《圣诞忆旧集》 精彩选载
《圣诞忆旧集》 感恩节来客(英文)(1)

    A lively day, that Thanksgiving. Lively with on-and-  off  showers  and  abrupt  sky  clearings  accompanied  by  thrusts  of  raw  sun  and  sudden  bandit  winds  snatching  autumn’s leftover leaves.

    The noises of the house were lovely, too: pots and  pans and Uncle B.’s unused and rusty voice as he stood  in  the  hall  in  his  creaking  Sunday  suit,  greeting  our  guests  as  they  arrived.  A  few  came  by  horseback  or  mule-drawn  wagon,  the  majority  in  shined-up  farm  trucks  and  rackety  flivvers.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Conklin  and  their four beautiful daughters drove up in a mint-green 1932 Chevrolet (Mr. Conklin  was  well  off;  he   owned  several  fishing  smackers  that  operated  out  of  Mobile),  an object which aroused warm curiosity among the men  present; they studied and poked it and all but took it apart.

    The first  guests  to  arrive  were  Mrs.  Mary  Taylor  Wheelwright,  escorted  by  her  custodians,  a  grandson  and   his  wife.  She   was  a   pretty  little   thing,  Mrs. Wheelwright; she wore her age as lightly as the tiny red  bonnet  that,  like  the  cherry  on  a  vanilla  sundae,  sat  perkily atop her milky hair. “Darlin’ Bobby,” she said,  hugging  Uncle B., “I realize we’re an itty-bit early, but  you know me, always punctual to a fault.” Which was an  apology  deserved,  for  it  was  not  yet  nine  o’clock  and  guests weren’t expected much before noon.

    However, everybody arrived earlier than we intended—except the Perk McCloud family, who suffered two  blowouts in the space of thirty miles and arrived in such  a stomping  temper,  particularly  Mr.  McCloud,  that  we  feared  for  the  china.  Most  of  these  people  lived  year-round in lonesome  places  hard  to  get  away  from:  isolated farms, whistle-stops and crossroads, empty river  hamlets or lumber-camp communities deep in the pine  forests; so of course it was eagerness that caused them to   be  early,  primed  for  an  affectionate  and  memorable  gathering.

    And so it was. Some while ago, I had a letter from one  of  the  Conklin  sisters,  now  the  wife  of  a  naval  captain  and living in San Diego; she wrote: “I think of you often  around this time of year, I suppose because of what happened  at  one  of  our  Alabama  Thanksgivings.  It  was  a  few  years  before  Miss  Sook  died—would  it  be 1933?  Golly, I’ll never forget that day.”

    By noon, not another soul could be accommodated  in the parlor, a hive humming with women’s tattle and  womanly  aromas:  Mrs.  Wheelwright  smelled   of  lilac  water  and  Annabel  Conklin  like  geraniums  after  rain.  The odor of tobacco fanned out across the porch, where  most  of  the  men  had  clustered,  despite  the  wavering  weather, the alternations between sprinkles of rain and  sunlit wind squalls. Tobacco was a substance alien to the  setting; true, Miss Sook now and again secretly dipped  snuff, a taste acquired under unknown tutelage and one  she  refused   to   discuss;  her sisters  would   have  been  mortified had they suspected, and Uncle B., too, for he  took a harsh stand on all stimulants, condemning them  morally and medically.

    The virile redolence  of  cigars,  the  pungent  nip  of  pipe  smoke,  the  tortoiseshell  richness  they  evoked,  constantly  lured  me  out  of  the  parlor  onto  the  porch,  though it was the parlor I preferred, due to the presence  of the Conklin sisters, who played by turn our untuned  piano with a gifted, rollicking lack of airs. “Indian Love  Call” was among their repertoire, and also a 1918 war  ballad, the lament of a child pleading with a house thief,  entitled “Don’t Steal Daddy’s Medals, He Won T hem  for  Bravery.” Annabel  played  and  sang  it;  she  was  the  oldest  of  the  sisters  and  the  loveliest,  though  it  was  a  chore to  pick among  them, for  they were like quadruplets of unequal height. One thought of apples, compact  and  flavorful,  sweet  but  cider-tart;  their  hair,  loosely  plaited,  had   the  blue  luster   of  a  well-groomed ebony  racehorse,  and  certain  features,  eyebrows,  noses,  lips  when   smiling,  titled   in   an   original  style   that  added humor to their charms. T he nicest thing was that they  were  a  bit plump: “pleasingly plump” describes it precisely.

    It was while listening to Annabel at the piano, and  falling in love with her, that I felt Odd Henderson. I say  felt because  I  was  aware  of  him  before  I  saw  him:  the  sense of peril that warns, say, an experienced woodsman  of  an  impending  encounter  with  a  rattler  or  bobcat  alerted me.