Complete works of willia.., p.84
Complete Works of William Faulkner, page 84
“I aint got dat much,” he says.
“All right,” I says. I dropped one of them in the stove.
“You, Jason,” Dilsey says, “Aint you shamed?”
“Mr Jason,” he says, “Please, suh. I’ll fix dem tires ev’ry day fer a mont’.”
“I need the cash,” I says. “You can have it for a nickel.”
“Hush, Luster,” Dilsey says. She jerked him back. “Go on,” she says, “Drop hit in. Go on. Git hit over with.”
“You can have it for a nickel,” I says.
“Go on,” Dilsey says. “He aint got no nickel. Go on. Drop hit in.”
“All right,” I says. I dropped it in and Dilsey shut the stove.
“A big growed man like you,” she says. “Git on outen my kitchen. Hush,” she says to Luster. “Dont you git Benjy started. I’ll git you a quarter fum Frony tonight and you kin go tomorrow night. Hush up, now.”
I went on into the living room. I couldn’t hear anything from upstairs. I opened the paper. After awhile Ben and Luster came in. Ben went to the dark place on the wall where the mirror used to be, rubbing his hands on it and slobbering and moaning. Luster begun punching at the fire.
“What’re you doing?” I says. “We dont need any fire tonight.”
“I trying to keep him quiet,” he says. “Hit always cold Easter,” he says.
“Only this is not Easter,” I says. “Let it alone.”
He put the poker back and got the cushion out of Mother’s chair and gave it to Ben, and he hunkered down in front of the fireplace and got quiet.
I read the paper. There hadn’t been a sound from upstairs when Dilsey came in and sent Ben and Luster on to the kitchen and said supper was ready.
“All right,” I says. She went out. I sat there, reading the paper. After a while I heard Dilsey looking in at the door.
“Whyn’t you come on and eat?” she says.
“I’m waiting for supper,” I says.
“Hit’s on the table,” she says. “I done told you.”
“Is it?” I says. “Excuse me. I didn’t hear anybody come down.”
“They aint comin,” she says. “You come on and eat, so I can take something up to them.”
“Are they sick?” I says. “What did the doctor say it was? Not Smallpox, I hope.”
“Come on here, Jason,” she says, “So I kin git done.”
“All right,” I says, raising the paper again. “I’m waiting for supper now.”
I could feel her watching me at the door. I read the paper.
“Whut you want to act like this fer?” she says. “When you knows how much bother I has anyway.”
“If Mother is any sicker than she was when she came down to dinner, all right,” I says. “But as long as I am buying food for people younger than I am, they’ll have to come down to the table to eat it. Let me know when supper’s ready,” I says, reading the paper again. I heard her climbing the stairs, dragging her feet and grunting and groaning like they were straight up and three feet apart. I heard her at Mother’s door, then I heard her calling Quentin, like the door was locked, then she went back to Mother’s room and then Mother went and talked to Quentin. Then they came down stairs. I read the paper.
Dilsey came back to the door. “Come on,” she says, “fo you kin think up some mo devilment. You just tryin yoself tonight.”
I went to the diningroom. Quentin was sitting with her head bent. She had painted her face again. Her nose looked like a porcelain insulator.
“I’m glad you feel well enough to come down,” I says to Mother.
“It’s little enough I can do for you, to come to the table,” she says. “No matter how I feel. I realise that when a man works all day he likes to be surrounded by his family at the supper table. I want to please you. I only wish you and Quentin got along better. It would be easier for me.”
“We get along all right,” I says. “I dont mind her staying locked up in her room all day if she wants to. But I cant have all this whoop-de-do and sulking at mealtimes. I know that’s a lot to ask her, but I’m that way in my own house. Your house, I meant to say.”
“It’s yours,” Mother says, “You are the head of it now.”
Quentin hadn’t looked up. I helped the plates and she begun to eat.
