The Tin Can Tree

'Most do.'

'More than enough. Clara could have called.'

'I never turn a stranger from my door,' his father said. He let his head fall back against the rocker. 'Can you say that? Did you never let a man down?' He looked at James from under white, papery eyelids, waiting for an answer. Noone said anything. It seemed to James that his father had raised a banner in the room – the same one as in old days, long and dark and heavy. His lowered eyes were asking 'What can you do about it? Can you take my flag down?' and smiling faintly. Yet the lines around those eyes were deep and tired; his children sat limp, not bothering to answer. 'Ah me,' said the old man, and rolled his head to the other side and then back again and closed his eyes.

'This has nothing to do with me,' James said. 'It was his mother you made worry; it wasn't me.'

'Stop it,' Clara told him.

'Clara, are you against telephones?'

'You could have telephoned here,' his father said suddenly. He opened his eyes and looked over at James.

'I was hoping he hadn't got this far,' said James.

'I see. Have you got a telephone yet? I didn't think to ask.'

'No.'

'And money. Have you made a lot of money in your life?'

'No. But I get along.'

'Get along, do you.' He nodded to himself, several times. 'Changed your ways?'

'No.'

'No,' his father agreed, and relaxed against the back of the rocker again.

Mrs Pike and Simon came out of the dining room, Mrs Pike's hand still on Simon's shoulder. She said, 'We called collect. I'm sure you're relieved to hear that,' and then laughed a little and looked down at Simon. 'They're going to relay the message to Simon's daddy,' she said.

'Well, I'm glad you got through to them,' said Clara. 'Will you have a seat?'

'Oh, we couldn't. I'm sorry, I know I haven't said two words to you. Mr Green, it's nice to see you.' She advanced, smiling, heading straight for James's father and holding out one plump hand. He had to rise from his rocker to take it. She said, 'You're smaller-boned than James or Ansel. But you've got Ansel's fair skin.' The way she spoke of him made him seem like a child being compared to his parents, but he smiled graciously back.

'James gets his skin from his mother,' he told her.

'I guessed that.'

'He's back in this house now.'

Clara said, 'Mrs Pike, I wish you'd sit down and have some lemonade.'

'No, we really can't. I have to get Simon home – and I do thank you for taking care of him.' She said that directly to Clara, and Clara smiled at her with her narrow, gaunt smile. 'He don't usually run away, I don't want you thinking-'

'He's too young to be on his own,' said Mr Green.

'He's not on his own.'

'James used to run away.' He sat down in his rocker and looked up at her, staring out from under white arched eyebrows. Mrs Pike waited, and then when she saw that he wasn't going to continue she turned to the others.

'I thank my Lord we found him,' she said. 'I feel it's some kind of sign; I've been let off with a warning.' She squeezed Simon tight against her, and he smiled at the middle button of her dress and then broke away.

James stood up, preparing to leave, and Mrs Pike said, 'James, I thought we could go back by bus. You probably want to stay on a bit, now you're here.'

'No, I'll drive you back,' said James. He crossed over to his father and said, 'I guess I'll be going.'

'We still have your old bed,' said his father, but he seemed to know beforehand that James would say no. He rose again from the rocker, very slowly, and shook James's hand while he looked at the floor. It was a small, clean hand, that offered no resistance when James pressed it. To Mrs Pike, James's father said, 'It began when he was four. He ran everywhere.'

'What?' asked Mrs Pike.

'James.'

'Oh,' she said. 'Well, I'm glad to've met you, Mr Green -' and she shook his hand once more, holding her wrist slightly curved and offering just the tips of her fingers. 'I can't thank you enough for all you've done; any time you're in Larksvillc you just stop in on us.'

'We locked doors and tied knots,' said Mr Green, 'But he was like Houdini.'

Mrs Pike shook hands with Claude and Clara and made Simon do the same, and James followed behind them. He shook Claude's hand but Clara he kissed, feeling that she would prefer that. Her cheek was bonier than he had expected, and the skin dry. She would probably never get married, he thought. None of them would.

When they went out the door his father followed them, and stood on the porch in his slippers. 'Well, goodbye, James,' he said. 'You'll be back someday, I expect.' But his smile when he looked up at James was timid and uncertain, and James smiled back.

'Tell Madge hello for me,' he said.

'All right.'

They climbed into the pickup at the edge of the yard -Mrs Pike at the window, and Simon in the middle next to James. Simon said, 'Hey, James, can I steer?' but James was starting the engine up and didn't answer. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw his father still standing on the porch, his arms hugging his chest, his knees bagging, his small white head strained toward the truck. As long as James took getting started, his father remained there, and when he drove away Mr Green lifted one arm for a goodbye and stayed that way until the truck was out of sight. James drove staring straight ahead for a while, holding that picture of his father in his mind.

When they had turned into the centre of Caraway again, Mrs Pike said, 'It's a nice town, isn't it?'

'Some ways,' James said.

'Yes.' And she settled back, one hand patting the back of Simon's neck. Simon was restless and fidgety after all his adventures. He sat on the edge of the seat, kicking one foot nervously and gritting his jaw in that way he had when he'd had too much excitement. The passing streetlights gleamed briefly on his face and then left it dark again, and his eyes were strained wide against the night.

'Sit back in your seat,' James told him.

‘I am.'

'No, you're not. You'll go through the windshield.'

'Yes, Simon,' said his mother, and pulled him back.

Simon leaned against her side, still kicking that one foot.

'James,' he said, 'will we ever go back visiting there?'

'I don't know.'

'I better tell Ansel.'

‘Tell him what?'

'I bet New York is better any day.'

'Well, maybe so,' James said.

'Those earrings were just teeny gold wires, you know? And there weren't no feather hats.'

'Well, that was just one summer they had those,' James said. 'Some kind of free sample.'

'Why didn't he tell me that?'

'I don't know.'

'Why did he say it was all year every year?'

'Go to sleep,' said James. 'I don't know.'

15

Joan arrived at the Pikes' house in Mr Carleton's taxi, rattling over the gravel road in pitch dark with the taxi's one headlight making a swerving yellow shaft in front of them. Her suitcases were on the back seat, where they bounced around at every bump in the road, and she sat up front with Mr Carleton but she didn't talk to him. Twice he tried to begin a conversation. He started off the first time with, 'Well, now. Well, now. I didn't know you were even gone, Miss Joan.' And when she didn't answer that, except for a single motion of her head that might have been a nod, he rode on in silence for a while and then tried again. 'Wherever you were,' he said, 'I sure hope the weather was good.' But Joan's face was turned away from him, and she went on looking out the window without even changing expression.

When they turned into the Pikes' yard Joan sat up and opened her straw handbag. She didn't look toward the house. Mr Carleton said, 'Some kind of party?' and then she heard the noises that were floating from Ansel's window. Music, and voices, and someone laughing. The light from that window flooded the yard, fading out the pale yellow of the taxi's headlight. The rest of the house was dark. 'I don't know,' she said, and reached forward to hand him his money. 'Don't worry about my bags; I'll take them in.'