right. Suppose we talk it over?”
Dillon stood hesitating, then he nodded.
“Sure, go ahead an' talk about it.”
Myra Hogan walked down the main street, conscious of the turning heads. Even the niggers hesitated in their work, frightened to look up, but peeping their heads lowered.
She clicked on, her high wooden heels tapping a challenge. The men watched her, stripping her with their eyes, as she passed them.
The women watched her, too. Cold, envious eyes, hating her. Myra rolled her hips a little. She put on a slight strut, patting her dark curls. Her firm young body, unhampered by any restraining garment, moved rhythmically. Her full, firm breasts jerked under the thin covering of her cheap, flowered dress.
At the end of the street a group of slatternly women stood gossiping, ripping people to pieces in the hot sunlight. They saw her coming and stopped talking, standing there; silent, elderly, bulging women, worn out by childbirth and hard work. Myra stiffened as she approached them. For a moment her step lost its rhythmic swing. The wooden heels trod softer. Her confidence in herself had no solid foundations; she was still very young. In the company of her elders she had to force herself forward.
With an uneasy smile on her full red lips she came on. But the women, as she came nearer, shifted like a brood of vultures, turning their drooping shoulders against her, their eyes sightless, not seeing her. Again the wooden heels began to click Her face flushed, her head held high, she went past.
A buzz of talk broke out behind her. One of the women said loudly: “I'd give her something—the dirty little whore.”
Myra kept on. “The sluts!” she thought, furious with them. “I've got everything, and they hate me.”
The bank stood at the end of the main street. Clem Gibson was standing in the doorway. He saw Myra coming, and he nervously fingered his tie.
Clem Gibson was someone in the town. He ran the bank, he owned a car, and he changed his shirt twice a week.
Myra slowed down a little and flashed him a smile.
“Why, Miss Hogan, you are lookin' swell,” Gibson said.
This line of talk pleased Myra. She said, “Aw, you're kiddin'.”
Gibson beamed behind his horn glasses. “I wouldn't kid you, Miss Hogan, honest.”
Myra made to move on. “Well, it's nice of you to say so,” she said. “I've just got to get goin'. My Pa's waitin' for me.”
Gibson came down the two steps. “I was going to suggest—that is—I wanted to ask you... He paused, embarrassed.
Myra looked up at him, her long black lashes curling above her eyes. “Yes?”
“Look, Miss Hogan, suppose you an' me go places sometime.”
Myra shook her head. She thought he'd got a hell of a nerve. Go out with him and have his horse-faced wife starting a beef. He was crazy. Myra had enough sense to leave the married men alone. They were only after one thing, and she wasn't giving anything away. “Pa just wouldn't stand for it,” she said. “He don't like married men takin' me out. Ain't he soft?”
Gibson stepped back. His face glistened with embarrassment. “Sure,” he said, “your Pa's right. You better not tell him about this. I wasn't thinking.” He was scared of Butch Hogan.
Myra moved on. “I won't tell him,” she said.
He watched her hungrily as she went, her buttocks jerking under the tight dress.
It was quite a walk to her home, and she was glad when she pushed open the low wooden gate that led to the tumbledown shack.
She stood at the gate and looked at the place. She thought, “I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!”
The garden was a patch of baked, cracked mud. The house was a one-storeyed affair, made throughout with wood that wind and rain had warped and sun had bleached. It stood there—an ugly depressing symbol of poverty.
She walked up the path and climbed the two high steps leading to the verandah. In the shadow, away from the sun, Butch Hogan sat, his great hands resting on the top of a heavy stick.
He said, “I've been waiting for you.”
She stood there and looked at him. His broken, tortured face, those two horrible eyes, sightless, with a yellow blob in each pupil, looking like two clots of phlegm, the great square head, the overhanging brows, and the ferocious mouth made her shiver. He startled her by suddenly regurgitating violently into the mud patch a sodden wad of chewing-tobacco.
He said, “Say somethin', can't you? Where in hell've you been?”
She put the bottle of whisky on the table beside him. “There it is,” she said and she put beside it the rest of the money.
With fumbling fingers he checked the money, before slipping it into his pocket. Then he stood up and stretched. Although he was tall, his great shoulders gave him a squat look. He turned his face in her direction. “Go on in I wantta talk with you.”
She went into the living-room, leading off the verandah. It was a large room, untidy and full of aged and decaying furniture. Hogan followed her in. He moved with quick, cat-like steps, avoiding in some extraordinary way any obstacles that lay in his path. Blindness had not anchored him. He had been like that for ten years. At first the darkness had suffocated him, but he had fought it, and, like all his other fights, he had beaten it. Now it was of little hindrance to him. He could do most things he wanted to. His hearing had intensified and served him for his eyes.
Myra stood sulkily by the table. She made patterns with her flimsy shoes on the dusty floor.
Hogan went to a cupboard, found a glass, and poured himself out a stiff shot of whisky. Then he went over to the one overstuffed chair and folded himself down in it. He took a long pull from the glass.
“What's your age now?” he asked abruptly. The two yellow clots fixed on her.
“Seventeen.”
“Come here,” Hogan said, reaching out a great thick arm. She didn't move.
“If I come an' get you, you're goin' to have grief.”
She moved over to him reluctantly, and stood just by his knees. “What is it?” she asked, her face a little scared.
His hand closed on her arm, the big thick fingers pinching her muscle, making her squirm.
“Stand still,” he said. With his free hand he began exploring her body. Letting his hand run over her, like some farmer poking and examining a plump bird. Then he let her go, and sat back with a grunt. “You're growing up,” he said.
Myra stepped back, a little flush of anger on her face. “You keep your paws off me,” she said.
Butch pulled at the coarse hairs growing out of his ears. “Siddown,” he said, “I'm goin' to talk to you.”
“Supper ain't ready,” she said; “I ain't got time to listen to you.”
He left his chair with incredible speed, and before she could dart away from him he struck her shoulder with the flat of his hand. He was aiming at her head, but he misjudged. She went over on hands and knees and stayed there, dazed. He knelt down beside her. “You're getting big ideas, ain't you?” he snarled at her. “You think I can't hold you, but I can. Do you get that? Maybe I've lost my peepers, but that ain't goin' to mean a thing to you. So get wise to yourself, will you?”
She sat up slowly, nervously feeling her shoulder. A smack from Butch meant something.
“I gotta hunch you're goin' to take after your Ma. I've had my eye on you for some time. I hear what's been said. You're after the punks already. Like your Ma. That dirty little whore had the ants okay. You're showing yourself
