Chapter 18 — Teaching Companion

What it asks It asks the student to stop on one contrast Horace draws about himself. He comes in gently: “Heard you got hurt,” and “If it hurts to talk you can whisper.” Adam says he was cleaning his gun and it went off, and agrees, “quickly” and then “eagerly,” to each step of the story Horace builds for him, until Horace shows that it cannot stand: “And it must have blowed the rod right through you and took off your left hand too.” Then he asks “kindly,” “What happened, Mr. Trask?” When the lie holds, Horace lays the gun on the bureau and says, “I haven’t got the guts for it. It isn’t any fun to me,” and then, “I don’t think anybody’s ever been afraid of me before—mad at me, yes—but not afraid. It’s a mean thing, makes me feel mean.” “Adam watched him nervously.” Julius snaps, “Get to it.” Horace presses on, to “This isn’t nosiness. This is the law” and a threat to take Adam in “even if you are hurt,” and Adam ends in “hopeless crying.” The student decides why being feared sits worse with Horace than being hated. It feeds the hinge: Horace feels the law’s power over a broken man, and in Salinas the sheriff turns out to be a man who uses that power as little as he can: “We don’t drive people.” The card must not play the scene for comedy, and must not say Horace learns who shot Adam; he asks “Did she shoot you?” and gets only “It was an accident.”

One reading

Fear means power. A man who is mad at Horace can argue back; a man afraid of him can only give way or lie. Adam is wounded in bed, and Horace stands over him with a star, a report to make and the county jail behind him. For the first time Horace feels what the job lets him do to a weaker man, and he does not like who it makes him.

• Adam watched him nervously.
• Mr. Trask, you’re talking yourself right into the county jail.

Another reading

Fear tells Horace he has struck something real. An angry man may be lying for himself; a frightened one is guarding something that hurts. The trap has worked, and what it opens is not a crook’s story but a wound. Every question after that presses on the wound, and Horace knows it.

• Adam’s eyes seemed to grow larger, and they were moist and edged with red.
• Horace felt misery rising in him.

Listen for

• Hears the exact contrast: “mad at me, yes—but not afraid.”
• Notices that Horace begins gently, springs the trap, and asks “kindly” before he turns hard.
• Weighs the stakes: Horace and Julius both wonder “Did he kill her?”
• Keeps the scene serious: Julius’s grin and Horace’s doubts do not make it comic.

If stuck

• What story does Adam tell about the gun, and what does Horace do with it?
• What does Horace say just before Julius tells him to get to it?
• Which is harder to face: someone who is angry at you, or someone who is afraid of you?

A strong answer A strong response explains the difference between being hated and being feared from what happens in the room. One reader says fear means power: a man who is mad can fight back, but Adam, wounded and facing the county jail, can only give way or lie, and Horace dislikes what the star lets him do. Another says fear tells Horace he has found a wound, not a crook’s lie, so every question cuts. The best answers notice that this is the same man who later begs that “somebody else” tell Adam, and set his discomfort beside the sheriff’s rule, “We don’t drive people.”

What it asks It asks the student to slow down on four words. Horace has asked for a description. To her name before marriage Adam says, after “a long pause,” “I won’t tell. I promised.” To height: “Not tall—little and delicate.” To hair and eyes: “She was beautiful.” Horace asks, “Was?” and Adam answers, “Is.” Then Horace asks, “Any scars?” and Adam says, “Oh, God, no. Yes—a scar on her forehead.” The denial and the truth come in one breath. Moments later he says, “She had a secret. I promised I wouldn’t ask her. She was afraid for someone,” and begins “hopeless crying.” In Salinas the scar is the first thing the sheriff checks: “They both agreed about the scar?” The student decides why the no comes before the yes. It feeds the hinge: Adam’s silence is the first of the chapter’s silences, and his one plain truth names the very mark by which the sheriff knows her. The card must not call Adam merely weak, must not say what Cathy’s secret was, and must not say that Adam knows where she is.

One reading

The no protects her. A scar is how a stranger would know her, and Adam has promised to keep her secret. The denial is the promise speaking before he can think. The “Yes” is an honest man catching up with himself, even though it hands the law that very mark.

• I won’t tell. I promised.
• They both agreed about the scar?

Another reading

The no protects his picture of her. He has just said she “Is” beautiful, keeping her present and keeping her his. A scar does not belong on that face, so he denies it before he remembers it. What he guards is the image; the truth comes second because it spoils the picture.

• She was beautiful.
• Oh, God, no. Yes—a scar on her forehead.

Listen for

• Hears the order: “Oh, God, no” first, then “Yes,” in one breath.
• Sets the scar beside “She was beautiful” and “Is,” the answers that come just before it.
• Notices that the scar is the mark the Hamiltons agree on and the sheriff checks first.
• Treats Adam’s silences as a promise kept, not as weakness, and gives no account of what her secret was.

