Light in August

Perhaps Joe did not hear her at all, nor the screaming waitress: “He told me himself he was a nigger! The son of a bitch! Me f—ing for nothing a nigger son of a bitch that would get me in a jam with clodhopper police. At a clodhopper dance!” Perhaps he heard only the long wind, as, swinging his hand as though it still clutched the chair, he sprang forward upon the two men. Very likely he did not even know that they were already moving toward him. Because with something of the exaltation of his adopted father he sprang full and of his own accord into the stranger’s fist. Perhaps he did not feel either blow, though the stranger struck him twice in the face before he reached the floor, where like the man whom he had struck down, he lay upon his back, quite still. But he was not out because his eyes were still open, looking quietly up at them. There was nothing in his eyes at all, no pain, no surprise. But apparently he could not move; he just lay there with a profoundly contemplative expression, looking quietly up at the two men, and the blonde woman still as immobile and completely finished and surfaced as a cast statue. Perhaps he could not hear the voices either, or perhaps he did and they once more had no more significance than the dry buzzing of the steady insects beyond the window:

Bitching up as sweet a little setup as I could have wanted.

He ought to stay away from bitches.

He can’t help himself. He was born too close to one.

Is he really a nigger? He don’t look like one.

That’s what he told Bobbie one night. But I guess she still don’t know any more about what he is than he does. These country bastards are liable to be anything.

We’ll find out. We’ll see if his blood is black. Lying peaceful and still Joe watched the stranger lean down and lift his head from the floor and strike him again in the face, this time with a short slashing blow. After a moment he licked his lip a little, somewhat as a child might lick a cooking spoon. He watched the stranger’s hand go back. But it did not fall.

That’s enough. Let’s get on to Memphis.

Just one more. Joe lay quietly and watched the hand. Then Max was beside the stranger, stooping too. We’ll need a little more blood to tell for sure.

Sure. He don’t need to worry. This one is on the house too.

The hand did not fall. Then the blonde woman was there too. She was holding the stranger’s lifted arm by the wrist. I said that will do.

Chapter 10

KNOWING not grieving remembers a thousand savage and lonely streets. They run from that night when he lay and heard the final footfall and then the final door (they did not even turn the light out) and then lay quietly, on his back, with open eyes while above the suspended globe burned with aching and unwavering glare as though in the house where all the people had died. He did not know how long he lay there. He was not thinking at all, not suffering. Perhaps he was conscious of somewhere within him the two severed wireends of volition and sentience lying, not touching now, waiting to touch, to knit anew so that he could move. While they finished their preparations to depart they stepped now and then across him, like people about to vacate a house forever will across some object which they intend to leave. Here Bobbie here kid here’s your comb you forgot it here’s Romeo’s chicken feed too Jesus he must have tapped the Sunday school till on the way out its Bobbie’s now didn’t you see him give it to her didn’t you see old bighearted that’s right pick it up kid you can keep it as an installment or a souvenir or something what don’t she want it well say that’s too bad now that’s tough but we can’t leave it lay here on the floor it’ll rot a hole in the floor it’s already helped to rot one hole pretty big for its size pretty big for any size hey Bobbie hey kid sure I’ll just keep it for Bobbie like hell you will well I mean I’ll keep half of it for Bobbie leave it there you bastards what do you want with it it belongs to him well for sweet Jesus what does he want with it he doesn’t use money he doesn’t need it ask Bobbie if he needs money they give it to him that the rest of us have to pay for it leave it there I said like hell this ain’t mine to leave it’s Bobbie’s it ain’t yours neither unless sweet Jesus you’re going to tell me he owes you jack too that he has been f—ing you too behind my back on credit I said leave it go chase yourself it ain’t but five or six bucks apiece; Then the blonde