DARL
W Eclothing
have been passing the signs for some time now: the drug-stores, the
stores, the patent medicine and the garages and cafés, and the mile-boards diminishing, becoming more starkly re-accruent: 3 mi. 2 mi. From the crest of a hill, as we get into the wagon again, we can see the smoke low and flat, seemingly unmoving in the unwinded afternoon.
“Is that it, Darl?” Vardaman says. “Is that Jefferson?” He too has lost flesh; like ours, his face has an expression strained, dreamy, and gaunt.
“Yes,” I say. He lifts his head and looks at the sky. High against it they hang in narrowing circles, like the smoke, with an outward semblance of form and purpose, but with no inference of motion, progress or retrograde. We mount the wagon again where Cash lies on the box, the jagged shards of cement cracked about his leg. The shabby mules droop rattling and clanking down the hill.
“We’ll have to take him to the doctor,” pa says. “I reckon it ain’t no way around it.” The back of Jewel’s shirt, where it touches him, stains slow and black with grease. Life was created in the valleys. It blew up on to the hills on the old terrors, the old lusts, the old despairs. That’s why you must walk up the hills so you can ride down.
Dewey Dell sits on the seat, the newspaper package on her lap. When we reach the foot of the hill where the road flattens between close walls of trees, she begins to look about quietly from one side of the road to the other. At last
she says,
“I got to stop.”
Pa looks at her, his shabby profile that of anticipant and disgruntled annoyance. He does not check the team. “What for?”
“I got to go to the bushes,” Dewey Dell says.
Pa does not check the team. “Can’t you wait till we get to town? It ain’t over a mile now.”
“Stop,” Dewey Dell says. “I got to go to the bushes.”
Pa stops in the middle of the road and we watch Dewey Dell descend, carrying the package. She does not look back.
“Why not leave your cakes here?” I say. “We’ll watch them.”
She descends steadily, not looking at us.
“How would she know where to go to if she waited till we get to town?”
Vardaman says. “Where would you go to do it in town, Dewey Dell?”
She lifts the package down and turns and disappears among the trees and undergrowth.
“Don’t be no longer than you can help,” pa says. “We ain’t got no time to waste.” She does not answer. After a while we cannot hear her even. “We ought to done like Armstid and Gillespie said and sent word to town and had it dug and ready,” he said.
“Why didn’t you?” I say. “You could have telephoned.”
“What for?” Jewel says. “Who the hell can’t dig a hole in the ground?”
A car comes over the hill. It begins to sound the horn, slowing. It runs along the roadside in low gear, the outside wheels in the ditch, and passes us and goes on. Vardaman watches it until it is out of sight.
“How far is it now, Darl?” he says.
“Not far,” I say.
“We ought to done it,” pa says. “I just never wanted to be beholden to none except her flesh and blood.”
“Who the hell can’t dig a damn hole in the ground?” Jewel says.
“It ain’t respectful, talking that way about her grave,” pa says. “You all don’t know what it is. You never pure loved her, none of you.” Jewel does not answer. He sits a little stiffly erect, his body arched away from his shirt. His high-coloured jaw juts.
Dewey Dell returns. We watch her emerge from the bushes, carrying the package, and climb into the wagon. She now wears her Sunday dress, her beads, her shoes and stockings.
“I thought I told you to leave them clothes to home,” pa says. She does not answer, does not look at us. She sits the package in the wagon and gets in. The wagon moves on.
“How many more hills now, Darl?” Vardaman says.
“Just one,” I say. “The next one goes right up into town.”
This hill is red sand, bordered on either hand by negro cabins; against the sky ahead the massed telephone lines run, and the clock on the court-house lifts among the trees. In the sand the wheels whisper, as though the very earth would hush our entry. We descend as the hill commences to rise.
We follow the wagon, the whispering wheels, passing the cabins where faces come suddenly to the doors, white-eyed. We hear sudden voices, ejaculant. Jewel has been looking from side to side; now his head turns forward and I can see his ears taking on a still deeper tone of furious red. Three negroes walk beside the road ahead of us; ten feet ahead of them a white man walks. When we pass the negroes their heads turn suddenly with that expression of shock and instinctive outrage. “Great God,” one says; “what they got in that wagon?”
Jewel whirls. “Son of a bitches,” he says. As he does so he is abreast of the
white man, who has paused. It is as though Jewel had gone blind for the moment, for it is the white man toward whom he whirls.
“Darl!” Cash says from the wagon. I grasp at Jewel. The white man has fallen back a pace, his face still slack-jawed; then his jaw tightens, claps to.
Jewel leans above him, his jaw muscles gone white.
“What did you say?” he says.
“Here,” I say. “He don’t mean anything, mister. Jewel,” I say. When I touch him he swings at the man. I grasp his arm; we struggle. Jewel has never looked at me. He is trying to free his arm. When I see the man again he has an open knife in his hand.
“Hold up, mister,” I say; “I’ve got him. Jewel,” I say.
“Thinks because he’s a goddam town fellow,” Jewel says, panting, wrenching at me. “Son of a bitch,” he says.
The man moves. He begins to edge around me, watching Jewel, the knife low against his flank. “Can’t no man call me that,” he says. Pa has got down, and Dewey Dell is holding Jewel, pushing at him. I release him and face the man.
“Wait,” I say. “He don’t mean nothing. He’s sick; got burned in a fire last night, and he ain’t himself.”
“Fire or no fire,” the man says, “can’t no man call me that.”
“He thought you said something to him,” I say.
“I never said nothing to him. I never see him before.”
“ ’Fore God,” pa says; “ ’fore God.”
“I know,” I say. “He never meant anything. He’ll take it back.”
“Let him take it back, then.”
“Put up your knife, and he will.”
The man looks at me. He looks at Jewel. Jewel is quiet now.
“Put up your knife,” I say.
The man shuts the knife.
“ ’Fore God,” pa says. “ ’Fore God.”
“Tell him you didn’t mean anything, Jewel,” I say.
“I thought he said something,” Jewel says. “Just because he’s——”
“Hush,” I say. “Tell him you didn’t mean it.”
“I didn’t mean it,” Jewel says.
“He better not,” the man says. “Calling me a——”
“Do you think he’s afraid to call you that?” I say.
The man looks at me. “I never said that,” he said.
“Don’t think it, neither,” Jewel says.
“Shut up,” I say. “Come on. Drive on, pa.”
The wagon moves. The man stands watching us. Jewel does not look back.
“Jewel would ’a’ whipped him,” Vardaman says.
We approach the crest, where the street runs, where cars go back and forth; the mules haul the wagon up and on to the crest and the street. Pa stops them.
The street runs on ahead, where the square opens and the monument stands before the court-house. We mount again while the heads turn with that expression which we know; save Jewel. He does not get on, even though the wagon has started again. “Get in, Jewel,” I say. “Come on. Let’s get away from here.” But he does not get in. Instead he sets his foot on the turning hub of the rear wheel, one hand grasping the stanchion, and with the hub turning smoothly under his sole he lifts the other foot and squats there, staring straight ahead, motionless, lean, wooden-backed, as though carved squatting out of the lean wood.
