East of Eden

From the willow two crouching boys crept. They carried four-foot bows, and tufts of arrows stuck their feathers up from the quivers behind their left shoulders. They were dressed in overalls and faded blue shirts, but each boy wore one perfect turkey tailfeather tied with tape against his temple.

The boys moved cautiously, bending low, self-consciously toeing-in like Indians. The rabbit’s flutter of death was finished when they bent over to examine their victim.

“Right through the heart,” said Cal as though it could not be any other way. Aron looked down and said nothing. “I’m going to say you did it,” Cal went on. “I won’t take credit. And I’ll say it was a hard shot.”

“Well, it was,” said Aron.

“Well, I’m telling you. I’ll give you credit to Lee and to Father.”

“I don’t know as I want credit—not all of it,” said Aron. “Tell you what. If we get another one we’ll say we each hit one, and if we don’t get any more, why don’t we say we both shot together and we don’t know who hit?”

“Don’t you want credit?” Cal asked subtly.

“Well, not full credit. We could divide it up.”

“After all, it was my arrow,” said Cal.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“You look at the feathers. See that nick? That’s mine.”

“How did it get in my quiver? I don’t remember any nick.”

“Maybe you don’t remember. But I’m going to give you credit anyway.”

Aron said gratefully, “No, Cal. I don’t want that. We’ll say we both shot at once.”

“Well, if that’s what you want. But suppose Lee sees it was my arrow?”

“We’ll just say it was in my quiver.”

“You think he’ll believe that? He’ll think you’re lying.”

Aron said helplessly, “If he thinks you shot it, why, we’ll just let him think that.”

“I just wanted you to know,” said Cal. “Just in case he’d think that.” He drew the arrow through the rabbit so that the white feathers were dark red with heart blood. He put the arrow in his quiver. “You can carry him,” he said magnanimously.

“We ought to start back,” said Aron. “Maybe Father is back by now.”

Cal said, “We could cook that old rabbit and have him for our supper and stay out all night.”

“It’s too cold at night, Cal. Don’t you remember how you shivered this morning?”

“It’s not too cold for me,” said Cal. “I never feel cold.”

“You did this morning.”

“No, I didn’t. I was just making fun of you, shivering and chattering like a milk baby. Do you want to call me a liar?”

“No,” said Aron. “I don’t want to fight.”

“Afraid to fight?”

“No. I just don’t want to.”

“If I was to say you was scared, would you want to call me a liar?”

“No.”

“Then you’re scared, aren’t you?”

“I guess so.”

Aron wandered slowly away, leaving the rabbit on the ground. His eyes were very wide and he had a beautiful soft mouth. The width between his blue eyes gave him an expression of angelic innocence. His hair was fine and golden. The sun seemed to light up the top of his head.

He was puzzled—but he was often puzzled. He knew his brother was getting at something, but he didn’t know what. Cal was an enigma to him. He could not follow the reasoning of his brother, and he was always surprised at the tangents it took.

Cal looked more like Adam. His hair was dark brown. He was bigger than his brother, bigger of bone, heavier in the shoulder, and his jaw had the square sternness of Adam’s jaw. Cal’s eyes were brown and watchful, and sometimes they sparkled as though they were black. But Cal’s hands were very small for the size of the rest of him. The fingers were short and slender, the nails delicate. Cal protected his hands. There were few things that could make him cry, but a cut finger was one of them. He never ventured with his hands, never touched an insect or carried a snake about. And in a fight he picked up a rock or a stick to fight with.

As Cal watched his brother walking away from him there was a small sure smile on his lips. He called, “Aron, wait for me!”

When he caught up with his brother he held out the rabbit. “You can carry it,” he said kindly, putting his arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Don’t be mad with me.”

“You always want to fight,” said Aron.

“No, I don’t. I was only making a joke.”

“Were you?”

“Sure. Look—you can carry the rabbit. And we’ll start back now if you want.”

Aron smiled at last. He was always relieved when his brother let the tension go. The two boys trudged up out of the river bottom and up the crumbling cliff to the level land. Aron’s right trouser leg was well bloodied from the rabbit.

Cal said, “They’ll be surprised we got a rabbit. If Father’s home, let’s give it to him. He likes a rabbit for his supper.”

“All right,” Aron said happily. “Tell you what. We’ll both give it to him and we won’t say which one hit it.”

“All right, if you want to,” said Cal.

They walked along in silence for a time and then Cal said, “All this is our land—way to hell over the river.”

“It’s Father’s.”

“Yes, but when he dies it’s going to be ours.”

This was a new thought to Aron. “What do you mean, when he dies?”

“Everybody dies,” said Cal. “Like Mr. Hamilton. He died.”

“Oh, yes,” Aron said. “Yes, he died.” He couldn’t connect the two—the dead Mr. Hamilton and the live father.

“They put him in a box and then they dig a hole and put the box in,” said Cal.

“I know that.” Aron wanted to change the subject, to think of something else.

Cal said, “I know a secret.”

“What is it?”

“You’d tell.”

“No, I wouldn’t, if you said not.”

“I don’t know if I ought.”

“Tell me,” Aron begged.

“You won’t tell?”

“No, I won’t.”

Cal said, “Where do you think our mother is?”

“She’s dead.”