“Did you get a good piece of meat?” I says. “If you didn’t, I’ll try to find you a better one.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I say, did you get a good piece of meat?” I says.
“What?” she says. “Yes. It’s all right.”
“Will you have some more rice?” I says.
“No,” she says.
“Better let me give you some more,” I says.
“I dont want any more,” she says.
“Not at all,” I says, “You’re welcome.”
“Is your headache gone?” Mother says.
“Headache?” I says.
“I was afraid you were developing one,” she says. “When you came in this afternoon.”
“Oh,” I says. “No, it didn’t show up. We stayed so busy this afternoon I forgot about it.”
“Was that why you were late?” Mother says. I could see Quentin listening. I looked at her. Her knife and fork were still going, but I caught her looking at me, then she looked at her plate again. I says,
“No. I loaned my car to a fellow about three o’clock and I had to wait until he got back with it.” I ate for a while.
“Who was it?” Mother says.
“It was one of those show men,” I says. “It seems his sister’s husband was out riding with some town woman, and he was chasing them.”
Quentin sat perfectly still, chewing.
“You ought not to lend your car to people like that,” Mother says. “You are too generous with it. That’s why I never call on you for it if I can help it.”
“I was beginning to think that myself, for awhile,” I says. “But he got back, all right. He says he found what he was looking for.”
“Who was the woman?” Mother says.
“I’ll tell you later,” I says. “I dont like to talk about such things before Quentin.”
Quentin had quit eating. Every once in a while she’d take a drink of water, then she’d sit there crumbling a biscuit up, her face bent over her plate.
“Yes,” Mother says, “I suppose women who stay shut up like I do have no idea what goes on in this town.”
“Yes,” I says, “They dont.”
“My life has been so different from that,” Mother says. “Thank God I dont know about such wickedness. I dont even want to know about it. I’m not like most people.”
I didn’t say any more. Quentin sat there, crumbling the biscuit until I quit eating, then she says,
“Can I go now?” without looking at anybody.
“What?” I says. “Sure, you can go. Were you waiting on us?”
She looked at me. She had crumbled all the biscuit, but her hands still went on like they were crumbling it yet and her eyes looked like they were cornered or something and then she started biting her mouth like it ought to have poisoned her, with all that red lead.
“Grandmother,” she says, “Grandmother—”
“Did you want something else to eat?” I says.
“Why does he treat me like this, Grandmother?” she says. “I never hurt him.”
“I want you all to get along with one another,” Mother says, “You are all that’s left now, and I do want you all to get along better.”
“It’s his fault,” she says, “He wont let me alone, and I have to. If he doesn’t want me here, why wont he let me go back to—”
“That’s enough,” I says, “Not another word.”
“Then why wont he let me alone?” she says. “He — he just—”
“He is the nearest thing to a father you’ve ever had,” Mother says. “It’s his bread you and I eat. It’s only right that he should expect obedience from you.”
“It’s his fault,” she says. She jumped up. “He makes me do it. If he would just—” she looked at us, her eyes cornered, kind of jerking her arms against her sides.
“If I would just what?” I says.
“Whatever I do, it’s your fault,” she says. “If I’m bad, it’s because I had to be. You made me. I wish I was dead. I wish we were all dead.” Then she ran. We heard her run up the stairs. Then a door slammed.
“That’s the first sensible thing she ever said,” I says.
“She didn’t go to school today,” Mother says.
“How do you know?” I says. “Were you down town?”
“I just know,” she says. “I wish you could be kinder to her.”
“If I did that I’d have to arrange to see her more than once a day,” I says. “You’ll have to make her come to the table every meal. Then I could give her an extra piece of meat every time.”
“There are little things you could do,” she says.
“Like not paying any attention when you ask me to see that she goes to school?” I says.
“She didn’t go to school today,” she says. “I just know she didn’t. She says she went for a car ride with one of the boys this afternoon and you followed her.”
