The Tin Can Tree

When Simon came downstairs again he had changed into his boots; he was trying to make the floor shake when he walked. 'Daddy's coming and Mama ain't,' he said. 'She ain't hungry.'

'Did you ask if she wants coffee?'

'She didn't give me a chance. She said go on and let her rest.'

'Well, run up again and ask her.'

'No, sir,' Simon said. He sat down firmly in one of the chairs.

'Just run up, Simon -'

'I won't do it,' he said.

Joan thought a minute, and then she said, 'Well, all right.' She reached out to smooth his hair down and for a minute he let her, but just barely, and then shrugged her hand away.

'Daddy wants just a Co-Cola,' he told her.

'He's got to have more than that.'

'No. He said – Hey, Joan.'

'What.'

'I got an idea.'

'All right.'

'Why not you and me go out and eat. You like that?'

'We can't,' Joan said.

'We could go to that place with the chicken.'

'We have to stay home, Simon.'

'I would pay for it.'

'No,' Joan said, and she touched one upright piece of his hair again. 'Are you the one that doesn't like using other people's forks? That makes twice in two days you've had that idea.'

'Well, anyway,' said Simon. But he must have been expecting her to say no; he sat back quietly and began drumming his fingers on the table. Above them was the sound of Mr Pike's footsteps, crossing the hall and beginning to descend the stairs, and Joan remembered why she was in the kitchen and went back to the refrigerator. She opened the door and stared inside, at shelves packed tightly with other people's casseroles. At the kitchen doorway her uncle said, 'I only want a Coke, Joan,' and came to stand beside her, bending down to peer at the lower shelves.

'You have to eat something solid,' Joan told him.

'I can't. He straightened up and rubbed his forehead. He was a lean man, all bones and tough brown skin. Ordinarily he did construction work, but for the month of July he had been laid off and was spending his time the way Joan did, helping Mr Terry get his tobacco in. Years of working outdoors had made his face look stained with walnut juice, and his eyes were squinted from force of habit even when he wasn't in the sun. They were narrow brown slits in his face, the same shade as Simon's, and they were directed now at Joan while he waited for her to speak.

'There's a chicken salad here from Mrs Belts,' said Joan.

'No, thank you.'

'The kind you like, with pimento.'

'No.'

'Now, eat a little something,' she said. 'I could be perking coffee for you to take Aunt Lou, if you'd wait a minute.'

'Oh, well, 'he said.

He sat down awkwardly, across from Simon, giving his Sunday pants a jerk at each knee to save the crease. 'How you been getting along?' he asked Simon.

'Okay.'

'Not giving Joan any trouble.'

'No, sir.'

'He's been just fine,' said Joan. She set the salad out and laid three plates on the table. Her uncle studied his own plate seriously, hunching his shoulders over it and working his hands together.

'I'm glad to hear it,' he said finally. When Joan looked over at him he said, 'About Simon, I mean. James and Ansel feed you okay, boy?'

'No, sir.'

'Well. Joan, Dr Kill left a prescription for your aunt but I don't see how I can go into town and leave her. I wonder, would you mind too much if-'

'I'll see to it after we eat,' Joan said.

He accepted his chicken salad wordlessly, keeping his eyes on Joan's hands as she dished his share out. When she had passed on to the next plate, he said, 'Thank you,' and the words came out hoarse so that he had to clear his throat. 'Thank you,' he said again. Even then his voice was muffled-sounding. In the last three days he had been talking steadily, always mumbling something into Mrs Pike's ear to keep her going. It was probably the most he had talked in a lifetime. Ordinarily he sat quiet and listened, with something like awe, while his wife rattled on; he seemed perpetually surprised and a little proud that she should have so much to say.

When Joan had sat down herself, after filling the others' plates and passing out forks, she said, 'Eat, now.' She looked at the other two, but neither of them picked up his fork. 'Come on,' she said, and then Simon sighed and tucked his paper napkin into his collar with a rustling sound.

'This feels like Sunday-night supper,' he said.

'It does.'

'Not like afternoon. Why're we eating in the afternoon? What the day feels like, is Wednesday.'

'Wednesday?'

'Feels like Wednesday.'

'Why does it feel like-?'

'She blames it on herself,' said Mr Pike.

'What?'

'It breaks my heart. She keeps saying how she was hemming Miss Brook's basic black at the time – I never have liked that Miss Brook – and Janie Rose comes up and says, "Mama," she says, "I'm going off to -"and Lou just never did hear where. Miss Brook was going on about her bunions. "Lou," I told her, I said, "Lou, I don't think that would have -"but Lou says that's how it come to happen. She never let Janie Rose play with those Marsh girls. Never would have let her go, if she had known. But she was-'

'Never let her ride no tractors, either,' said Simon. 'Shakes a girl's insides all up.'

'Hush,' Joan told him. 'Both of you. There's not even a dent made in that chicken salad.'

Her uncle picked his fork up and then leaned across the table toward her. 'She blames herself,' he said.

'I know.'

'She keeps-'

'Eat, Uncle Roy.'

He began eating. His fork made steady little clinking sounds on the plate, and he chewed rapidly with the crunchy sound of celery filling the silence. When he was done, Joan put another spoonful of salad on his plate and he kept on without pause, never looking up, making his way doggedly through the heap of food. Simon stopped eating and stared at him, until Joan gave his wrist a tap with her finger. Then he started eating again, but he kept his eyes on his father. When Mr Pike reached for the bowl and dished himself another helping, still crunching on his last mouthful, chewing without breathing, like a thirsty man drinking water, Simon looked over at Joan with his eyes round above a forkful of food and she frowned at him and cleared her throat.