Lee sighed and released his wrist. “Cal”—he spoke patiently—“listen to me. Adam’s brain centers are affected. Anything you see in his eyes may be pressure on that part of his brain which governs his seeing. Don’t you remember?—he couldn’t read. That wasn’t his eyes—that was pressure. You don’t know he accused you. You don’t know that.”

“He accused me. I know it. He said I’m a murderer.”

“Then he will forgive you. I promise.”

The nurse stood in the doorway. “What are you promising, Charley? You promised me a cup of coffee.”

“I’ll make it now. How is he?”

“Sleeping like a baby. Have you got anything to read in this house?”

“What would you like?”

“Something to take my mind off my feet.”

“I’ll bring the coffee to you. I’ve got some dirty stories written by a French queen. They might be too—”

“You bring ’em with the coffee,” she said. “Why don’t you get some shuteye, sonny? Me and Charley’ll hold the fort. Don’t forget the book, Charley.”

Lee set the percolator on the gas jet. He came to the table and said, “Cal!”

“What do you want?”

“Go to Abra.”

[2]

Cal stood on the neat porch and kept his finger on the bell until the harsh overlight flashed on and the night bolt rasped and Mrs. Bacon looked out. “I want to see Abra,” Cal said.

Her mouth dropped open in amazement. “You want what?”

“I want to see Abra.”

“You can’t. Abra’s gone to her room. Go away.”

Cal shouted, “I tell you I want to see Abra.”

“You go away or I’ll call the police.”

Mr. Bacon called, “What is it? Who is it?”

“Never you mind—go back to bed. You aren’t well. I’ll handle this.”

She turned back to Cal. “Now you get off the porch. And if you ring the bell again I’ll phone the police. Now, get!” The door slammed, the bolt scraped, and the hard overlight went off.

Cal stood smiling in the dark for he thought of Tom Meek lumbering up, saying, “Hello, Cal. What you up to?”

Mrs. Bacon shouted from inside. “I see you. Go on now! Get off the porch!”

He walked slowly down the walk and turned toward home, and he hadn’t gone a block before Abra caught up with him. She was panting from her run. “Got out the back way,” she said.

“They’ll find you gone.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

Cal said, “Abra, I’ve killed my brother and my father is paralyzed because of me.”

She took his arm and clung to it with both hands.

Cal said, “Didn’t you hear me?”

“I heard you.”

“Abra, my mother was a whore.”

“I know. You told me. My father is a thief.”

“I’ve got her blood, Abra. Don’t you understand?”

“I’ve got his,” she said.

They walked along in silence while he tried to rebalance himself. The wind was cold, and they quickened their steps to keep warm. They passed the last streetlight on the very edge of Salinas, and blackness lay ahead of them and the road was unpaved and sticky with black ’dobe mud.