VII
"Adam…" Ben Cartwright had heard a horse in the yard, looked out the window and gone out. He didn't know who would come riding in on an old plow horse that had gray on its muzzle. The animal stood patiently while its rider sat with a bundle wrapped in a jacket, waiting.
Then Ben recognized that it was Adam. "Adam…I…why didn't you let me know you were coming home? You weren't asked to leave school were…" and then Ben saw the bundle was a child sitting in front of Adam and he stopped. Recognition almost felled him. Ben wavered on his feet, his face blanched and if it hadn't been for Hop Sing who had come out of the kitchen and now supported him, Ben would have fallen. His knees had suddenly gone weak and he feared they would buckle.
"Mistah Cartwright," Hop Sing said, holding onto the big man. Ben placed his hand on Hop Sing's shoulder.
"I'm all right, Hop Sing, it's…oh, my God, dear, sweet God. Oh, it's Joseph. It's my boy—my Joseph." Ben put out his arms and Adam handed down Joe. Ben grabbed the boy and clasped him to his chest, his tears beginning to fall through his joy. He stroked Joe's hair and suddenly from the boy came a howl—a high-pitched yowl of pain, of fear, of horror. The first sound he had made since Adam had seen him days ago.
"Pa," Adam said, quickly dismounting. "Hand him back to me—Pa." Joe struggled to be free of the big man's grasp and the jacket fell to the ground. Ben reluctantly handed Joe back to Adam. Joe, his hands like small claws, desperately grabbed Adam and then he wrapped his thin arms around Adam's neck, wrapped his legs around Adam's waist, and hooked his bare ankles together.
Hoss came running out of the barn at the sound of Joe's cries and stood open-mouthed looking at the oddly-dressed boy who tried to hide his face in Adam's neck.
"Where did you find him? Where did you find Joseph?" Ben asked question after question. "Where has Joe been?" Ben's hands fluttered around Joe like butterflies around a blossom before they land. Ben's arms ached to hold Joe, his hands to touch the tumbled curls. He wanted to kiss his son, to have Joe cry for his father and call him Papa as he had when he was small. It had never been "Pa" as it had been for Hoss and Adam but "Papa," like "Mama" for his mother.
Ben had envisioned this day for so long—the day when Joe would return, when he had his son back but that his son feared him, his baby son, broke his heart.
"Pa, let's go inside. I'll explain what I know. Hoss, put this horse away, would you? Feed him and rub him down." Adam still held Joe who seemed to have a death grip on his older brother.
"Is that Joe?" Hoss asked having heard his father cry out Joe's name. "Where'd he come from, Adam? Why'd he yell and scream like that? What's wrong with 'im?"
Ben spoke up, wiping away his tears. "Hoss, go tend to the horse and then come in. Please."
"But, Pa…" Hoss had no idea what was happening. First Adam shows up and he has a boy with him who his father says is Joe. And now his father cried and Hoss was confused.
"Hoss, just do it. Take care of the horse." Ben realized that he raised his voice at Hoss but he didn't have the time to be patient.
"Yes, sir," Hoss said, his lower lip jutting out. Even at eleven years old, he still pouted when he was displeased.
Once inside, Adam sat on the settee; Joe still hadn't looked around, still clung to Adam.
"Kwan Yin merciful goddess," Hop Sing said, grinning through the tears that flowed down his cheeks. "Hop Sing send up incense as offering to generous one and she answer prayer—lost bird return to nest. Merciful Kwan Yin."
"Hop Sing," Adam said, "would you bring a glass of milk and some cookies. Joe hasn't eaten much but jerky and hard tack."
Ben sat beside Adam and Joe on the settee, his eyes brimming with unshed tears, a marked contrast to the tremulous smile.
"It is Joseph, Adam. It's my boy, my boy. Oh, my God, Adam. Where did you find him?" He touched Joe's hair and Joe hunched up his shoulders to try to avoid the touch.
"It's a long story, Pa, and I only know part of it but…he's seen a lot, Pa, and most of it, if what I observed is consistent, has been bad. He hasn't spoken to me. His yelling outside is the first sound I've heard him make."
Hop Sing came back out with the milk and a plate of almond cookies.
"For you, Littul Joe. Hop Sing make cookies and here big glass of milk." Hop Sing placed them on the table and then stepped back smiling, He wanted to see Little Joe eat.
Adam gently pulled Joe's arms from around his neck but still held him. Joe was shaking like a frightened animal. "Here, drink some milk." Adam reached for the glass and then held it in front of Joe who looked first at Adam. Adam nodded and then Joe grabbed the milk and began to gulp it down, milk running over the sides of the glass and down his chin.
"Adam he….he's so thin. He must be starving."
"We're both a little hungry, Pa." And Adam, who had retrieved the plate of cookies, held them for Joe who grabbed one off the plate, watching Ben as if expecting him to take the sweet wafers away, and shoved it in his mouth, rapidly chewing and swallowing and then took another. And Adam watched Joe eat, his own stomach rumbling with hunger.
