Free The Collected Stories of William Humphrey by William Humphrey Page A

feel they were being pretty nice to do all they had and that Dan might be decent enough to be grateful. He wasn’t. They were getting their money’s worth; they hadn’t had anybody they could take as much out on in a long time. He had given them something more in common than they could ever have agreed upon amongst them. The bunch of them got along together now like fingers in a mitten.
    At first Laura was always prophesying rain. If her papa was kept home then Dan wouldn’t feel quite so bad that he wasn’t out working. When it did rain she would pray for it to clear and get the old man back to the fields and out of the house where he couldn’t torment Dan. The old man had the same problem rain or shine: Ought he to let them know how well the crops were coming for him—compared to some he could mention—or let them know what a lean winter they were in for around his table? He chose always to look worn to a frazzle; whichever way it turned out he had done his share and more.
    Dan didn’t care whether it rained or shone and he could see before long that Laura wasn’t so worried one way or the other any more. Even with all she had to put up with from her mama, complaining about her cooking and the way she cleaned house and the grease she left around the sink and the way Harold dirtied his overalls so fast, with all that, Laura couldn’t forget that she wasn’t out forking hay or shaking out sods, couldn’t feel any other way except that that was over now and she had come back home.
    On the morning he was killed Dan woke earlier, struck with the thought he’d sooner spend the day with the old man than with the women. He went out to work a month before the date the doctor had set. He had expected it, but still it hurt when Laura didn’t even try to stop him. She had seen him limp for so long she’d forgot there was a time when he didn’t, couldn’t believe a time might ever come when he wouldn’t. He’d gone out too early before and the leg hadn’t healed but it probably wouldn’t have, anyway, and if it had something else as bad would have happened, if not worse.
    How funny it was, Dan thought, that he didn’t mind the old man now. It was clear that the old man despised him, and so it was no surprise to see that cowbell Laura had made him carry on Johnson’s place hung under the mower that the old man meant for him to use. What did surprise Dan was that he didn’t care. The old man stood by itching for a quarrel over it; Dan didn’t have the energy.
    He started in at one corner of the field and mowed three laps around. The steady clatter of the machine soothed him. With some surprise he had about decided that nothing out of the way was likely to happen when, near the end of his fourth time around, the mower bumped over a rock and he was thrown in front of the blade. The pointed runners held him spitted and the mules, taking fright, dragged him fifty feet before the spikes tore out and rolled over him.
    He fought hard against coming to and half-conscious he knew he was badly hurt. He thought of what it was going to be like, dragging in bloody from head to toe, and he said to himself: Why can’t I really have a good one once and for all and get it over with? He opened his eyes and looked at himself in disgust. Now, he thought, I’m going to catch hell sure enough. He started poking around in him for the strength to get up, but a wave of pain and sadness bent his will like the wind coming over the grass. If only he could just lie there and not have to go. But supposing they found him like this—that would be worse than if he dragged himself in. He tried to rise. But the grass came up cool and crisp, rustling like a fresh bedsheet, and tucked him in. What shall I dream about, he asked, and heard himself answer: You’re already dreaming.
    Then a voice like Mr. Johnson’s said, “Are you going to lie there all