chapter 4

undergo an operation, and afterward—well, she would

be her “old self” again. Was it possible—the tension, the

withdrawals, the pillow-muted sobbing behind locked

doors, all due to an out-of-order backbone? If so, then Mr.

Clutter could, when addressing his Thanksgiving table,

recite a blessing of unmarred gratitude.

Ordinarily, Mr. Clutter’s mornings began at six-thirty;

clanging milk pails and the whispery chatter of the boys

who brought them, two sons of a hired man named Vic

Irsik, usually roused him. But today he lingered, let Vic

Irsik’s sons come and leave, for the previous evening, a

Friday the thirteenth, had been a tiring one, though in part

exhilarating. Bonnie had resurrected her “old self”; as if

serving up a preview of the normality, the regained vigor,

soon to be, she had rouged her lips, fussed with her hair,

and, wearing a new dress, accompanied him to the

Holcomb School, where they applauded a student

production of Tom Sawyer, in which Nancy played Becky

Thatcher. He had enjoyed it, seeing Bonnie out in public,

nervous but nonetheless smiling, talking to people, and they

both had been proud of Nancy; she had done so well,

remembering all her lines, and looking, as he had said to

her in the course of backstage congratulations, “Just

beautiful, honey—a real Southern belle.” Whereupon Nancy

had behaved like one; curtsying in her hoop-skirted

costume, she had asked if she might drive into GardenCity. The State Theatre was having a special, eleven-thirty,

Friday-the-thirteenth “Spook Show,” and all her friends

were going. In other circumstances Mr. Clutter would have

refused. His laws were laws, and one of them was: Nancy —and Kenyon, too—must be home by ten on week nights,

by twelve on Saturdays. But weakened by the genial events

of the evening, he had consented. And Nancy had not

returned home until almost two. He had heard her come in,

and had called to her, for though he was not a man ever

really to raise his voice, he had some plain things to say to

her, statements that concerned less the lateness of the hour

than the youngster who had driven her home—a school

basketball hero, Bobby Rupp.Mr. Clutter liked Bobby, and considered him, for a boy his

age, which was seventeen, most dependable and

gentlemanly; however, in the three years she had been

permitted “dates,” Nancy, popular and pretty as she was,

had never gone out with anyone else, and while Mr. Clutter

understood that it was the present national adolescent

custom to form couples, to “go steady” and wear

“engagement rings,” he disapproved, particularly since he

had not long ago, by accident, surprised his daughter and

the Rupp boy kissing. He had then suggested that Nancy

discontinue “seeing so much of Bobby,” advising her that a

slow retreat now would hurt less than an abrupt severance

later—for, as he reminded her, it was a parting that must

continued ~

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