If stuck

• What does Adam say when Horace asks about scars?
• What has he just said about how she looks?
• Have you ever said no to a question before you let yourself think about it?

A strong answer A strong response explains the order of “no” and “Yes” from Adam’s own words. One reader says the no protects Cathy: a scar is how a stranger would know her, and the denial is the promise speaking before the honest man catches up. Another says it protects his picture of her: he has just said she “Is” beautiful, and the scar does not belong on that face. The best answers notice that both may be true at once, and that his one plain truth is the mark the sheriff checks first in Salinas.

What it asks It asks the student to stop on the one question the sheriff asks before he decides. The narrator has called the best sheriff “the best diplomat,” with “a brilliant gift for minding his own business.” The sheriff hears Horace out with his eyes closed, then talks about the county: “We don’t drive people. We’ve got to live with them.” He explains what a quiet house fears most: “Her old man finds her and he begins to shovel up hell.” He reports Faye’s new girl: “She’s of age and nobody’s made a complaint.” Horace begs, “somebody else has got to tell him.” The two men walk in silence, and the sheriff says, “if I told some of the things I know, this whole goddam county would go up in smoke.” Then he asks, “You said she had twins?” Horace answers, “Yeah, twin boys,” and the sheriff decides: “There’s only three people in the world that knows—her and you and me.” He ends by telling Horace to “think about those little boys.” The student decides what the answer changes for him. It feeds the hinge: the hinge asks whether the silence is a mercy to the boys, and this question asks first whether the boys are what it is for. The card must not linger on the house as scandal, and must not say why Cathy went to Faye’s.

One reading

Little changes in what he does. Keeping quiet is already his habit, and he says so on the street before he asks. The law has nothing to act on, since no one has complained. What the twins change is the reason he hands Horace: one Horace will feel, so that he keeps his mouth shut.

• if I told some of the things I know, this whole goddam county would go up in smoke.
• She’s of age and nobody’s made a complaint.

Another reading

The answer turns the case. Until then it is a puzzle about Faye’s house and a husband who may come looking. The sheriff asks about the twins himself, after a walk in silence, and his decision follows at once. Two baby boys make this a secret worth keeping from everyone.

• You said she had twins?
• There’s only three people in the world that knows—her and you and me.

Listen for

• Notices that the sheriff asks this himself, after a walk in silence, right before he decides.
• Follows what comes before it: a county he must “live with,” a father who may “shovel up hell,” and things that would send the county “up in smoke.”
• Hears the twins come back in his last words, as the thing Horace must think about before he speaks.
• Notices that the secret binds Cathy too, and keeps to the page: no reason for her choice of Faye’s.

If stuck

• What does the sheriff say on the street just before he asks?
• Whom does he tell Horace to think about?
• Can someone do a kind thing for a reason that is not kindness?

A strong answer A strong response says what the answer changes and follows the order of the sheriff’s talk. One reader says little: quiet is already his habit, the county would go “up in smoke” if he told what he knows, and the twins only give Horace a reason he will feel. Another says the answer turns the case: he asks about the twins himself, and “only three people” follows at once. The best answers notice that the two reasons may point the same way, and ask whether it matters which one moved him.

What it asks It asks the student to weigh the chapter’s last words. With the deputy, Lee has spoken only in scraps of pidgin: “He sick,” “No see. He sick,” “You come,” “I take horsy.” Horace greets him, “Hello, Ching Chong,” and never once uses his name; name it plainly as a slur when it comes up. In the last section Lee carries the laundry basket out, sets it beside Adam and goes back inside, then brings Samuel a chair and leads Doxology to the shed. Samuel has been refused the wells and has told Adam, “You’re going to pass something down no matter what you do or if you do nothing.” In the shed, as Lee holds the horse, Samuel says, “There goes your bookstore, Lee,” and Lee answers in plain English, “Oh, well,” and then, “maybe I didn’t want it much anyway.” The chapter does not say why the bookstore is gone; the reader has just seen a broken father, two babies in a basket, and Lee the one carrying them out. The student decides whether to believe him. It feeds the hinge: the chapter turns from the woman who left to the boys who stay, and here is a man who stays and says almost nothing of what it costs him. The card must not invent plans for the bookstore that the chapter does not give, must not say what becomes of the boys, and must not say that Adam takes Samuel’s advice.

One reading

Yes, or nearly. Lee has already stayed: he carries the basket out, sets it beside Adam, and goes back inside without a word. A man who badly wanted the bookstore would not be the one doing that. The “maybe” is honest. A dream can be easier to keep than to chase, and losing it may cost less than he thought.

• Lee came out carrying the laundry basket.
• maybe I didn’t want it much anyway.

