"This is Mr. Semper," Father said. He used his handshake to tug the big man forward. "He speaks English perfectly, don't you, Mr. Semper?"
Mr. Semper said "No," and whinnied and looked hopelessly at Mother.
I knew this man Semper. His was the face I had seen crossing the fields at midnight. He had been carrying the scarecrow's corpse in his arms. Now I noticed he had the scribble of a pale scar, like a signature, near his mouth. I was glad I had not seen the scar that night.
"See if you can find some beer, Mother. These gentlemen are thirsty."
Soon each man was gripping a bottle of beer. Mr. Semper put his jaw out and chewed the bottle cap off with his molars. The rest did exactly the same, gnawing theirs and plucking the caps off their tongues. They took shy slugs of beer and kept their eyes on Father.
"What have you got for me, brother?" Father said.
Balancing the machete on the flat of his hand, Mr. Semper said, "Dis."
"That's a beauty," Father said. He tried the blade with his thumb. "I could shave with that."
Mr. Semper broke into the rapid chatter of another language.
Father understood! He turned to us and said, "They're thanking us for the Worm Tub. Didn't I tell you they were civilized? See, they're real gentlemen." He said something to the men in their language.
Mr. Semper screamed a laugh. His gums were molded marvelously, like smooth wax around the roots of his teeth. He watched Father with fluidy lidded eyes, and when Father passed a bowl of peanuts around, Mr. Semper nodded and split open his lips to mutter his thanks.
The wonder to me was that this crowd of men was in our house at all. For months I had watched them silently crossing the fields, first planting, then, when the asparagus crop was ripe, bent over it and cutting. I was sure these were the men I had seen that night carrying torches in that scarecrow ceremony. The men had seemed savage, their house had frightened me with its stink, their faces had seemed swollen and cruel. But here they were, fifteen of the queerest men I had ever laid eyes on. Yet they did not look savage up close. They looked poor and obedient. The patches on their shirts matched the bruises on their faces, their hands were cracked from work, there was dust in their hair. Their big broken shoes made their shoulders slanty, and their ragged pants made them seem — not dangerous, as I had expected, but weak.
Father said, "They want to meet you."
He introduced us — the twins, Jerry, and me — and we shook hands all around. Their palms were splintery and damp, and their skin was scaly. They had yellow fingernails. Their hands were like chicken feet, and afterward my own hand smelled.
"I've taken the precaution of buying a good map," Father said, and unfolded it and flattened it under a lamp. The men jostled to look at it. "A map is as good as a book — better, really. I've been reading this one for months. I know everything I have to know. Look how the middle of it is blank — no roads, no towns, no names. America looked like that once!"
"Plenty water dere," Mr. Semper said, and traced the blue rivers with his finger.
The map showed a forehead of territory, a bulge of coastline with an empty interior. The blue veins of rivers, lowland green and mountain orange — no names, only bright colors. Father's finger was well suited for pointing at this map as he said "This is where we're headed," for the blunt blown-off finger was pointing at nothing but an outline of emptiness.
"Are you sure you don't want to come with us, brother?"
Mr. Semper showed his teeth, and his nostrils opened like a horse's.
"They'd rather stay here and face the music," Father said. "Ironic, isn't it? We're sort of trading places — swapping countries."
Mr. Semper laughed and clapped his hands and said, "You going far away!"
Father grinned at him. "I'm the vanishing American."
Black veins swelled beside Mr. Semper's eyes, straining the shiny skin like trapped worms, as he crouched beside us and one by one put his long arms around the twins, Jerry, and me.
"Dis fadder is a great man. He my fadder, too." Mr. Semper's grunts smelled damply of digested peanuts. "We, his childrens."
It seemed to me a ridiculous thing to say, but I remembered that Father had been kind to these men, because they were poor. This was Mr. Semper's way of saying thank you for the fire-driven icebox.
The rest of the men were silent. Father smiled at them and made passes with his hands. Then he mumbled something, and turned to Mother and said, "That's Spanish for 'Don't do anything I wouldn't do.'"
"Talk about leeway," Mother said.
When Mr. Semper had clasped Father's fingers and murmured into Father's face for the last time, and they were all whisking through the grass, Father raised the machete and slashed the air, using it like a pirate's cutlass.
"Allie, be careful," Mother said.
"I'm raring to go!"
"Trading places," she said. "Those poor men."
"That's all they've got to trade — they don't have anything else. And that's just what we're doing. I would never have thought of it, if it wasn't for them. They inspired me."
There was movement outside. The men had paused under the trees.
"But it's a swindle," Father said. "I feel I'm leaving them to the vultures."
***
It was not until the next morning that I noticed the ribbons the men had tied to the branches. They were cheap red ribbons, but in the gray morning light they looked rich and festive, and gave a touch of splendor to the trees.
Soon I could not make out the ribbons or the house. Our homestead got smaller and slipped down, and the treetops followed it. Then everything was under the road.
Passing Polski's farmhouse. I recalled what he had told me. But the Mooney story confused me. Did his earbiting mean that he realized his father had been cruel to him, or did it prove that criminals don't change, and are still vicious on the gallows stairs? As for the rest of Polski's rant, about Father being a know-it-all and dangerous, I could not deliver that message. Father knew I was lying. But who are you trying to protect — him or me? The answer was neither I was trying to protect myself.
Now, nothing mattered. We were leaving Hatfield. Father had taken his Thunderbox and his Atom-smasher, most of his tools, some of his books, and all the things we had bought — the camping equipment. But the rest, the house and all its furnishings, we left — every stick of furniture, the dishes, the beds, the curtains, Mother's plants, the radio, the lights in the sockets, our clothes in the drawers, the cat asleep on the hydraulic chair. And we had left the door ajar. Was this Father's way of reassuring us? If so, it was a success. Except for some spare clothes in our knapsacks, we had not packed.
Father had woken and said, "Okay, let's go." He hurried through the house without glancing left or right. "We're getting out of here."
Only later it occurred to me that this was what real refugees did. They finished breakfast and fled, leaving the dishes in the sink and the front door half-open. There was more drama in that than if we had carefully wrapped all our belongings and emptied the house.
The house now bobbed up in miniature, between the fields a mile away. It had never looked more peaceful. It was our mousehole. And because all our things were in it, and the clock still ticking, I felt we could return at any time, and find it just as we had left it, and reclaim it.
So I did not mind going, but where were we headed? Because I did not know, the slowness of time made me sick. Once past Springfield, Father stuck to the highway, and cities and towns rose near the exits. We saw chimneys and churches and tall buildings. We got used to buses with dirty windows, and trucks whooshing past, the gusts of fumey wind and the black canvas flapping on their loads. The signs said Connecticut, then New York. We stopped for lunch at a Howard Johnson's. Father said, "Everything this place stands for, I despise," and would not eat. The fried clams didn't even have stomachs, he said, and were probably made out of string. "Cheeseburgers!" he yelled. Then New Jersey. Here were the tallest smokestacks and dingiest air I had ever seen, and the birds were small and oily. People going by in cars girls especially gaped at Jerry and me We yanked down the beaks of our baseball caps so they wouldn't stare I shut my eyes and prayed for us to arrive. Father's speed on this fast road made me think we were escaping, hurrying away from following thunder dropping down a long straight road past a landscape that was like a greasy sink. I had never seen flames like these spurting from chimneys We could hear the flub-flub of fiery hair wagging from the black pipes.