. He doesn’t know.”

“Why do you say it that way?”

“I wouldn’t dare to tell him.”

“Why not?”

Cal said brokenly, “I don’t think he could stand it. He hasn’t enough badness in him to stand it.” He wanted to continue, “—any more than you could, sir,” but he left the last unsaid.

Adam’s face looked weary. He moved his head from side to side. “Cal, listen to me. Do you think there’s any chance of keeping Aron from knowing? Think carefully.”

Cal said, “He doesn’t go near places like that. He’s not like me.”

“Suppose someone told him?”

“I don’t think he would believe it, sir. I think he would lick whoever told him and think it was a lie.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Yes, sir. I had to know.” And Cal went on excitedly, “If he went away to college and never lived in this town again—”

Adam nodded. “Yes. That might be. But he has two more years here.”

“Maybe I could make him hurry it up and finish in one year. He’s smart.”

“But you’re smarter?”

“A different kind of smart,” said Cal.

Adam seemed to grow until he filled one side of the room. His face was stern and his blue eyes sharp and penetrating. “Cal!” he said harshly.

“Sir?”

“I trust you, son,” said Adam.

2

Adam’s recognition brought a ferment of happiness to Cal. He walked on the balls of his feet. He smiled more often than he frowned, and the secret darkness was seldom on him.

Lee, noticing the change in him, asked quietly, “You haven’t found a girl, have you?”

“Girl? No. Who wants a girl?”

“Everybody,” said Lee.

And Lee asked Adam, “Do you know what’s got into Cal?”

Adam said, “He knows about her.”

“Does he?” Lee stayed out of trouble. “Well, you remember I thought you should have told them.”

“I didn’t tell him. He knew.”

“What do you think of that!” said Lee. “But that’s not information to make a boy hum when he studies and play catch with his cap when he walks. How about Aron?”

“I’m afraid of that,” said Adam. “I don’t think I want him to know.”

“It might be too late.”

“I might have a talk with Aron. Kind of feel around.”

Lee considered. “Something’s happened to you too.”

“Has it? I guess it has,” said Adam.

But humming and sailing his cap, driving quickly through his schoolwork, were only the smallest of Cal’s activities. In his new joy he appointed himself guardian of his father’s content. It was true what he had said about not feeling hatred for his mother. But that did not change the fact that she had been the instrument of Adam’s hurt and shame. Cal reasoned that what she could do before, she could do again. He set himself to learn all he could about her. A known enemy is less dangerous, less able to surprise.

At night he was drawn to the house across the tracks. Sometimes in the afternoon he lay hidden in the tall weeds across the street, watching the place. He saw the girls come out, dressed somberly, even severely. They left the house always in pairs, and Cal followed them with his eyes to the corner of Castroville Street, where they turned left toward Main Street. He discovered that if you didn’t know where they had come from you couldn’t tell what they were. But he was not waiting for the girls to come out. He wanted to see his mother in the light of day. He found that Kate emerged every Monday at one-thirty.