Friday Night
George Milton slept like a man on the run.
It was a trait, like so many, borne of necessity, and though time and experience had tempered it, rather than stamping it out entirely, it had taught him discretion. Life on the road was never silent, and life down by the Salinas river in particular had its own constant chorus. There had been a time when he'd first hit the road when he couldn't get a full night's sleep, startled full wake by the rustle of grass, the chirrup of an early-risen robin, or the creak of a windmill's blades. Time,luckily, had sharpened his senses, and he'd learned to recognize only those sounds that demanded his immediate attention - approaching footsteps, the cocking of s shotgun, and Lennie's voice.
The night after they'd arrived at the ranch outside Soledad, George was awakened by one of those sounds.
"Lennie?" George wiped his face with one hand and squinted through the darkness. The little light that came in through the bunkhouse window cast Lennie's face in shadows. In the dim slant of moonlight that cut through the grimy window, his swollen eye and bruised lip looked nothing short of grotesque.
"Christ's sake, Lennie, why ain't you asleep yet?"
Lennie knelt anxiously beside George's bunk, shoulders slumped and hands clasped together as though in prayer. He fidgeted on his knees, head hung low. When he raised his head, the whites of his eyes were luminous and owlish in the dark.
"I can't sleep, George."
"Well, why not? What's wrong?"
Lennie's teeth flashed in the dim light as he opened his mouth and promptly closed it, hesitating. He tucked his chin to his chest and murmured something just below George's hearing. George sat up straighter in bed and leaned in closer.
"Whadya say, Lennie?"
"I said I'm scared."
"What you scared about?" Lennie was silent. He wrung his hands slowly.
"This ain't 'bout the fight with Curley still, is it? Dammit, Lennie, I told you, forget 'bout it. You done nothin' wrong. All the guys here got your back on that one. It's like Slim said, that punk had in comin'."
"And I ain't done nothing wrong."
George nodded. "You ain't done nothin' wrong."
"And I can still tend the rabbits."
"That's what I told you, ain't it?"
Lennie was silent, head hung low between his shoulders. He nodded.
"Then whadda'ya still worryin' over it for?"
Lennie kept quiet. He rocked slightly back and forth on his knees. George could feel the slight press of his head against the matress with every surge forward.
"Come on, Lennie," George admonished, "Big guy like you. You ain't got a thing to be scared of. You get some sleep, and things'll be better in the morning."
Lennie pressed his face further into the matress. George sighed, softenting. He lay a hand on Lennie's head, carding his fingers through Lennie's thin hair.
"Lennie," he warned. "Dammit, we been through this. It ain't right."
"Jus' for tonight, George," he plead. "Ju's for this one time."
"You say that every time."
"I mean it!" Lennie insisted. "I mean it, George, honest. I mean it. Jus' this once."
George combed his fingers distractedly through Lennie's hair. Lennie's skin thrummed, tremors running like electriciy under his skin. George glanced around the bunkhouse, silent and shrouded in darkness, and shrugged, suddenly resigned.
"Okay." George lifted the thin sheet and nodded to Lennie. "Go on, get in."
Mindful of the kindness George was paying him, Lennie scrambled to his feet and slipped carefully under the blankets George held aloft, making sure not to disturb George too greatly as he arranged himself to accomodate his body and George's on the narrow cot. The ranch's beds were not the worst either of them had slept on, but they were unquestionably intended for a single man of modest size; as Lennie settled in, George pressed himself against his broad back, George's own back aligned tightly with the edge of the matress. Lennie fidgeted next to him, his hands still worrying each other; George reached across the narrow gap between them, over Lennie's ribcage, and grabbed his hands. He lay back, pressing Lennie's hands against his chest, and holding them still. He could feel Lennie's fingers, fidgeting against his.
"Christ Almighty, Lennie, keep still. If you wanna stay here, you ain't gonna keep me up all night with your worryin', you got it?"
Lennie nodded. His fingers stilled under George's hand. George sighed, breathing in deeply.
"Just for tonight," George murmured, half to himself. He could feel the tremor still under Lennie's skin, his muscles trembling. He squeezed Lennie's hands.
"Relax, Lennie," he whispered. "Come on. I'm right here."
"George," Lennie's voice was a hoarse whisper in the darkness. George could more feel the words than hear them, pressed close to Lennie's broad back.
"What is it?"