Another reading

No. Lee makes light of a real loss so that Samuel need not carry it, the same care Samuel shows when he does not look at Adam too much. The “Oh, well” shrugs, and the “maybe” gives him away: a man who truly did not want a thing would not need to say so.

• There goes your bookstore, Lee
• Samuel sat down quietly, and he didn’t trouble Adam by looking at him too much, and he didn’t trouble him by not looking at him.

Listen for

• Hears the change in Lee’s voice: scraps of pidgin for the deputy, plain English for Samuel.
• Notices what Lee does in the last section before he speaks: the basket, the chair, the horse.
• Weighs the shrug in “Oh, well” and the hedge in “maybe.”
• Keeps to the page: the chapter does not say why the bookstore is gone, and says nothing of what becomes of the boys.

If stuck

• What does Lee carry out to Adam at the start of the last section?
• What does Samuel say to Lee in the shed, and how does Lee answer?
• When someone says they did not want a thing much anyway, when do you believe them?

A strong answer A strong response takes a side and reads Lee by what he does as well as what he says. One reader believes him: Lee has already stayed, carrying the basket out to Adam, and a man who badly wanted the bookstore would not be the one doing that. Another hears a kind cover: the “Oh, well” and the “maybe” make light of a real loss so that Samuel need not carry it. The best answers notice that the chapter gives its last words not to the father or the sons but to the man who stays, and ask what it means that he says so little about it.

What it asks It asks the student to see how the chapter’s silences hold each other up. Adam tells Horace again and again, “It was an accident.” Asked “Did she shoot you?” he says only, “It was an accident.” Horace must still “make a report to the county.” In Salinas the sheriff can leave Faye’s new girl alone because “She’s of age and nobody’s made a complaint,” and the narrator says, “Only when everything else failed did a good sheriff make an arrest.” The sheriff tells Horace that bringing Adam in would have made “one hell of a mess.” The student writes a thesis on whether the sheriff could still have kept quiet had Adam told the truth, meets the strongest objection, and revises. It feeds the hinge: if Adam’s lie is what lets the sheriff keep quiet, then the father has helped build the silence around his sons without knowing it. The card must not say that Adam ever learns where Cathy is, or why she went to Faye’s.

One reading

No. A wife shooting her husband is a crime, and here there would be a witness willing to speak. Horace would have had to write it down, the county would have had to look for her, and the girl at Faye’s would no longer be someone with nothing wrong about her. The sheriff’s whole case for doing nothing rests on “nobody’s made a complaint.” Adam’s lie is what makes that true.

• She’s of age and nobody’s made a complaint.
• I’ll have to make a report to the county, Mr. Trask.

Another reading

Yes, or nearly. The sheriff decides what the county will know, and he says so. He arrests only when everything else fails, and he was glad Adam was not brought in. A man that practised at quiet would have found a quiet way, perhaps by sending her out of the county, as he already threatens to do.

• Only when everything else failed did a good sheriff make an arrest.
• if I told some of the things I know, this whole goddam county would go up in smoke.

Listen for

• Separates what Horace must report from what the sheriff chooses to act on.
• Hears “nobody’s made a complaint” and asks who could have made one.
• Notices that Adam keeps a secret he does not know he is keeping: he lies to shield Cathy, not to hide where she is.
• Revises rather than restates: a good revision may hold that the sheriff could have kept the boys’ secret but not the shooting, or argue the reverse.

If stuck

• What does Adam say every time Horace asks how he was shot?
• Why does the sheriff say he can do nothing about Faye’s new girl?
• If no one complains about a wrong, can the law still act on it?

A strong answer A strong response builds a thesis, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says no: a shooting with a husband willing to name the shooter is a crime the law must chase, and the sheriff’s case for quiet rests on “nobody’s made a complaint.” The strongest objection is the sheriff himself, who arrests only “when everything else failed” and knows things that would send the county “up in smoke.” A good revision might hold that Adam’s lie did not create the sheriff’s silence but made it easy, and weigh what it means that Adam helped keep a secret he does not know.

What it asks It asks the student to compare two kinds of acting. For Horace, Adam played a part, and played it eagerly: “I was cleaning my gun and it went off,” then “That’s right, sir,” then “Maybe it wasn’t just like that,” and at last only “It was an accident.” The one true thing he tells, “My wife went away,” comes out “without rise or fall,” like “a language he did not understand.” Under the oak, Adam turns down the wells: “I don’t want any wells.” Samuel lets one twin grip his finger, then says, “Go through the motions, Adam,” and “Act out being alive, like a play. And after a while, a long while, it will be true.” Adam asks, “Why should I?” “Samuel was looking at the twins” when he answers: “You’re going to pass something down no matter what you do or if you do nothing. Even if you let yourself go fallow, the weeds will grow and the brambles. Something will grow.” The student writes a thesis on whether Samuel asks for the same kind of pretending Adam has already done, meets the strongest objection, and revises. It feeds the hinge: Samuel’s answer says that doing nothing hands something down too, and the hinge asks whether a silence can be a mercy. The card must not say that Adam takes the advice; he answers “Why should I?” and turns down the wells. It must not say who the twins will become.

