Free Sometimes a Great Notion by Ken Kesey Page A

wondering and had definitely made up her mind to leave. She was already making secret plans for departure when she discovered that somehow, in some dark dream, something had slipped up and got to her and she would have to postpone her trip a few months . . . just a few more months . . . then she would be gone, gone, gone, and would at least have some little something to show for her sojourn in the north woods. (“I thought Henry would be able to fill that hollow. Then I thought the child would . . .”)
    So Hank got himself a little brother and Henry got a second son. The old man, busy with expanding his logging operations, took no special notice of the blessed event other than christening the boy Leland Stanford Stamper in what he considered a favor to his young wife; he stomped into her room in Wakonda, calk boots and all, trailing sawdust, mud, and the stink of machine oil, and announced, “Little honey, I intend to let you call that boy there after that school you’re forever mooning about quittin’. How does that strike you?”
    With impact enough, apparently, to stun any objection she might have had to the name, because her only reaction was a feeble nod. Henry nodded back and stomped proudly from the room.
    That was his only gesture of acknowledgment. The twelve-year-old Hank, busy riffling through the magazines in the waiting room, seemed determined to dismiss the birth completely.
    “You want to run in to take a quick look at your little brother?”
    “He ain’t my little brother.”
    “Well, don’t you imagine you ought to leastways say something to the new mother?”
    “She ain’t never said nothing to me.” (Which was about the truth. Because she hadn’t said more than hello and good-by until that day when she comes in on my birthday. It’s late spring; I’m racked up in bed with a broken tooth I got from trying to field a bad hop with my mush, and my head’s about to blow to pieces from the pain of it. She looks quick at me, then away, walks across the room and flutters there against the window like a bird. She’s wearing yellow and her hair’s long and blue-black. She’s got in her hand a story book she’s been reading to the kid. He’s three or four at the time. I hear him fussing next door. She stands there at the window, fluttering around like, waiting for me to say something about her being lonely, I guess. But I don’t say anything. Then her eyes light on that plaque nailed up there beside the bed. . . .)
    In the years that followed Henry paid little attention to this second son. Where he had insisted on raising his firstborn to be as strong and self-sufficient as himself, he was content to let this second child—a large-eyed kid with his mother’s pale skin and a look like his veins ran skim milk—spend his youth alone in a room next to his mother’s, doing what-the-hell-ever it was that that sort of kid does alone in his room all day. (She looks at the plaque for a long time, twisting that book in her hands, then looks down at me. I see she’s commencing to cry. . . .)
    The two boys were twelve years apart and Henry saw no reason to try to bring them together. What was the sense? When the boy Lee was five and had his drippy nose in a book of nursery rhymes, Hank was seventeen and he and Ben’s boy, Joe, were busy running that second-hand Henderson motorcycle into every ditch between the Snag in Wakonda and the Melody Ranch Dance Hall over in Eugene.
    “Brothers? I mean, what’s the sense? Why push it? Hank’s got Joe Ben ifn he needs a brother; they always been like ham an’ eggs and Joe’s at the house most of the time anyhow, what with his daddy always hellin’ around the country. An’ little Leland Stanford, he’s got his mama. . . .”
    “But who,” the loafers matching pennies in the Snag wondered, “has little Leland Stanford’s mama got?” The sweet little spooky thing, living the best years of her life over there in that bear den across the river with an old