I pulled up in the yard and even before I could dismount, Pa was there. He was surprised to see me. I could feel Joe tighten with fear. On the ride I had talked to Joe about my being his brother and I don't know if he believed me or not but after a while, he wasn't afraid of me. Maybe it was just that he was happy to have left the brothers and the situation—I don't know and he never told me.
Traveling with Joe, I avoided towns because I didn't know if anyone would recognize Joe and claim he had been taken from the brothers. Zechariah and the others must have sold their shine to someone, must have had customers. I couldn't take any chances. I wouldn't lose Joe twice.
When we'd stop for the night, I'd hold him next to me and wrap the blanket around us both but he stank like a wet dog. He had grime in the creases of his neck and his nails were filthy. The soles of his feet didn't look as if they would ever be clean. But I didn't care. He'd wake me up making small cries and I would just lie there, holding him and wonder what terrors he had seen and what his dreams were that he should make such sounds.
Oh, Joe—I love you so much. You're so small and so precious to me. I was cruel, ignored you as a baby because Pa cooed over you and you were Marie's brat. She slapped me when I said that and I just stood and stared at her, pretending it hadn't hurt but it stung.
"Marie, what is it? What did Adam do?"
Oh, Pa, you were so feckless. Marie had beauty and soft skin and the scent of gardenias followed her. I wanted to love her as my mother but I couldn't. I couldn't betray Inger like you did; you loved someone else after her but I stayed true.
"Oh, Ben, he called Joseph a brat! Said that he was my brat." A woman's tears, the greatest tool in manipulating men—well, actually the second. I knew what was the first.
"Adam, why did you say that? How can you call your new brother a brat?"
Because you allowed that woman into our house, into our lives and into your bed. Because I'm too old and too awkward and I feel things that I can't explain. I want to be loved but I'm no baby, no sweet-faced cherub. Love me, Pa—show me that you do. But I didn't say any of those things—I said nothing and my silence infuriated him. Get to your room and you can stay there until you apologize!
We ride and Joe says nothing. I ask him if he wants to help with the reins but he just shakes his head no. His curls bounce. But during the day as the horse plods along, Joe looks up at me and I see in the depth of his hazel eyes, a type of understanding. It's as if he's some changeling, as if I'm trying to fool Pa by returning a boy who's not his and for a mere second, I have doubts.
And now we were in front of the Ponderosa and I saw Pa's face, the sudden recognition in his eyes when he saw Joe—and then, something else. It was closest to relief but more than that—it was a surrender of a type, as if all this time he had borne up under such a horror of grief that now he could collapse. And Hop Sing, he came out too, probably to see "Mistah Adam" but then he saw Pa and saw Little Joe and I didn't really matter. But I'm older and I can understand such things so I handed Joe down to Pa's waiting arms, Pa's eyes filling with tears, Hop Sing helping support him, and Pa clasped Joe next to him, beginning to croon to his lost son who was now found. But Joe let out the most God-forsaken, ear-splitting screech that I was shocked. I jumped down off my horse and took Joe back and he clung to me in absolute terror, his small body shaking.
Pa looked devastated. I wanted to comfort him, to tell him that it was just because Joe knew me longer but secretly—and I don't even want to admit it to myself—I was happy that Joe wanted me. I had taken care of him, fed him, kept him warm at night and I had grown to love him so much that God forgive me, I don't think I could ever love my own children more. But Pa, he was crushed-devastated. I was afraid for him.
I took Joe inside and Hop Sing was talking about a merciful goddess. If she is so merciful, I wanted to say to him, why did she allow Joe to become lost and stolen away by those men and be treated the way he was? Answer me that. But instead I asked for food for Joe-milk and cookies. Long ago, Joe ate milk and cookies as a snack before bed and maybe sitting in the room with Pa and Hop Sing and Hoss, once he came in, the taste of the food would bring it all back.
Smells and tastes, they evoke memories. I read that in one of my textbooks and I found it to be true. Whenever I go into a barn, any barn, I have strange memories—some good, some not. I like the smell of hay and tack-even horse dung. And I also remember kissing Bethany Graves in her father's barn. But I also think of when Pa would take me out and paddle me. I don't know why he took me out to the barn to punish me—maybe so I wouldn't think of being punished when I went to my room but then, he would often send me to my room like he did that time I called Joe a brat.
I finally convinced Joe to drink the milk and eat the cookies—but once he started, he ate like an animal, crumbs falling on his lap and mine since I held him. And Pa watched, leaning in to see Joe and Pa's hands moved involuntarily; Pa wanted to hold Joe so badly, so very badly. But he reached out again and Joe scrambled to the other side of me.
"Give him time, Pa. Give him time." I realized then the oddest thing-that I wanted to take my Pa in my arms, hold him and comfort him the way I had Joe. That surprised me as I had always looked to my Pa for reassurance but the desire was so overwhelming that I reached out and touched my father's face. He looked at me with his dark eyes and I whispered, "It'll just take time, Pa. He'll love you again." And I wanted to add, "as much as I love you. But I was grown and men don't say such things to one another—even if they are father and son.