Peyton Place

BOOK THREE

BOOK THREE The nearest that Kenny Stearns could ever come to describing Indian summer in northern New England was to say that it was "a pretty time/' It was also, for Kenny, a busy one. There was always a multitude of last-minute chores to be done before winter set in; lawns to be mowed for the last time, mowers to be oiled and stored, leaves to be burned and hedges in need of one last clipping. But to Kenny Stearns, Indian summer offered a bonus other than her beauty and the time of the last warm spell. During this short time of sun and color before winter, Kenny was always aglow with the satisfaction of a season's work well done. As he walked down Elm Street on a^Friday afternoon late in October, 1943, Kenny glanced at all the lawns and shrubs which lined the main thoroughfare and for which he had cared during the previous spring and summer. He seemed to notice every blade of grass and every twig and branch, and he spoke to all of them as he might have done to pretty, wellgroomed children. "Hello there, Congregational lawn. You look mighty fine today," said Kenny, smiling fondly. "Afternoon, little green hedge. Need a haircut, dontcha? I'll see what I can do for you tomorrow mornin'." The old men who roosted on benches in front of the courthouse, taking advantage of the last warm sunshine of the year, opened drowsy eyes to watch Kenny. "There goes Kenny Stearns," said one old man, and took a gold watch from his pocket. "Headin' for the schools. Must be gettin' on for three o'clock." "Lookit 'im, noddin' and grinnin' and talkin' to that hedge. He ain't right in the head. Never was." "I wouldn't say that," said Clayton Frazier, who was much older and feebler now, but who still loved to argue. "Kenny was always all right 'til his accident. He's still all right. Mebbe drinks a little more, but he ain't the only one that drinks in this town." "Accident, my arsel That wa'nt no accident when Kenny got his 264 foot cut up. It was the time him and all them fellers went down in his cellar and stayed all winter, and had that brawl and cut each other up with knives. That's how Kenny got that bad foot." " Twa'nt all winter," declared Clayton, imperturbably. " 'Twa'nt more'n five, six weeks that them fellers stayed down there in Kenny's cellar. Anyway, there wa'nt no drunken brawl. Kenny fell down the stairs while he was holdin' his ax and cut himself. That was what happened." "That's his story. I heard different. Don't make no difference what happened anyway. It didn't cure Kenny from drinkin'. I don't guess he's drawed a sober breath in over ten years. No wonder his wife does like she does." "Ginny was never no good," said Clayton, and tipped his old felt hat down over his eyes. "Never. That's what set Kenny to drinkin' in the first place." "Mebbe so. But you can't blame her none for not changin' her ways if he won't change his." "Ginny'd have some changin' to do, I reckon," said Clayton Frazier wanting and getting, as he usually did, the last word. "She was born doin' what she does. Kenny, at least, was born sober." None of the men could think of a suitable rejoinder for this remark , so they turned silently and watched Kenny Stearns turn into Maple Street and walk out of sight. It did not occur to any of them that they had been watching Kenny Stearns turn into Maple Street and walk out of sight every day for years. "Hello, double-headed Quimbys," said Kenny to a row of purple asters. "No, that ain't right. Hold on a minute." Kenny stood for a long moment in front of a large white house on Maple Street which he had helped to paint the previous spring. He scratched at the back of his lined, continually sunburned neck. The window shades in the white house were pulled neatly and evenly to a point halfway between the top and the bottom, and it was this that reminded Kenny. He turned toward the border of asters and bowed formally. " 'Scuse me," he said. "Hello, double-headed Carters. I beg your pardon." He stood still for a moment...