"Tell me about the-"
"I ain't tellin ya about the damn rabbits, Lennie. Jesus, go to sleep."
Lennie was quiet. "I just like hearing you talk, George."
"Jesus." He pressed his face into the broad, warm space between Lennie's shoulders. Lennie smelled warmly of fresh hay from his time in the stables, and of the deep, nutty tang of sun-kissed barley. George breathed in the comforting smell of the only home he'd ever known. He hands tightened around Lennie's, thick-skinned and twice as broad as his own, and he grinned against his shoulder in spite of himself, shaking his head.
"Pain in my ass," his voice gruff and affectionate at the same time.
"You don't gotta tell me about the rabbits, George" Lennie said. His breathing had steadied, and was deepening into the long slow in and out just before sleep. George could feel the slow, plodding pump of Lennie's heart through his back. "That's okay, if you don't wanna."
"I'll tell you what - I'll tell you a different story, how 'bout that?" George said at last. "Tell you somethin' else, somethin' real nice. Just, not the damn rabbits anymore, all right?"
"Sure, George, sure" Lennie said. "If you don't wanna. You can tell me somethin' else. I bet it'll be just as good. Just as good as the rabbits."
"Goddamn right it will be," he said, pausing to collect his thoughts.
He wasn't halfway through recounting their trip to the Monterey County fair back in '25 when George felt the deep and rolling rumbles of soft snores that meant Lennie was asleep. George smiled to himself and closed his eyes,shaking his head.
"Shame," he whispered to himself. "That story had, rabbits, too."
Saturday Morning
He awoke before sun-up, at the first stirrings of movement in the bunkhouse.
Lennie's face, a face not much drawn in the sharp lines of worry, was nonetheless softened by sleep. He'd tossed and turned in the night, and his hands, pinned between the two of them, were balled into George's shirt. His lips were parted slightly, his breath coming slow and steady and warm across George's cheek. George sighed and closed his eyes, pressing their foreheads together.
A chair scraped mournfully across the floor; George's eyes flew open. He sat up slowly, carefully extricating his shirt from Lennie's grasp; easier and less tenacious when he was sleeping. Slim sat in the slowly dissipating darkness, illuminated by the red ember glow of his cigarette. The white faces of the cards in his solitaire spread seemed to float in the darkness above the squat table in front him him. George slipped quietly out of bed and approached him slowly, the soft whine of springs and the cream of floorboards announcing his arrival.
"Morning," he said, rough voice just above a whisper.
Slim nodded. "Morning."
Georeg stood tensely before the table. He crossed his arms and squared his jaw.
"It ain't what you think," he said coldly.
"Me?" Slim's cool blue eyes shone with mild amusement. "I ain't hardly taken a breath 'cept to say 'morning.'"
"Yeah, well, I know how guys think," said George tightly. "I know what goes on in their heads when they see something they think maybe's a little bit off. They get these ideas in their minds 'about all sortsa things, so I'm nippin' it the bud. It ain't what you think."
Slim shook his head. "Ain't my business neither way."
"Damn right." He pulled out a chair and lowered himself into it, arms crossed as he rested them on the table. Slim placcidly laid the battered cards one on top of the other, his calloused hands slow and patient as her turned each over. Some of the tension drained from George's shoulder and he slumped forward, hanging his head sheepishly. He cleared his throat.
"Why you up so early?" He voice remained just a shade above a whisper and lacked the hard edge it'd had before. Slim glanced up at him briefly before turning back to his cards. He uncovered the fvie of clubs and placed it carefully over the hour of hearts. He shook his head and clicked his tongue.
"No one answer fer that, really," he said thoughtfully. "Jus' couldn't lie in bed anymore, I guess. By the time I turned in, it was so late I damn near passed out, but once I slep' off that exhaustion, I guess I was just still wound up." He shuffled the cards easily, his slender-fingered hands uncommonly graceful and fluid, as they were at everything. He looked knowingly at George and nodded toward the bunk. "'M guessing it was the same for him, too."
George turned to look at Lennie. He was facing the wall, still sound asleep. The pre-dawn shadow danced across his back as it rose and fell with each breath. George nodded, turning back to the table. He kept his eyes on Slim's hands as they tapped a single card on the table thoughtfully.
"He was pretty shook up last night," George said quietly. Slim nodded, turning back to his spread, and laid the card on the far left pile.
