Yellow light filtered through the cracked slats of the stable walls. The horses were uneasy, and occasionally dragged their hooves against the ground, kicking up particles of hay that floated in the air. As the day passed, the slivers of light shifted across the barn’s floor, a natural sundial on the lazy Sunday before work would resume. The clinking of horseshoes continued from outside, and two men entered the stable from the side opposite the crowd, their hats in their hands.
The first man was beaten down, his shoulders were slumped, as if he had conceded something of great importance. The second man was younger, but it was clear his years had been hard, and he moved his small eyes around the room, quickly, in search of a very specific goal.
“Why’d you bring me in here?” the second man said, concern in his voice.
The old man raised the stump where his hand should have been, and simply pointed at the large bale of hay that dominated the open area of the stable. The young man began moving towards it, a bit of desperation in his stride.
He found her after the first few steps. He stopped, only for a moment, and then he squatted down in front of her.
Hay had been haphazardly placed over her face, but even so, it was clear to see that her neck was situated at a strange angle. Her white skin stood in stark contrast to the deep red dress she wore, and when he removed the hay from her face, he noticed that her lipstick matched her dress. Her normally tight curls were still in place, save for a few that had been mussed against the haybale.
“I found her a few minutes ago, do you think he did it?” The old man’s voice came out with obvious sadness.
The younger man, the sharp-faced man, didn’t respond other than to shrug his shoulders, as he reached out his hand and held it under her nose.
“She ain’t breathin’,” he began, mostly to himself. He moved his hand to her neck, and felt the unnatural lump of bone, jutting out from the spine, “Her neck’s been bust. He coulda done that.” That was when he saw the puppy, broken like the girl, and discarded to the side; it was also hastily covered with hay. Candy saw it as well. He looked back at the old man, and his face was intentionally unreadable, like he was at a card table. It was a test.
“What’re we gonna do, George?” the old man asked.
“Let me think,” George responded, “just gimme a minute.”
The two men stood still, gauging their options, and then George spoke again, his words chosen carefully.
“What’ll they do to him if they get him?”
The old man looked up from staring at the ground, and his expression was one of fear. “Curley’s gonna want to kill him. Especially after what he done to Curley’s hand.”
George took this as confirmation, “I think you’re right, Candy, I think Curley’s gonna want him dead. You know I can’t let that happen.” He was still testing Candy, to see how far his allegiance lay.
“I know George,” Candy responded, desperately attempting to get George to trust him, “That ain’t no good.”
“Okay, I got a plan, but it ain’t nice. I think it’ll work, but you gotta trust me.”
“Okay George, okay.” The old man was resigned to George like a dog. “Let’s just do it then.”
` George began rooting around the stable until he found a long rope. Candy stood and watched trying to figure what he was up to. George finally found a long snaking piece of hemp line, and threw the bulk of it over one of the stables rafters, while he held on to one end.
Realization began to creep onto Candy’s face.
“The way I figure it,” George began, “this tart has been spending every day of the last month of her life complainin’, and cryin’, and carryin’ on.”
Candy nodded.
“Maybe she came in here, and finally decided to end it. Find me a chair or a stool.”
Candy moved off in search of George’s request.
George took one end of the rope and began to tie the knot, he looped the rope, and threaded the loop through the coils he had created. Candy returned with a milking stool, and George showed him the noose he had made.
“I’m gonna go get her, and bring her to the stool. You just put this around her neck, and I’ll do the rest.”
“Okay, George,” Candy’s voice had gotten smaller.
George went to the body of Curley’s wife, he stood over her before picking her up. “I’m sorry about this,” he whispered, “but we don’t need this to get any worse. I’m not gonna let this happen again. We’re gonna get that old house, and not you or anyone else is gonna stop us.” There was a fierce gleam in his eyes, as the defiant proclamation rang though him, and he picked her up, easily, like she was a leaf. He could smell her perfume, even over the general stink of the stable.
He brought her over to Candy, who put the noose around her neck, and then he placed her on the ground.
“We need to make sure this looks right,” he began, “I’ll start pulling her up, you tell me when her feet would have reached the top of the stool.”
“Okay”
George walked under the beam and grabbed the slack of the rope. He found a place to secure it, and began to raise the body up.
“Hold it George!”
He stopped and watched as Candy began to meticulously pick off the bits of hay that clung to her dress. After a few minutes, he looked back to George and nodded. George knew then that Candy had made his decision.
George smiled.
He pulled her up a few more inches, and her feet came free from the ground as George took on her full weight. He brought her up to the proper height, and Candy flashed him a thumbs up. George tied the rope off on a support beam, keeping the knot simple, and released the rope.
Curley’s wife hung from the rafter in the dying afternoon. She swung in slow, loping circles, and her neck seemed longer than it once had been. The two men stood there, only for a moment, and then continued planning. The horses began to whinny and stamp their hooves in anxiety.
“What’s next, George? What do we do?”
George turned, and picked up the dead puppy from the haybale, kicking and scattering the hay where the woman and dog had been covered. He turned back to Candy.
“We gotta make sure this don’t land on Lennie. Lennie ain’t done this outta meanness. He probably just got confused. We can’t let nobody, ‘specially Curley, know what happened.”
