The Orphan by Robert Stallman Read Free Book Online Page A

“Workin’ fer the fat farmer. You know the farmers making money outta this depression. They the ones doing all right. Nobody makin’ any money but the farmers and the pol’ticians now.”
    “That’s the god’s truth,” says the short man in the ragged suit coat, the one who is usually silent. “Groceries comin’ up outta the ground.”
    “Farmers ain’t so rich,” Tommy says. “I got an uncle’s a farmer, and he ...”
    “Tenant farmer,” the short man says.
    Tommy whines his voice when speaking to the short man. “He ain’t. He’s got forty acres of muckland, and he ain’t rich. He works his ass off.”
    “Well, that muss be what happened to you, punk,” says Gus, taking a long stride and kicking at Tommy’s rear. “No more ass than a sandhill crane.”
    “Lay off a him, Gus,” the short man named Rusty says very low and menacing.
    “Punk,” Gus says, but he stumbles across the rails to the other side of the track.
    “Gimme a drink of that dregs you got there, Gus,” Rusty says.
    “I’m savin’ the rest for my nightcap,” Gus says. “My money bought it, and I’ve give it most away already to you thirsty bastards.”
    “You tight assed jack roller,” Rusty says, and he leaps over the tracks at Gus, knocking the bigger man sideways before he can get ready.
    They scratch around clumsily in the cinders like two boys in a schoolyard, and I think they must have had another jug, for both are nearly falling down drunk. Then the short man gets an advantage and brings his knee up between Gus’s legs. Gus howls. and drops the jug, going down in the weeds at the edge of the embankment.
    “Gimme some too, Rusty,” the old man wails.
    Rusty tips up the jug, pouring much of the wine over his panting mouth instead of into it.
    “Shit, Rusty, yer wasting it all,” the old man is sobbing.
    Rusty holds the jug up until the moon shines clear through it, and then he tosses the jug away in my direction. I almost catch it. After Gus has gotten up silently and is limping on after the others, I pick up the jug and smell it. The fumes make my head widen suddenly. I stick my tongue into the jug and by tipping it up get a few drops. It is like golden fire, burning, beautiful to the tongue. I want it, and shake my head with baffled desire.
    I slip through the tall weeds to the concrete wing of the bridge footing and listen. The old one is coughing and coughing down by the creek. The others are sitting up close to the concrete arch.
    “You guys had any guts, we’d make a lot more than two bucks off a sack of soap.” The voice is the low, raspy one, Rusty’s.
    “I ain’t goin’ to get tossed in the cooler,” Tommy says. “None of my family ever been in jail.”
    “Yeah, I know,” Rusty says. “There’s about enough guts between the three of you to pull a dead cat off a manure pile.”
    “Whatta you gonta do, big mouth,” says the old man, trying to catch his breath. “You gonta walk up to one of these rich farmers with their big dogs and shotguns and sheriff’s bulls on every highway, and you gonta say, gimme some money?”
    Rusty staggers out from under the shadow of the bridge and stands half in the moonlight urinating out into the weeds. His body wavers slowly back and forth as if he were under water, moving with a slow current.
    “Here’s your wine, Gus,” he says, his chin down in his coat. He tries to get the buttons on his pants closed, cannot make them work and finally gives it up. He staggers back into the shadow of the bridge.
    “How would you do it, yer so smart,” Gus says to him.
    “Same way you go for a handout,” Rusty says. “Only it’s a bigger handout, see?” I listen to his body lying back in the dirt. They are all settling down, curling up like homeless dogs to sleep.
    “Come along the lane, you know? The lady’s maybe out hanging clothes, the old man’s in the field with the hands. You make a pitch to do some odd jobs while the rest of us wait somewheres.” His