"Don' blame him. Shook Carlson damn near to his core. Been on the ranch a long time, seen lots o' incidents 'n the like; guys gettin' into scuffles, workers meetin' the wrong end of a thresher. Was here for when old Candy lost his hand, and that wasn't pretty. I seen some poor sons a bitches get messed up pretty good. But Christ Almighty," he said, whistling low between his teeth, There was a note of reverence in his voice. "I ain't never seen nothing like that."
"Told you, ain't no one oughta mess with Lennie," George said. The corners of his mouth turned up in spite of himself. Slim Chuckled silently to himself. George relaxed, let his smile widen.
"That you did," he said, a rumble of laughter in his quiet voice. "That you did."
George nodded again before his smile faltered and his face grew somber. He glanced at Slim regretfully.
"How is the poor bastard?" he asked. Slim waved George's concern away like he was brushing away a fly.
"Doctors patched him up," he said dismissively. "Took 'em hours; I told you, his hand was bust up pretty bad. 'course the doctor, they seen just 'bout every kind of injury, specially when you tend to ranch hands, so they didn't think nothin' of it, but then Curely never did tell 'em what really happened. Stuck to the story we feed 'im, see. They'd never believe the real story, I reckon. Man just doesn't do that to another man with one hand." He shook his head again, glancing over at Lennie. "Christ Awmighty," he repeated.
"Christ Awmighty," George agreed, nodding slightly.
They sat in companionable silence for some time; Slim patiently arranging cards in neat lines, staright as rows of corn ready for reaping and Georgo watching him, his slow, deliberate hands almost hypnotic. It was quiet in the bunkhouse, the deep, tenacious quiet of sleep, and the air was full of the low and measured sound of breathing. From down near the barn came the occassional whinny of a horse, or the hum and chirrup of a cricket that flew too close to the window. Slowly, the air in the bunkhouse grew warmer, and thin beams of sunlight stretched and widen over the bunks, warming to mellow, butter yellow.
"Mornin's gettin' on," Slim said conversationally. "Men'll be gettin' up soon." He let the words settle in the stillness.
George shuffled in his seat. Slim glanced over at him.
"Might be time to wake him up," he said, nodding to Lennie. "Before..." he trailed off. George looked up at him.
"Before?" George's voice was sharpened to a delicate edge. Slim's steel blue eyes regarded him calmly. He spoke plainly, as George would want it.
"Before the others get up," he finished. His voice was kind and matter-of-fact. "See him sleepin' in yer bunk. You said it yerself - men get ideas."
"Let'em get ideas, then," George said viciously. "It'd be the first time for a lot of 'em." He caught himself, and reigned in the bitterness in his voice. "What'd they do about it anyway? The ain't gonna be going after Lennie after last night, and I can handle whatever they wanna throw at me."
"I reckon yer right," Slim nodded. "They don't wanna get their hands dirtier than they're already gettin.' Don't reckon they'd lay a hand on either of ya - specially after last night." He flipped over a card, stared at it a long time. He looked back up at George. His voice remained conversational, but George could read sorrow in the set of his jaw and the lines around his eyes.
"I'd guess they'd get someone else to do the dirty work for 'em," he said. "There's ways to hurt a man don't involve laying a finger on 'em."
George straightened in his seat. His eyes were shrewd.
"You think they'd go to the boss about it?"
"I can't rightly say," Slim shrugged, "One way or the other. Most o' these guys are decent folk, mean well. Don't wanna shake things up, but when something comes along outta the ordinayr and shakes them up first, well..." he trailed off, shaking his head. "Like you said - men get ideas. Even well-meaning men get vexed when they see something they don' properly understand."
"There ain't nothing for them to understand," George said. His voice was low and hard again; a muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched it. "I already to you, that ain't what it's like."
"An' I already tole you," slim said, voice infinitely patient, "I don't rightly care one way or th' other. Ain't my business. But the other guys might think it's theirs. So you might wanna start thinking -" He lay down his cards and tipped his chair back. His eyes were the color of the morning sky, bright and patient. He regarded George with curiosity.
"-What exactly is it?" he asked. "Between you two?"
"It's..." George rested his hands on the table; there was dirt under his nail and raw blisters on the tender spread of flesh between his thumb and forefingers. He ran the pads of his fingers over the raw patches, the joints that ached in cold weather, and the scars from carelessness. He shook his head. The chair trembled gently with the motion of his leg, jimmying anxiously against the stretcher. Color rose in his face, flushed down his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.