Candy nodded, and George continued.
“I’ll go out to the bunk house, put the dog under Lennie’s bedroll. I’ll wait ‘til one of the guys comes in there, and then I’ll find it in front of one a them.”
Candy turned his head to the side, trying to deduce the meaning.
“When I find it, I’ll start askin’ around about Lennie, and then I’ll tell the guys about this place I told him to go if we got in trouble. When I find him, I’ll make sure he don’t talk to nobody about Curley’s wife; I’ll convince him she kilt herself.”
Curley continued nodding. “We gotta be careful George, we gotta get to that little house,” repeating it softly, as if it was a mantra.
Now George was nodding. “I know Candy, and we will, but we gotta be all over Lennie from here on out. He can’t be nowhere or go nowhere without you or me.” He placed his hand on Candy’s shoulder, “We’re gonna do this, I promise, but we can’t make no more mistakes.”
Candy was reassured, and he smiled, his mind on the little house, and the thick cream, and even the rabbits.
“As far as she’s concerned,” he motioned to the hanging girl, “you go out to the guys after I leave for Lennie, and tell them what you found. The longer you can hold off the better.”
“Okay George, I’ve got it.”
George left the stable, tucking the puppy under his jacket like Lennie had done before. He got to the empty bunkhouse, placed the puppy under Lennie’s bedroll, and sat at the square table at the center of the room. He sighed audibly, and relaxed in the chair, picking up the pack of cards and setting his solitaire lay.
He had placed two aces when Slim entered the bunkhouse.
“Hey there George,” Slim said, walking to his bunk.
“Hey Slim, you seen Lennie?”
“Naw, we been playing horseshoes for the past hour or so.”
George used this opportunity to get up, and walked over to Lennie’s bunk. He moved the top blanket away, revealing the dead puppy.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, allowing a hint of anger into his voice.
“What is it George?” Slim asked.
“Lennie kilt his pup.” He held up the dead puppy, limp in his hand, “I bet I know where he is.”
“Where’s that George?”
“I tol’ him that if he got in trouble, like he done in Weed, that he was to go to a spot a few miles from here, where we camped out the night before we got to the ranch.”
“It’s just a dog George, why would he think he was in trouble?”
“He’s afraid I’ll be sore at him. You’ve seen him with that pup, he’s probably crying in the woods right now, thinking I’ll be cross with him. Dumb bastard.,” George forced a smile at the end of his small tirade.
“Guess you better go get him then,” Slim returned the smile.
“Guess you’re right.” George put on his hat and his jean jacket, and headed out the door of the bunkhouse. “Be back in a bit Slim.”
“Take your time, it’s Sunday.”
George turned and left the bunkhouse, moving past the game of horseshoes, and giving Candy a slight nod as he walked by.
He walked through the ranch gates, and after about a mile, turned into the brush. He descended the slope, felt the crackle of fallen leaves under his feet, and began calling for Lennie. He thought about what had happened. He went over it in his head, checked for mistakes, things he had overlooked. Everything was fixed. As long as Candy and he could stay on Lennie, they’d make it through the month, take their money, and be on their way.
The little house. It had started as a dream, but become a reality so suddenly, so improbably. It was fate, he decided.
He reached the creek and a smile began to break across his face. He saw a small watersnake moving in the water, unsuspecting, toward a solitary wren. The snake’s head moved back and forth, but mistook the wren’s legs for reeds. George watched the wren slowly move its beak to strike, and he clapped loudly, scaring the bird to a sudden, jerky movement, which sent the snake in the opposite direction. The wren took George in, seemingly in annoyance, and beat its wings, taking off down river.
George began to shout again for Lennie, but then he saw him in the distance.
George began jogging over to him, calling out to him in the nicest tone he could manage. “Lennie! Lennie! It’s okay, I’m here, it’s okay.”
Lennie wasn’t moving.
He was on his knees facing the creek. His shoulders were slumped and he was staring of into the distant hills of the Gabilan Mountains.
George stood at his side. “Lennie, hey, Lennie,” George felt that frustration rising within him, but checked it. He had to make Lennie understand about the girl. He had to make him understand about the plan, how it could continue. How there would still be the house and the cream and the rain on the roof and the rabbits, most of all the rabbits.
Lennie’s head began to rise, and he turned to face George. He broke into a grand, slow grin. It took up almost all of his face. “Ain’ you gonna give me Hell?” Lennie asked.
And then George saw the side of Lennie’s head, where the bullet had come through. There was a dark flash of blood all down Lennie’s side, but he kept looking at George with those big, dumb eyes, and George was screaming now, screaming and looking at the gun in his hand, and he dropped the gun, still screaming, and his hand began to shake. A quaking, rocking shudder over took his body, and he saw himself pulling the trigger, pulling it a thousand times and the blood and the shattered bones and brains, and always the shaking hand that never stopped.
***
George pulled his head up from the bar. The month’s old beard on his face holding the drool from his mouth. Slim looked over at him, his brow furrowed.
“Time to go George, I think you’ve had enough.”
George got up from the bar stool, laid his week’s wages on the bar, and let Slim walk him to the door. He looked down at his right hand, and put it in his pocket, hoping the shaking would ever stop, but knowing it wouldn’t.
