Chapter 17 — Teaching Companion

What it asks It asks the student to look at the one harm in the chapter that no one blames. At the well rig the drill hits something “thirty feet down” that mangles the steel. Samuel guesses a meteorite and sees it fall “long thousand centuries ago” into “an inland sea”: “a tree of blinding light,” a water spout, a sound that staggers the ears, and then “the killed fish coming up, showing silver in the starlight, and the crying birds would come to eat them.” He ends: “It’s a lonely, lovely thing to think about, isn’t it?” That same afternoon he is bitten in the bedroom, and that night, when Rabbit asks after the mother, he turns the talk to the star. The student decides how a picture of killing can be lovely to him. It feeds the hinge: the star does harm with no will behind it, and no one would call it a monster; the hinge asks what that word means when we cannot know the will behind a harm. The card must not make the star a symbol the chapter names; the narrator never ties it to Cathy.

One reading

Because a star wants nothing. It falls, the fish die, and there is no one to blame. With no will behind it, the harm is only part of a great sight: the light, the steam, the sound, and the birds that come after. Samuel can wonder at it the way he wonders at everything; his sons love it “when their father’s mind went free.”

• It’s a lonely, lovely thing to think about, isn’t it?
• The Hamilton children loved it when their father’s mind went free.

Another reading

Because it is far away. It happened “long thousand centuries ago,” and he paints it for his sons as a picture. Close up, the same man feels harm at once: that afternoon he looks at Cathy “with fear,” and over coffee he feels “a dreadfulness coming.” Lovely is a word for harm seen from a great distance, with no one near enough to be hurt.

• It must have been long thousand centuries ago,
• He looked at her with fear.

Listen for

• Notices that no one in the scene blames the star, though fish die in Samuel’s picture.
• Hears the distance in “long thousand centuries ago” and weighs it against the bedroom that same afternoon.
• Notices that on the night of the bite Samuel turns Rabbit’s talk to the star, though he “didn’t know why he changed the subject,” and, asked about his hand, says, “I almost said on a shooting star.”
• Keeps to the page: the narrator never ties the star to Cathy; any link is the reader’s to make.

If stuck

• What does Samuel think the drill has hit?
• What happens to the fish and the birds in his picture?
• Can something do harm and still not be bad?

A strong answer A strong response says how the picture can be lovely and stays with it. One reader says the star wants nothing: it falls, the fish die, and with no will behind the harm there is nothing to blame, only a sight to wonder at. Another says the loveliness comes from distance: it happened “long thousand centuries ago,” and the same man, close to harm that afternoon, looks at Cathy “with fear.” The best answers notice that the chapter sets a harm no one blames beside harms everyone will want to blame, and leave it to the reader to say whether a will is what makes the difference.

What it asks It asks the student to set three faces side by side. When Samuel first looks closely he sees “true hatred in her eyes, unforgiving, murderous hatred.” When he threatens to go, “She made a great effort,” and her face becomes “young and innocent and bravely hurt,” “like one magic-lantern slide taking the place of another.” Between pains “the hatefulness was back in her face.” After the bite “her face was calm again and young and innocent,” and when he names the collie he sees “the hatred look out of her eyes for a second and then retreat.” After the twins are born comes a third face: “It was stony, expressionless. At her throat the pulse fluttered visibly.” She “inspected him coldly and without interest.” The student decides whether this last face is nearer the truth of her than the hatred or the innocence. It feeds the hinge: if no face can be trusted, the reader is left with what she does, and the narrator has said “we cannot know what she wanted.” The card must not say why she bites or what she wants, and must not settle which face is real.

One reading

Yes. The innocent face costs her “a great effort,” and the hatred is pushed back each time it shows. The stony face comes when the work is done and she no longer needs Samuel. Nothing is being put on or held down: she looks at him coldly and without interest. The face that costs her nothing may be the one closest to her.

• She made a great effort.
• She inspected him coldly and without interest.

