Heed the Thunder by Jim Thompson Read Free Book Online Page A

the liquid slopped over onto the dresser. She mopped at it hastily with a flour-sack washcloth.
    She looked around, sullen and red-faced, as the portieres at the doorway rustled.
    “What’s the matter, Ma?” said Grant Fargo.
    “Nothing,” snapped Mrs. Fargo.
    Grant glanced from the jar to the dresser to his mother’s hair, and immediately came to the correct conclusion. With remarkable self-control he managed to keep from laughing.
    “Well, I’ll be doggoned!” he said sympathetically. “Now who would do a thing like that?”
    “You know who,” said Mrs. Fargo.
    “But why would he do a thing like that?”
    “Oh, why does he do anything?” said his mother peevishly.
    Grant knew the why of the affair. Once a week the bedroom china of the household was put to soak in strong soapsuds; and Bobbie, he knew, under certain motivations, walked in his sleep. One night, when he had come in late, he had found the boy at the back door, drowsily attempting to get out. Another time he had discovered him trying to crawl out a window, hermetically sealed against the night air. Being Grant, of course, he had done nothing to assist Bobbie; and, consequently, such a sudden and severe blight had stricken the potted plants of the living room that they had had to be thrown out.
    Grant was on the point of mentioning this further perfidy to his mother when he recalled the purpose of his visit. She was in a bad enough humor already. He had best tell her some other time.
    “Well, that doggone ornery kid!” he said warmly. “I’m sure sorry, Ma.”
    “Some—sometimes I don’t know what I’m going to do, Grant!”
    “I know. It’s too bad. But it really won’t hurt anything, Ma. Why, there’s some people over in Spain that wash their teeth in it!”
    “Why—why, do tell!” said Mrs. Fargo, shocked and yet proud of her son’s erudition.
    “It’s a fact,” said Grant carelessly. “I’ll tell you what, Ma. I’ll slip in and get you a little of my bay rum—”
    “Oh, no! I wouldn’t dare to, Grant!”
    “Well, what about some vanilla? Want me to get you the vanilla bottle?”
    “Do you think it’d be all right? Going to church, I mean?”
    “Oh, sure,” said Grant. “Why, when I went to church in Houston, the minister’s wife used vanilla!”
    He went into the kitchen, the pantry, and returned with the pint bottle of vanilla, sniffing appreciatively while Mrs. Fargo timidly anointed her locks. She wore her hair on top of her head in a slightly pyramided coil which, according to her husband, resembled a cow chip. Mrs. Fargo supposed that it did, too, but there was no other way she could wear it. Her dress was of black satin with a white lace collar which she had tatted for herself. The material was hardly worn at all, but it had become a little tight in the last ten years. Her shoes were a high-grade black kid, and had cost her a dollar and seventy-five cents. She did not wear them around the house, shuffling around instead in a discarded pair of her husband’s gaiters, and they were practically as good as the day she had bought them with the dress. Her hat was built of a twenty-five-cent wire frame and the material from a long discarded blouse. She draped a knitted shawl around her shoulders, for the weather was still not cold, and she did not own a coat—a good coat. She did not go out during the winter. She could not walk into town, and, for neighborhood visiting, it was good enough to wrap up in a comforter. Sometimes, some of Sherman’s family would offer her a ride to town. But they were always in a hurry, and she could not drop things and go on a moment’s notice. Anyway, it didn’t happen very often. Not often enough to make a good coat anything but an extravagance. Anything she needed from town the others could bring for her. Anything that happened they could tell her about. She did not need to go any place during the winter.
    Grant flattered her while she completed her toilette, twitching and