"It's something," he murmured. Slim nodded, running the edge of his card across his lips thoughtfully as he regarded George.
"Yeah," he said at last. His voice was a gentle rumble. "I guess it's gotta be something, don't it?"
Behind George came the rustling of sheets and the soft huff of a yawn; he pushed backin his chair, glancing at Slim sheepishly.
"I suppose your right, though," he murmured. "Morning's gettin' on. Guess it is 'bout time Lennie get outta bed."
He stood and crossed the bunkhouse, ssettling on the edge of his thin matress. He lay a hand on Lennie's shoulder, and he stirred slightly.
"Hey, Lennie."
Lennie propped himself up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He blinked through the thin film of sleep, squinting up at George as he settled himself on the edge on the bed. From the squat, scrubbed table in the middle of the room, Slim watched them impassively. He gathered the cards from the table, and shuffled them slowly.
"'Morning, George," Lennie mumbled. He craned his neck, squinting at his surrounding; his raised one broad hand to sheild his eyes from the now bright, butter-yellow light streaming through the window above the head of the bunk. It took a moment for recognition to dawn on his face. His lowered his head, ashamed. George raised his hand.
"Don't," he said. "I ain't interested in your apologies, Lennie."
"I shouldn'ta been scairt, George," Lennie whimpered. "Shoulda let ya be, like you said, George."
"It is what it is," George sighed. He looked down at Lennie's hands, curled into tight fists in his lap. He shifted his weight subtly, obscuring Lennie and himself and Slim's knowing gaze. He placed a smaller, darker hand over Lennie's, and Lennie turned his hand over instinctively, closing his fingers around George's. George leaned in close.
"It is what it is," he said again, his voice a shade above a whisper, meant only for Lennie. "Can't go back and do nothin' about it now, anyways. Jus'... don't be scairt, Lennie. You done nothin' wrong. And ain't no one gonna mess with ya. Not while I'm around."
"Cause I got you." George nodded.
"Cause you got me." They sat in silence for a moment. George raised his hand and patted Lennie's cheek gently.
"Okay, c'mon," he sighed, pulling himself to his feet. He reached down and Lennie grabbed his hand, George grounding Lennie as he clambered clumsily to his feet. George nodded to the bunkhouse door, outside of which the water pumps and shaving mirror stood, the mirror throwing prisms across the wooden planks of the bunkhouse porch.
"Guys'll be gettin' up soon," George said. "Whyn't you go an' get a head start on scrubbin' up?" Lennie hesitated. George patted him on the back.
"Slim an' I are in the middle a somethin,'" he said, glancing sideways at Slim, who nodded calmly. "I'll meet ya out there soon as we finish."
The door whined on its hinges, and clattered closed against the ill-fitted doorjamb as Lennie left the bunkhouse. George turned to Slim, hands on his hips. He shuffled from one foot to the other, and glanced up at Slim without raising his head, meeting Slim's eyes through the fringe of his lashes.
"Sometimes he just needs..." he started and stopped. Slim twirled a card between his fingers. George squared his shoulders and raised his head slightly.
"Sometimes he just needs to be close to somethin,'" he said. "Somethin' he can touch. Like th' mice, or like that pup you give him. He gets scairt or... lost, or lonely, and he just needs something to make the loneliness go away."
He He crossed over to the screen door leading out to the veranda and paused, hesitating.
"Sometimes he just needs to hold something," he said. "Something he can't break."
"Something he can't break," Slim repeated under his breath. He looked up at George. "An' he's got you."
"Yeah," said George, nodding. "He's got me."
Sunday Evening
George Milton drank like a man who had nothing left to lose.
His hands shook as he brought the shot glass back down, slamming it on the table hard enough to startle himself; Slim watched him silently, keeping his hand ready at the bottle; George nodded to him, and he poured them each another round or whiskey. George threw his back like a bullwhip, face twisted with the burn of alcohol. He stared at the shot glass intently, but held up a hand when Slim raised the bottle again. He shook his head.
"Crazy bastard," he murmured. His shoulders trembled, tremors that rattled the table on the bunkhouse floor. George closed his eyes. "Poor... poor, crazy bastard."
"It was for th' best," Slim said, placatingly. George opened his eyes, too tired for anger or argument.
"Was it?"