Another reading

No. The hatred is nearer. It comes back on its own, between pains and after the bite, and has to be put away again; the innocent face is made, and the stony face may only be the hatred with nothing left to fight for. Samuel sees the real thing in the moment it slips out.

• After a few seconds her body relaxed and the hatefulness was back in her face.
• He saw the hatred look out of her eyes for a second and then retreat.

Listen for

• Puts the faces in order: hatred, the innocent face after “a great effort,” hatred between pains, innocence after the bite, then stone.
• Notices which face costs her effort and which come back on their own.
• Hears the pulse that “fluttered visibly” under the stony face: the body showing something the face does not.
• Keeps to the page: no reason for the bite beyond “It was the pain,” and no claim about what she wants.

If stuck

• What does Samuel see in Cathy’s eyes when he first looks closely?
• What does her face look like after the twins are born?
• Can a face with no feeling in it still tell you something?

A strong answer A strong response names all three faces and argues which, if any, is nearest the truth. One reader says the stony face: the innocent one costs “a great effort,” and once she no longer needs Samuel she looks at him “coldly and without interest,” putting nothing on. Another says the hatred: it returns on its own, between pains and after the bite, and must be pushed back each time. The best answers weigh a third answer, the narrator’s summer image of “a breathing doll” left “to conceal her absence,” and ask whether any face is more than a slide.

What it asks It asks the student to test a judge by her other verdict. Samuel sends for Liza because he trusts her over his own fears: “if Liza sees a ghost, it’s a ghost,” and he wants “a woman’s clear eyes.” He also tells Lee, “Do not, for God’s sake, tell her how it happened,” so she comes knowing nothing of the bite. Liza stays a week, uses Lee “like a slave since she didn’t quite believe in him,” and sits with Cathy “just enough” to find her “a sensible girl.” Home again, she says she “can find no real fault” with Cathy, “and yet I don’t like her very much. Maybe it’s that scar.” Then she reports her surprise: Lee, whom she says anybody would take for a heathen, is “A Presbyterian, and well up.” The student decides how much her mistake about Lee should count for or against her feeling about Cathy. It feeds the hinge: Liza holds a dislike with no deed behind it, while the reader holds deeds with no reason behind them, and both must decide what a judgment of a person rests on. The card must not say how Cathy got the scar or why she bit.

One reading

Less. Liza judges by looks and by type. She took Lee for a heathen from his braid and his talk, and she files Cathy among rich Eastern women she has never met. A judge that wrong about one person in the house, from the outside, has not earned trust about the other. Her “Maybe it’s that scar” shows she cannot find her own reason.

• Well, wouldn’t you say offhand he was a heathen?
• like most rich Eastern women (Liza had never known a rich Eastern woman)

Another reading

More. The mistake about Lee shows she changes her mind once she has dug: she found the Presbyterian under “that crazy talk.” She spent a week in the Trask house, checked Cathy over and found her healthy and sensible, and the dislike still stood. A feeling that outlasts a week under one roof, from someone who never heard of the bite, may be worth more than a reason.

• well up, I say, when you dig it out of that crazy talk
• I can find no real fault with her save perhaps a touch of laziness, and yet I don’t like her very much.

Listen for

• Notices that Samuel kept the bite from her, so her dislike rests on no deed she knows of.
• Hears the narrator’s aside that she “had never known a rich Eastern woman.”
• Notices that she did change her mind about Lee, and asks what changed it; and that she sat with Cathy only “just enough” to judge her.
• Keeps to the page: the chapter never says how Cathy got the scar.

If stuck

• What did Liza think Lee was, and what did she find?
• What fault does she find in Cathy after a week?
• Is a feeling about a person worth more if it lasts through a week in the same house?

A strong answer A strong response weighs Liza as a judge and keeps to her words. One reader trusts her less: she judged Lee by his braid and talk and Cathy by a type she “had never known,” and “Maybe it’s that scar” shows she cannot find her reason. Another trusts her more: she changed her mind about Lee once she dug it “out of that crazy talk,” and her dislike of Cathy outlasted a week in the house, with no knowledge of the bite. The best answers notice what Samuel hid from her and ask whether a feeling with no reason can still count as evidence.