One reading

Yes. Both are a part played over a truth too hard to face. The accident story let Adam go on as if Cathy had not done what she did; Samuel’s play would let him go on as if he were not broken. Samuel only offers a better script, and even he admits it will take “a long while” to come true.

• I was cleaning my gun and it went off.
• Act out being alive, like a play. And after a while, a long while, it will be true.

Another reading

No. The lie points backward and hides a deed; the play points forward and means to become true. Adam lied for Cathy and to the law. Samuel asks him to act for the boys, and he is looking at them when he says why. One pretending covers the past; the other is meant to grow into a future.

• Samuel was looking at the twins.
• You’re going to pass something down no matter what you do or if you do nothing.

Listen for

• Notices that Adam played the lie eagerly, while the true sentence “My wife went away” came out with no life in it at all.
• Hears “it will be true”: the play aims at a truth, the lie at hiding one.
• Notices whom each part is played for: the law, or the twins.
• Revises rather than restates: a good revision may hold that both are pretending but only one has a hope of becoming real, or argue the reverse.

If stuck

• What part did Adam play when Horace questioned him?
• What does Samuel tell Adam to act out?
• Can acting out a feeling you do not have ever make it real?

A strong answer A strong response builds a thesis, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says the two are the same: each is a part played over a truth too hard to face, and Samuel admits his will take “a long while.” The strongest objection says the lie hides a past deed while the play aims at a future truth, and is played for the boys, since “Samuel was looking at the twins.” A good revision might hold that pretending is not the trouble; what matters is whether it is meant to come true, and weigh which kind the boys stand to inherit.

What it asks It asks the chapter’s whole question. In the bedroom Horace insists, “This isn’t nosiness. This is the law,” and Adam answers only “It was an accident,” keeping a promise to a wife he still calls beautiful. In Salinas the sheriff, who would rather live with people than drive them, learns where Cathy is and decides: “There’s only three people in the world that knows—her and you and me.” He will warn her to keep quiet, and he tells Horace that before he tells anybody, “even your wife,” he should “think about those little boys.” Horace had begged that “somebody else” tell Adam; no one will. Then the chapter turns to the oak, where the twins look up “blindly and earnestly” at the leaves and Samuel says, “You’re going to pass something down no matter what you do or if you do nothing.” The student writes a thesis on whether the silence is a mercy to the boys or a wrong done to them, meets the strongest objection, and revises. The card must not say that Adam learns where Cathy is, why she chose Faye’s, or anything about who the boys will become; they are babies in a basket. It must not dwell on the house as scandal.

One reading

A mercy. Their mother is gone either way; the silence takes away only the shame. A town that knew would talk, and the sheriff has said what happens when the churches and the women take something up. He lives with people rather than driving them, and this silence lets two boys live in a county that does not know.

• you think about those little boys finding out their mother is a whore.
• We don’t drive people. We’ve got to live with them.

Another reading

A wrong. Three people decide what the boys will know of their own mother, and one of them is the mother, kept quiet by a threat. Neither the boys nor their father has any say. Samuel warns that doing nothing hands something down too: a silence is not nothing, and what grows in it may be weeds. A truth held by three, one of whom told the sheriff “everything,” may reach the boys later and worse.

• There’s only three people in the world that knows—her and you and me.
• Even if you let yourself go fallow, the weeds will grow and the brambles. Something will grow.

Listen for

• Separates the boys from Adam: the question is about the sons, but the same silence covers their father.
• Weighs how safe the secret is: Horace told the sheriff “everything,” he talks over the visit with his wife, Julius already talks of Faye’s, and the Hamiltons gave the description.
• Uses Samuel’s “if you do nothing” to ask whether a silence is itself something handed down.
• Revises rather than restates: a good revision may hold that the silence is a mercy now and a debt later, or argue the reverse.

If stuck

• What does the sheriff learn, and whom does he let know it?
• Whom does he ask Horace to think about before speaking?
• Is it ever kind to keep a hard truth about someone’s own family from them?

A strong answer A strong response builds a thesis, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says mercy: the boys’ mother is gone either way, and the silence spares them the talk a town makes once “the churches get into it, and the women.” The strongest objection is who decided, “her and you and me,” with neither the boys nor their father asked, and Samuel’s warning that something is handed down “if you do nothing.” A good revision might hold that the silence is a mercy only as long as it holds, and weigh what it costs the boys if it breaks.