"It was on'y a matter a time," Slim sighed, nudging his hat up by the brim. "You said it yerself; had nothin' to do with meanness, he jus' didn't know his own strength. It woulda happened sooner or later, and there'd be nothing for it once it did." His eyes were wet as he turned them to George.
"So, how'd you rather it go?" he said. "Kind words and a gentle hand, or strung up and shot in the gut?" George flinched. Slim nodded and lowered his eyes.
"It ended the best way it coulda," he said. "I know that don't make it easier right now, but maybe it will someday."
"We could a run," George murmured; his eyelids drooped dangerously and his words slurred, succumbing to alcohol and exhaustion. "We could a run. Maybe could a made it."
Slim set his jaw in a firm line, but his eyes were kind. "And then, what next? When it happened again? How far you reckon you'd run before someone, somewhere'd track ya down."
George was silent. The table quivered under his tremulous weight. Slim leaned in and rested his elbows on the table.
"How many ranches were there before this?" He asked. His voice was the low roll of thunder on the far horizon. "How many more you reckon there'd be after?"
George remained silent.
Slim lifted the bottle and looked to George for some sign; George remained impassive and unmoving, and Slim poured two fingers of whiskey in George's shot glass and another fifth in his own before corking it for good and sliding it across the table, out of George's reach. George closed his eyes.
"Just one," George murmured. Slim paused, his glass halfway to his lips.
"Beg pardon?"
"After this," George said. His voice carried from far off, from wherever he'd gone behind closed eyes, from some dream state somewhere between sleep and waking.
"There was only ever gonna be one other ranch after this. Just one." He opened his eyes. Tears cut a glistening path through the coating of dust on his cheeks. He took a trembling breath and, as though he'd just noticed it, downed the shot of whiskey Slim had poured him.
"With a wood stove and an alfalfa patch," George went on, his voice low and distant as his gaze, staring across the bunkhouse at a scene that Slim couldn't see. The corners or George's mouth twitched quaveringly.
"And on rainy days, we'd sit in and listen to it beat down on the roof," he continued, pushing himself back in his chair. Exhaustion seemed to fall over him like a veil, his body sagging against the spindle of the chair, his arms limp on the manchettes.
"And Lenny," George finished with great effort, "was gonna tend the rabbits."
They fell into silence. Slim sat twirling his shotglass between his thick thumb and forefinger, watching the wood grain of the table spin like a kaliedescope through the bottom of the glass. George's head hung low, his chin nearly touching his chest. Slim stood and wiped his hands on his jeans before resting them on George's shoulders. Reluctant George got to his feet, swaying dangerously until Slim steadied him. He placed a grounding hand on George's chest, bracing George around the shoulders with his other arm.
"Come on," he said, "let's get you to bed."
George lay facedown on his mattress, curling in on himself, trying to remember warmth, and the smell of fresh barley and sweet hay, and the close press of hands against his chest. Slim sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off his hat and cradling it carefully in his lap. He spoke delicately.
"The boys'll bring his body up to the barn," he said quietly. "Along with Curley's wife's. Sheriff'll be up and wanna ask questions, most likely. We can vouche for you - we know him pretty good, and he's a good man. He'll understand if you don't wanna talk."
George lay silent.
"If you do wanna talk..." Slim said slowly, and trailed off into silence. He nodded to himself.
"Well," he murmured. "You know." He stood up, placing his battered Stetson back on his head, and moved toward the door. George shifted on the bed, rolling onto his side and watching Slim's retreating back as he crossed to the exit.
"Slim," he called. Slim turned, one hand on the door. George's eyes were red-rimmed and tired as he looked at him.
"Me and Lennie," he started, his voice quavering and halting, "I know I told you... it wasn't like you thought."
"I never said -"
"I know you didn't," George cut him off, not angrily. "I know you didn't. But I'm saying it now. And if you had said it... I mean," he
looked away. "Maybe you wouldn't have been so far off."
Slim stood in silence; George closed his eyes and brough his knees up close to his chest. Slim looked away.
"Ain't my business," he said softly. "I don't need to know. 'S long as he did." He looked back at George and nodded. "And he did."
George snickered humorlessly. He opened his eyes and looked at Slim.
"Did he?"
Slim nodded. George watched him for a long time, his patient blue eyes confident and reassuring. He nodded.
"Good," he said, closing his eyes again. "Good."