What it asks It asks the student to judge where Steinbeck stops. Adam lies shot on the floor. Cathy “tossed the pistol on the floor beside him and walked out of the house.” He hears her steps on the porch and “on the crisp dry oak leaves on the path, and then he could hear her no more.” Then: “And the monotonous sound that had been there all along was the cry of the twins, wanting their dinner. He had forgotten to feed them.” The sound was there “all along,” through the quarrel and the shot. Earlier, Adam “looked vaguely at his sons” and went in to nail the blankets back over the windows, and Liza doubts he has “given the twins a thorough good look yet.” The student decides why the last line belongs to Adam. It feeds the hinge: the twins are refused by their mother and forgotten by their father, and the reader must decide whether the chapter weighs those failures alike. The card must not say whether Adam lives, how badly he is hurt beyond the torn shoulder, or what becomes of the twins; at the close they are crying, unfed and unnamed.

One reading

To spread the weight. Cathy refused the twins; Adam forgot them. The cry was there “all along,” and he did not notice it while he listened only to her. Ending on his failure keeps a reader from laying everything on her, as the narrator warned at the start.

• And the monotonous sound that had been there all along was the cry of the twins, wanting their dinner.
• I don’t think he’s given the twins a thorough good look yet.

Another reading

To show the cost, not to share the blame. Adam forgot because every part of him was turned toward Cathy. Shot and on the floor, he hears his sons at last. The line is pity, not judgment: the twins are left with a father who has just lost everything he looked at. Forgetting a meal in that hour is not refusing a son.

• He moons around her like a sick duck.
• He had forgotten to feed them.

Listen for

• Hears “all along”: the cry was there before the shot, and Adam did not hear it.
• Sets “He had forgotten” beside Cathy’s “I don’t want them” and asks whether forgetting and refusing are the same.
• Notices the turn from her steps going away to the cry that stays.
• Keeps to the page: the chapter stops with Adam on the floor and the twins unfed and unnamed.

If stuck

• What is the last thing Adam hears of Cathy?
• What sound has been there all along?
• Is forgetting someone the same kind of failure as refusing them?

A strong answer A strong response gives a reason for the last line and keeps both mother and father in view. One reader says it spreads the weight: Cathy refused the twins, Adam forgot them, and the cry was there “all along” while he heard only her. Another says it is pity, not blame: Adam was turned wholly toward Cathy, “like a sick duck,” and hears his sons only when she is gone. The best answers notice that the chapter’s last sound is the twins’, and weigh what that does to a reader’s anger at Cathy.

What it asks It asks the student to weigh will against body in the refused sons. The narrator, who has “built the image in my mind of Cathy,” shows her body through the summer: “Her breasts did not grow and her nipples did not darken. There was no quickening of milk glands, no physical planning to feed the newborn.” After the birth Samuel offers to show her the boys. She says “No” “without emphasis,” and then, “No. I don’t want them.” Pressed, she says it again and adds, “I want you to cover the windows and take the light away.” When he calls it weariness she answers, “I’ll remember.” During her week at the house Liza finds that she “would never nurse the twins,” and says, “And just as well too,” forgetting that she nursed every one of her own. The student writes a thesis on whether the refusal was chosen, meets the strongest objection, and revises. It feeds the hinge: the word “monster” seems to need a will behind the deed, and the refused sons are the one deed of the three where the body may have spoken first. The card must not give a reason for the refusal or say what becomes of the twins.

One reading

Not wholly. The narrator shows her body turning from the babies before she says a word: no milk, “no physical planning to feed the newborn.” Her “No” comes “without emphasis,” as flat as a fact about her. Even Liza, who nursed all her own, calls it “just as well.” A refusal the body made first is not simply a cruelty the mind chose.