“How could I,” I says, “When somebody had my car all afternoon? Whether or not she was in school today is already past,” I says, “If you’ve got to worry about it, worry about next Monday.”
“I wanted you and she to get along with one another,” she says. “But she has inherited all of the headstrong traits. Quentin’s too. I thought at the time, with the heritage she would already have, to give her that name, too. Sometimes I think she is the judgment of Caddy and Quentin upon me.”
“Good Lord,” I says, “You’ve got a fine mind. No wonder you kept yourself sick all the time.”
“What?” she says. “I dont understand.”
“I hope not,” I says. “A good woman misses a lot she’s better off without knowing.”
“They were both that way,” she says, “They would make interest with your father against me when I tried to correct them. He was always saying they didn’t need controlling, that they already knew what cleanliness and honesty were, which was all that anyone could hope to be taught. And now I hope he’s satisfied.”
“You’ve got Ben to depend on,” I says, “Cheer up.”
“They deliberately shut me out of their lives,” she says, “It was always her and Quentin. They were always conspiring against me. Against you too, though you were too young to realise it. They always looked on you and me as outsiders, like they did your Uncle Maury. I always told your father that they were allowed too much freedom, to be together too much. When Quentin started to school we had to let her go the next year, so she could be with him. She couldn’t bear for any of you to do anything she couldn’t. It was vanity in her, vanity and false pride. And then when her troubles began I knew that Quentin would feel that he had to do something just as bad. But I didn’t believe that he would have been so selfish as to — I didn’t dream that he—”
“Maybe he knew it was going to be a girl,” I says, “And that one more of them would be more than he could stand.”
“He could have controlled her,” she says. “He seemed to be the only person she had any consideration for. But that is a part of the judgment too, I suppose.”
“Yes,” I says, “Too bad it wasn’t me instead of him. You’d be a lot better off.”
“You say things like that to hurt me,” she says. “I deserve it though. When they began to sell the land to send Quentin to Harvard I told your father that he must make an equal provision for you. Then when Herbert offered to take you into the bank I said, Jason is provided for now, and when all the expense began to pile up and I was forced to sell our furniture and the rest of the pasture, I wrote her at once because I said she will realise that she and Quentin have had their share and part of Jason’s too and that it depends on her now to compensate him. I said she will do that out of respect for her father. I believed that, then. But I’m just a poor old woman; I was raised to believe that people would deny themselves for their own flesh and blood. It’s my fault. You were right to reproach me.”
“Do you think I need any man’s help to stand on my feet?” I says, “Let alone a woman that cant name the father of her own child.”
“Jason,” she says.
“All right,” I says. “I didn’t mean that. Of course not.”
“If I believed that were possible, after all my suffering.”
“Of course it’s not,” I says. “I didn’t mean it.”
“I hope that at least is spared me,” she says.
“Sure it is,” I says, “She’s too much like both of them to doubt that.”
“I couldn’t bear that,” she says.
“Then quit thinking about it,” I says. “Has she been worrying you any more about getting out at night?”
“No. I made her realise that it was for her own good and that she’d thank me for it some day. She takes her books with her and studies after I lock the door. I see the light on as late as eleven oclock some nights.”
“How do you know she’s studying?” I says.
“I don’t know what else she’d do in there alone,” she says. “She never did read any.”
“No,” I says, “You wouldn’t know. And you can thank your stars for that,” I says. Only what would be the use in saying it aloud. It would just have her crying on me again.
I heard her go up stairs. Then she called Quentin and Quentin says What? through the door. “Goodnight,” Mother says. Then I heard the key in the lock, and Mother went back to her room.
