All the King's Men - Robert Penn Warren [133]
Then the front door swung open and the wind off the cold sea whipped into the room like a great dog shaking itself and the fire leaped. It was Adam Stanton coming into that homey atmosphere. He had an armful of packages, for he had been down into the Landing to get our provisions.
“Hello,” he said over the packages, and smiled out of that wide, thin, firm mouth which in repose looked like a clean, well-healed surgical wound but which when he smiled–if he smiled–surprised you and made you feel warm.
“Look here,” I said quick, “way back yonder, any time, was Judge Irwin ever broke? Bad broke?”
“Why, no–I don’t know–” he began, his face shading.
Anne swung around to look at him, and then sharply at me. I thought for an instant she was about to say something. But she didn’t.
“Why, yes!” Adam said, standing there, still hugging the parcels. I had speared it up from the deep mud.
“Why, yes,” he repeated, with the pleased bright look on his face which people get when they dredge up any lost thing from the past, “yes, let me see–I was just a kid–about 1913 or 1914–I remember father saying something about it to Uncle John or somebody, before he remembered I was in the room–then the Judge was here and he and father–I thought they were having a row, their voices got so high–they were talking about money.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Welcome,” he said, with a slightly puzzled smile on his face, and moved to the couch to let the parcels cascade to the soft softness.
“Well,” Anne said, looking at me, “you might at least have the grace to tell him why you asked the question.”
“Sure,” I said. And I turned to Adam: “I wanted to find out for Governor Stark.”
“Politics,” he said, and the jaw closed like a trap.
“Yes, politics,” Anne said, smiling a little sourly.
“Well, thank God, I don’t have to mess with ’em,” Adam said. “Nowadays, anyway.” But he said it almost lightly. Which surprised me. Then added, “What the hell if Stark knows about the Judge being broke. It was more than twenty years ago. And there’s no la against being broke. What the hell.”
“Yeah, what the hell,” Anne said, and looking at me, gave that not unsour smile.
“And what the hell are you doing?” Adam demanded laughing, and grabbed her by the arm and shook her. “Standing there when the grub needs cooking. Get the lead out, Sour-puss, and get going!” He shoved her toward the couch, where the packages were heaped.
She bent to scoop up a lot of packages, and he whacked her across the backsides and said, “Get going!” And laughed. And she laughed, too, with pleasure, and everything was forgotten, for it wasn’t often that Adam opened up and laughed a lot, and then he could be free and gay, and you knew you would have a wonderful time.
We had a wonderful time. While Anne cooked, and I fixed drinks and set the table, Adam snatched the sheet off the piano (they kept the thing in tune out there and it wasn’t a bad one even yet) and beat hell out of it till the house bulged and rocked. He even took three good highballs before dinner instead of one. Then we ate, and he beat on the piano some more, playing stuff like “Roses Are Blooming in Picardy” and “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” while Anne and I danced and cavorted, or he would mush it up and Anne would hum in my ear and we would sway sweet and slow like young poplars in the slightest breeze. Then he jump up from the piano bench and whistling “Beautiful Lady,” snatched her out of my arms and swung her wide in a barrel-house waltz while she leaned back on his arm with her head back and eyes closed for a swoon, and with right arm outstretched, held delicately the hem of her fluttering skirt.
But Adam was a good dancer, even clowning. It was because he was a natural, for he ever got any practice any more. And never had taken his share. Not of anything except work. And he could have had them crawling to him and asking for it. And once