• There was no quickening of milk glands, no physical planning to feed the newborn.
• “No,” she said without emphasis.

Another reading

Yes. Not feeding a baby is one thing; not wanting to see him is another. Others can feed a baby, and within the week Liza has the twins on “a working basis.” Cathy will not look at them, asks for the windows covered instead, sends them from the room, and answers “you’ll change” with “I’ll remember.” The body may explain the milk; it does not explain the words.

• I don’t want them. I want you to cover the windows and take the light away.
• I’ll remember. Go away. Take them out of the room. Send Adam in.

Listen for

• Notices that the narrator shows the body before Cathy speaks, and that he says he “built” this image.
• Separates feeding from wanting: the body answers for one, her words for the other.
• Hears Liza’s “just as well” and the narrator’s note that she forgot her own nursing.
• Revises rather than restates: a good revision may hold that the body made the refusal easy without making it any less hers, or argue the reverse.

If stuck

• What does the narrator say Cathy’s body did not do through the summer?
• What does Cathy say when Samuel offers to show her the boys?
• Is not being able to feed a baby the same as not wanting it?

A strong answer A strong response builds a thesis, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says the refusal was not wholly chosen: her body made “no physical planning to feed the newborn,” her “No” comes “without emphasis,” and even Liza calls it “just as well.” The strongest objection separates feeding from wanting: others can feed a baby, yet she will not look at her sons and answers “you’ll change” with “I’ll remember.” A good revision might hold that the body explains the milk and not the words, and weigh how much of the refusal that leaves hers.

What it asks It asks the student to put the listeners on trial. On the day of the birth Cathy says what she wants in plain words. Samuel offers to show her the boys: “No. I don’t want them.” He answers, “Oh, you’ll change,” and then, “It’s weariness. In a few days you’ll feel so different you won’t remember.” She answers, “I’ll remember.” That night she tells Adam, “I do not want you.” He answers, “I will stay.” On the Saturday she leaves, Lee starts to tell Adam something, “Missy say not come back mebbe Monday. Take—”, and Adam cuts him off: “Stop arguing.” That evening Cathy says, “I told you before.” Adam says, “You didn’t.” She says, “You didn’t listen. It doesn’t matter.” He answers, “I don’t believe you,” cries, “You can’t go—not from me—not from me,” and when she calls him a fool he pushes her back and locks her in. Then her voice comes through the door with “richness” in it: “I didn’t know you would take it so. I’m sorry, Adam.” That is the voice he opens the door to, and she shoots him. The student writes a thesis on whether she is right that no one listened, meets the strongest objection, and revises. It feeds the hinge: the narrator wonders whether she tried to tell people what she was like “and could not, for lack of a common language”; this question asks whether, in this chapter, she spoke plainly and was not heard. The card must not say why she shoots, where she goes, or whether Adam lives, and must not treat her words as an excuse for the shot. It should not reach outside the chapter for what “before” means; “I do not want you” is on this page.

One reading

Yes. She said it plainly, more than once, and each time the answer was what the listener wanted to hear. Samuel calls it weariness. Adam says he will stay, and on the last night says he does not believe her. He cuts Lee off too. The lock is one more way of not hearing her. The only words Adam takes in are the soft ones through the door. Whatever else she is, that day she was not hard to understand.

• Oh, you’ll change. You’re tired now, but you’ll change.
• Cathy, you’re sick. You can’t go—not from me—not from me.

Another reading

No, or not in the way she means. Saying “I don’t want them” on the day of a birth is not telling anyone what she will do, and Samuel, who has been at many births, has reason to call it weariness. Nothing she says on the page before that Saturday says she will go, still less that she has a gun. “You didn’t listen” puts the fault on Adam when she is already dressed to leave. And the voice he does believe is the one she uses to get the door open.

• It’s weariness. In a few days you’ll feel so different you won’t remember.
• I didn’t know you would take it so. I’m sorry, Adam.