When I finished my cigar and went up, the light was still on. I could see the empty keyhole, but I couldn’t hear a sound. She studied quiet. Maybe she learned that in school. I told Mother goodnight and went on to my room and got the box out and counted it again. I could hear the Great American Gelding snoring away like a planing mill. I read somewhere they’d fix men that way to give them women’s voices. But maybe he didn’t know what they’d done to him. I dont reckon he even knew what he had been trying to do, or why Mr Burgess knocked him out with the fence picket. And if they’d just sent him on to Jackson while he was under the ether, he’d never have known the difference. But that would have been too simple for a Compson to think of. Not half complex enough. Having to wait to do it at all until he broke out and tried to run a little girl down on the street with her own father looking at him. Well, like I say they never started soon enough with their cutting, and they quit too quick. I know at least two more that needed something like that, and one of them not over a mile away, either. But then I dont reckon even that would do any good. Like I say once a bitch always a bitch. And just let me have twenty-four hours without any damn New York jew to advise me what it’s going to do. I dont want to make a killing; save that to suck in the smart gamblers with. I just want an even chance to get my money back. And once I’ve done that they can bring all Beale Street and all bedlam in here and two of them can sleep in my bed and another one can have my place at the table too.
APRIL EIGHTH, 1928
THE DAY DAWNED bleak and chill, a moving wall of grey light out of the northeast which, instead of dissolving into moisture, seemed to disintegrate into minute and venomous particles, like dust that, when Dilsey opened the door of the cabin and emerged, needled laterally into her flesh, precipitating not so much a moisture as a substance partaking of the quality of thin, not quite congealed oil. She wore a stiff black straw hat perched upon her turban, and a maroon velvet cape with a border of mangy and anonymous fur above a dress of purple silk, and she stood in the door for awhile with her myriad and sunken face lifted to the weather, and one gaunt hand flac-soled as the belly of a fish, then she moved the cape aside and examined the bosom of her gown.
The gown fell gauntly from her shoulders, across her fallen breasts, then tightened upon her paunch and fell again, ballooning a little above the nether garments which she would remove layer by layer as the spring accomplished and the warm days, in colour regal and moribund. She had been a big woman once but now her skeleton rose, draped loosely in unpadded skin that tightened again upon a paunch almost dropsical, as though muscle and tissue had been courage or fortitude which the days or the years had consumed until only the indomitable skeleton was left rising like a ruin or a landmark above the somnolent and impervious guts, and above that the collapsed face that gave the impression of the bones themselves being outside the flesh, lifted into the driving day with an expression at once fatalistic and of a child’s astonished disappointment, until she turned and entered the house again and closed the door.
The earth immediately about the door was bare. It had a patina, as though from the soles of bare feet in generations, like old silver or the walls of Mexican houses which have been plastered by hand. Beside the house, shading it in summer, stood three mulberry trees, the fledged leaves that would later be broad and placid as the palms of hands streaming flatly undulant upon the driving air. A pair of jaybirds came up from nowhere, whirled up on the blast like gaudy scraps of cloth or paper and lodged in the mulberries, where they swung in raucous tilt and recover, screaming into the wind that ripped their harsh cries onward and away like scraps of paper or of cloth in turn. Then three more joined them and they swung and tilted in the wrung branches for a time, screaming. The door of the cabin opened and Dilsey emerged once more, this time in a man’s felt hat and an army overcoat, beneath the frayed skirts of which her blue gingham dress fell in uneven balloonings, streaming too about her as she crossed the yard and mounted the steps to the kitchen door.
A moment later she emerged, carrying an open umbrella now, which she slanted ahead into the wind, and crossed to the woodpile and laid the umbrella down, still open. Immediately she caught at it and arrested it and held to it for a while, looking about her. Then she closed it and laid it down and stacked stovewood into her crooked arm, against her breast, and picked up the umbrella and got it open at last and returned to the steps and held the wood precariously balanced while she contrived to close the umbrella, which she propped in the corner just within the door. She dumped the wood into the box behind the stove. Then she removed the overcoat and hat and took a soiled apron down from the wall and put it on and built a fire in the stove. While she was doing so, rattling the grate bars and clattering the lids, Mrs Compson began to call her from the head of the stairs.
