Mitch sat on his heels staring bleakly out at the rain. There ain’t nothing I can do now, he thought. They’ll be gone in a few minutes. I tried, but it was too much for me. I can’t stop it now.
Joy started to get up, but Lambeth motioned to her. “Just one more,” he said. “That’s probably the ambulance now, and we’ve just time tor one more before they get here.”
“All right.” Joy assented graciously.
She had been looking at the four people on the other end of the porch, and now she started to turn her face back and downward toward Sewell. There was a slight movement of the edge of the quilt. Mitch saw it, and Shaw, and even Jessie, before she did, but there was nothing they could do. It was too late.
She bent down and turned her head, and then she was looking into the cold eyes and the round, black, awful end of the gun. Time stopped and all sound ceased, and there was nothing anywhere except Sewell slowly raising himself up on the mattress with his back against the upright post at the edge of the porch, his face sweating with agony but as pitiless as death itself.
“Reach your hand in my coat pocket, baby,” he said softly. “Harve sent you a present.”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out of it. Mitch and Shaw started to get up to leap toward them, but the gun swung and the cold eyes stopped them where they were. They hung, half crouched and hardly daring to breathe. Jessie’s face was still with horror as she stood there by the door. All of them except Joy could hear the cars coming, very near now and about to turn into the yard.
“Go on,” he said again. “In my pocket. Harve didn’t need it no more, so I brought it back to you.”
No. Joy could feel her mouth forming the word, but there was no word. No! No! No! was a pressure growing greater and more terrible inside her and straining outward toward the vacuum of silence waiting to receive it, trying to escape through that invisible barrier in her throat beyond which nothing would pass.
“Go on, baby. See what your boy friend sent you. Harve, the one-handed joker.”
It was a nightmare across which she moved without volition. Her hand was going into the coat pocket. There was nothing she could do to stop it. It came out holding the photograph and the four people beyond her saw it as they waited, frozen and utterly without motion, while the ambulance and the sheriff’s car turned into the yard.
Sewell could feel the blackness coming for him again, and fought it back. All of them were beginning to swim before his eyes like water going around and around in a great dark eddy on the surface of a river as he tried to steady the gun. Mitch turned his head silently, staring. Men were getting out of the sheriff’s car, men with guns under their coats. They don’t know, he thought. They don’t know. They’ll never get here in time to stop him He came to his feet, springing up and forward.
She was looking down at the picture in her hand with that awful feeling of her mouth going wider and wider without sound. Her eyes shifted and the muzzle of the gun was a black tunnel toward which she was walking in the nightmare, a tunnel that grew larger and then, as she ran into it, suddenly filled with light—a huge, bursting circle of light without end.
Mitch reached her as she wilted and fell forward across Sewell like a gold-petaled flower cut down by the scythe. Sewell was swinging outward into darkness again toward that dark beach and that brief period of time in which he had been happy with this girl now lying dead across his chest in a terrible and irrevocable wedding of the only two things he had ever loved: this same beautiful, lost, unhappy girl, and violence.
Jessie had screamed and then turned to run back down the hall toward the bedroom. Mitch stood on the edge of the porch, an island of immobility, helpless, numb, and lost, in the swirling river of motion going across the porch and into the yard.
The sheriff was cursing, monotonously and with a kind of helpless bitterness. “Not a goddamned one of the whole dumbheaded bunch of idiots with brains enough to look to see if he had a gun. You must have thought he was some Sunday-school kid playing hookey from school. This girl’d have been alive now if any one of you’d had sense enough to come in out of the rain.”
They were putting Joy’s body into the ambulance and then coming back for Sewell. The young doctor squatted beside the mattress, and when he looked up and saw Mitch’s eyes on him he gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head and looked away.
”You got all the pics you need?” Shaw was asking Lambeth. “Let’s roll. My God! Did you ever see anything like it?”
“Shut up,” Lambeth said tonelessly, stowing the camera in its case. Did I kill her? he thought. Was it Harve? Did Neely do it, or was he just the weapon, the instrument, the actual hand on the gun? Was it all of us. each in his way, or if you went back far enough could you say she did it herself? When we get started, I’ll finish that bottle. This is one time I need it.
And then, suddenly, they were all gone. The yard was empty except for the team, standing dejectedly in the diminishing drizzle of the rain. Cass had gone running across the yard and pushed his way into the front seat of the departing ambulance, oblivious of restraint and crying out his unvarying and frenzied lamentation, “I’m his daddy. I found my boy, and I got to take him in.” When the ambulance shot out of the yard he was seated beside the driver, staring straight ahead through the windshield and holding onto the dripping and grotesque hat. The other car, with the sheriff and his two deputies, was right behind it, and in a moment Shaw and Lambeth got into (heir car and left.
Mitch squatted on his heels, staring out into the yard. He’ll be dead before they get to town with him, he thought. I saw that doctor shake his head, and he knew that I knew it. He killed her, and that was all he was holding on for, I reckon, ever since he found out she was up here. All the good the old man did with his crying and taking on was to get that girl killed. God knows, I never had much use for her, but it was an awful thing to happen.
The picture had been forgotten in all the excitement, and now he saw it lying upside down on the edge of the quilt, Reaching out a hand, he turned it over, looked at it a minute, then turned it back. This is what killed her, he thought. It ain’t nothing but just a picture of her without no clothes on, like them artists’ models, but it killed her. I reckon that deputy had it on him and Sewell found it. And now I got to tell Jessie. I’d rather die right here on the porch, I reckon, than do it. First she lost Sewell, and then Mexico, and now she figures I ain’t no good, so Joy was about all the people she had left. She thought Joy was the only thing there was. It don’t make so much difference, now that Joy’s dead and she can’t go away with her, but still I got to tell her.
I’ve always taken care of her ever since I can remember, and I got to go on doing it until she’s old enough to get married. And I can’t do it if she’s going to go on hating me for whatever she thinks I did to Joy. She’d run away. I just got to do it.
He picked up the picture and put it in his pocket, then got up and went slowly down the hall. It was growing darker inside the house now, and he realized it was almost twilight and he hadn’t been back to the bottom to see if the levee still held. After a while, he thought. Maybe that’s gone too.
He went reluctantly into the bedroom and stood looking down at her. She was lying on the bed with her face to the wall, making no sound of any kind. He knew she was not crying.
“Jessie,” he said quietly, standing still beside the bed and dripping water out of his clothing onto the floor.
She said nothing, and gave no indication she had heard him.
“It ain’t no use to feel so bad about it, Jessie,” he said. “It couldn’t be helped.”
She still made no answer, lying there with her face to the wall as if he were not even in the room. He stood looking at her helplessly, full of pity for her and not knowing what to do. He pulled the picture out of his pocket and looked at it, wanting to cry out, “Look, Jessie, she wasn’t worth anything. She wasn’t worth feeling bad about,” but he could not, and in a minute he went out of the room. I can’t do it, he thought. No matter what she thinks, I can’t do it. He tore the picture up and threw it into the firebox of the stove, then went down the trail toward the bottom.
The river was falling now. It had gone down nearly six inches, and the levee had held. Well, I saved that, anyway. he thought. But I reckon it don’t make much difference now. He stood there for a minute, looking out over the muddy field. Yes, it does too. It always does. You can’t just give up.
It was growing dark as he went back up the hill, and the rain had stopped. As he passed the barn he heard someone moving around inside and talking to the mules, and suddenly he remembered the team forgotten in the front yard.
“Who’s that?” he called out.
“It’s just me.” Prentiss Jimerson came out, looking at him a little uneasily. “I reckon you ain’t still sore at me,
