The very sight of the postmark sent a heavy lump to his chest. If he didn’t open it? If he dropped it into the gray ashes by accident, and waited until Harvey had burned it in the evening? Busy with the thought, he moved his hand up and down balancing it, weighing it. To open it would mean the day lost, with all his work ruined. He would read it and then flee from the close little room, searching madly all over town for someone—anyone—who knew nothing about Minnesota or families: someone rich and lazy and lucky and dumb; some stranger. Burn it; burn the next one and the next and the next. Burn it.
With a despairing glance at his mountain, a farewell glance, he tore it open and found a check for ten dollars, blotted a little and somehow nibbled at the edges. The letter was on blue-lined paper. From the little square sheets rose an almost visible feeling, like smoke; the room was steeped in Teddy’s guilt. And yet it was a nice letter.
“Dear Teddy,” his mother had written, innocently enough, at the old brown desk in the front room. “I don’t want to scold you in this letter because I know it is hard to find time to write when you are getting started, I thought that I would have to tell you that your father gets worried. I tell him not to be foolish as I am sure if anything had happened we would be notified right away. He worries about everything these days because business is not very good. We are very well except for a cold that has run through the family, I hope you are taking care of yourself, I can’t help thinking that you are too young to be so far away. Tommy’s report from school is a little better than it has been especially on spelling. There is not much news, the Dibbles are having a hard time with Kenneth, I am afraid he is a wild boy. Tommy saw him Saturday night with that girl at the drug store and they had been drinking. I am so sorry for Mrs. Dibble, I am sure if a son of mine acted like that it would kill your father. He was saying this morning he could probably speak to Mr. Larsen about your working in the store here, I tell him it is more likely the country that is the attraction out there, the picture you sent is very pretty. Please write even a postcard, your father worries. I enclose something to help out, you don’t need to mention it when you write because your father is worried about the business.
Lovingly, your
Mother.”
The Madden boy put the letter down on the table and walked around the room, thinking. The first few minutes were always the hardest. He reasoned with himself frantically, trying to get rid of that lump in his chest. He hated himself; more than that he hated his mother. It was not right to make him feel so guilty. It was not right. People don’t stay home. His father had not stayed home. He had run away to Minnesota; if he happened to marry and have children, why should they stay home?
Oh, forget it, forget it. There was the check, now. A boy in a book would send it back with interest. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t just send it back like that and hurt her feelings. The only frank, honest, brave thing to do was to keep it, in the face of all families, all feelings, all outworn nests and prisons. This was his city, these his mountains. Somewhere in America there was a woman who had borne him, but everywhere there were children being born. What about it? He asked his mother that. What about it? Oh, damn.
Someone threw a rock against the door. Furiously he tore it open and looked out.
“Oh,” he said, “it’s you. Come in.”
Blake Lennard, it was, sitting on a norse and wearing a huge Stetson. He looked light-hearted and absurd, but shy. He started to climb down.