Listen for

• Gathers her plain words on the day of the birth, “I don’t want them,” “I’ll remember,” “I do not want you,” and the answer each one gets.
• Notices that Lee, too, tries to say something on the last afternoon, and Adam tells him, “Stop arguing.”
• Hears which voice Adam does believe: the soft one through the door, with “richness” in it, and asks what that says about how he listens.
• Revises rather than restates: a good revision may hold that she was plain about what she wanted and silent about what she would do, or argue the reverse.

If stuck

• What does Cathy say when Samuel offers to show her the boys, and what does he answer?
• What does Lee try to tell Adam before he leaves for King City?
• Is saying what you want the same as warning someone what you will do?

A strong answer A strong response builds a thesis, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says she is right: on the day of the birth she said “I don’t want them” and “I do not want you” in plain words, and was told she would change and that he would stay; on the last day Adam cuts Lee off with “Stop arguing” and answers her with a locked door. The strongest objection is that wanting is not warning: nothing she says before that Saturday tells anyone she will go, and the voice Adam finally believes is the soft one she uses to get the door open. A good revision might hold that she was plain about what she wanted and hidden about what she would do, and weigh what that does to the narrator’s guess that she lacked “a common language.”

What it asks It asks the chapter’s whole question. The narrator begins by doubting his own word: “When I said Cathy was a monster it seemed to me that it was so.” He has “bent close with a glass over the small print of her,” and wonders if it was true, “since we cannot know what she wanted.” “Her life may have been her language, formal, developed, indecipherable. It is easy to say she was bad, but there is little meaning unless we know why.” Then he sets down the bite, which she explains only with “It was the pain”; the refused sons, “No. I don’t want them”; and the shot, after “You didn’t listen. It doesn’t matter,” “Throw them in one of your wells” and the lock. Around her, decent people sense a wrongness and cannot name it: Lee calls the birth “a bitter, deadly combat,” Samuel’s “I don’t like you” comes out without his will, and Liza finds “no real fault” and still does not like her. The student writes a thesis, meets the strongest objection, and revises. The card must not say why she bites or shoots, where she goes, whether Adam lives, or what becomes of the twins. Nor should it teach the chapter as proof of a monster: its first paragraph argues against easy labels.

One reading

Yes. The narrator doubts what the word explains, not what she did, and the deeds are in front of us. She mangles the hand of the man delivering her sons, refuses the sons, tells their father to throw them in a well, and shoots him at three feet, then looks at him “impersonally.” Not knowing why does not undo any of it. A monster may simply be someone whose cruelty no reason can reach.

• Throw them in one of your wells.
• He stared up into her eyes, which inspected him impersonally.

Another reading

No, or not yet. The narrator himself says the word means little without the why, and he opens the chapter by taking it back. Her life “may have been her language,” one no one around her can read, and in this chapter she says plainly what she wants and is not heard. Calling her cruel is fair. Calling her a monster closes a question the narrator wants kept open.

• It is easy to say she was bad, but there is little meaning unless we know why.
• Her life may have been her language, formal, developed, indecipherable.

Listen for

• Separates two claims: that the deeds were monstrous, and that she is a monster.
• Weighs the narrator’s doubt against what he chooses to show right after it.
• Uses the people around her: what Samuel, Lee and Liza sense, and how sure each one is.
• Revises rather than restates: a good revision may hold that the deeds earn the word while the narrator’s doubt limits what it explains.

If stuck

• What are the three worst things Cathy does in this chapter?
• What does the narrator say at the very start about the word “monster”?
• Can you know what a person is from what they do, without knowing why they do it?

A strong answer A strong response builds a thesis, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says yes: the bite, the refusal, “Throw them in one of your wells,” and the shot at three feet are in front of us, and not knowing why does not undo them. The strongest objection is the narrator’s own: “there is little meaning unless we know why,” and her life “may have been her language,” which no one in the chapter can read. A good revision might hold that her deeds are monstrous while the word “monster” explains nothing about her, and weigh whether a label that explains nothing is still fair to use.