Main Street, Sinclair Lewis [red white and royal blue hardcover txt] 📗

with his dairy. He had six cows, two hundred chickens, a cream separator, a Ford truck. In the spring he had built a two-room addition to his shack. That illustrious building was to Hugh a carnival. Uncle Miles did the most spectacular, unexpected things: ran up the ladder; stood on the ridgepole, waving a hammer and singing something about “To arms, my citizens”; nailed shingles faster than Aunt Bessie could iron handkerchiefs; and lifted a two-by-six with Hugh riding on one end and Olaf on the other. Uncle Miles’s most ecstatic trick was to make figures not on paper but right on a new pine board, with the broadest softest pencil in the world. There was a thing worth seeing!

The tools! In his office Father had tools fascinating in their shininess and curious shapes, but they were sharp, they were something called “sterized,” and they distinctly were not for boys to touch. In fact it was a good dodge to volunteer “I must not touch,” when you looked at the tools on the glass shelves in Father’s office. But Uncle Miles, who was a person altogether superior to Father, let you handle all his kit except the saws. There was a hammer with a silver head; there was a metal thing like a big L; there was a magic instrument, very precious, made out of costly red wood and gold, with a tube which contained a drop⁠—no, it wasn’t a drop, it was a nothing, which lived in the water, but the nothing looked like a drop, and it ran in a frightened way up and down the tube, no matter how cautiously you tilted the magic instrument. And there were nails, very different and clever⁠—big valiant spikes, middle-sized ones which were not very interesting, and shingle-nails much jollier than the fussed-up fairies in the yellow book.

II

While he had worked on the addition Miles had talked frankly to Carol. He admitted now that so long as he stayed in Gopher Prairie he would remain a pariah. Bea’s Lutheran friends were as much offended by his agnostic gibes as the merchants by his radicalism. “And I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut. I think I’m being a baa-lamb, and not springing any theories wilder than ‘c-a-t spells cat,’ but when folks have gone, I re’lize I’ve been stepping on their pet religious corns. Oh, the mill foreman keeps dropping in, and that Danish shoemaker, and one fellow from Elder’s factory, and a few Svenskas, but you know Bea: big good-hearted wench like her wants a lot of folks around⁠—likes to fuss over ’em⁠—never satisfied unless she tiring herself out making coffee for somebody.

“Once she kidnapped me and drug me to the Methodist Church. I goes in, pious as Widow Bogart, and sits still and never cracks a smile while the preacher is favoring us with his misinformation on evolution. But afterwards, when the old stalwarts were pumphandling everybody at the door and calling ’em ‘Brother’ and ‘Sister,’ they let me sail right by with nary a clinch. They figure I’m the town badman. Always will be, I guess. It’ll have to be Olaf who goes on. And sometimes⁠—Blamed if I don’t feel like coming out and saying, ‘I’ve been conservative. Nothing to it. Now I’m going to start something in these rotten one-horse lumber-camps west of town.’ But Bea’s got me hypnotized. Lord, Mrs. Kennicott, do you re’lize what a jolly, square, faithful woman she is? And I love Olaf⁠—Oh well, I won’t go and get sentimental on you.

“Course I’ve had thoughts of pulling up stakes and going West. Maybe if they didn’t know it beforehand, they wouldn’t find out I’d ever been guilty of trying to think for myself. But⁠—oh, I’ve worked hard, and built up this dairy business, and I hate to start all over again, and move Bea and the kid into another one-room shack. That’s how they get us! Encourage us to be thrifty and own our own houses, and then, by golly, they’ve got us; they know we won’t dare risk everything by committing lez⁠—what is it? lez majesty?⁠—I mean they know we won’t be hinting around that if we had a cooperative bank, we could get along without Stowbody. Well⁠—As long as I can sit and play pinochle with Bea, and tell whoppers to Olaf about his daddy’s adventures in the woods, and how he snared a wapaloosie and knew Paul Bunyan, why, I don’t mind being a bum. It’s just for them that I mind. Say! Say! Don’t whisper a word to Bea, but when I get this addition done, I’m going to buy her a phonograph!”

He did.

While she was busy with the activities her work-hungry muscles found⁠—washing, ironing, mending, baking, dusting, preserving, plucking a chicken, painting the sink; tasks which, because she was Miles’s full partner, were exciting and creative⁠—Bea listened to the phonograph records with rapture like that of cattle in a warm stable. The addition gave her a kitchen with a bedroom above. The original one-room shack was now a living-room, with the phonograph, a genuine leather-upholstered golden-oak rocker, and a picture of Governor John Johnson.

In late July Carol went to the Bjornstams’ desirous of a chance to express her opinion of Beavers and Calibrees and Joralemons. She found Olaf abed, restless from a slight fever, and Bea flushed and dizzy but trying to keep up her work. She lured Miles aside and worried:

“They don’t look at all well. What’s the matter?”

“Their stomachs are out of whack. I wanted to call in Doc Kennicott, but Bea thinks the doc doesn’t like us⁠—she thinks maybe he’s sore because you come down here. But I’m getting worried.”

“I’m going to call the doctor at once.”

She yearned over Olaf. His lambent eyes were stupid, he moaned, he rubbed his forehead.

“Have they been eating something that’s been bad for them?” she fluttered to Miles.

“Might be bum water. I’ll tell you: We used to get our water at Oscar Eklund’s place, over across