Flags in the Dust (35 page)

“Byron Snopes.”

The man leaned the gun against the wall and came onto the porch, and they shook hands limply. “What you doin’, this time of night? Thought you was in town.”

“On a trip for the bank,” Snopes explained. “Just drove in, and I got to git right on. Might be gone some time, and I wanted to see Minnie Sue.”

The other rubbed the wild shock of his head, then he scratched his leg. “She’s a-sleepin’. Caint you wait till daylight?”

“I got to git on,” he repeated. “Got to be pretty nigh Alabama by daybreak.”

The man brooded heavily, rubbing his flank. “Well,” he said finally. “Ef you caint wait till mawnin’.” He padded back into the house and vanished. The hound flopped again at Snopes’ feet and sniffed noisily. From the river bottom a mile away an owl hooted with its mournful rising inflection. Snopes thrust his hand into his coat and touched the wadded delicate garment. In his breast pocket the money bulked against his arm.

Another figure stepped soundlessly into the hall, against the lighter sky; a smaller figure and even more shapeless, that stood for a moment, then came out to him. He put his arms around her, feeling her free body beneath the rough garment she had hastily donned. “Byron?” she said. “What is it, Byron?” He was trying to kiss her, and she suffered him readily, but withdrew her face immediately, peering at him. He drew her away from the door.

“Come on,” he whispered. His voice was shaking and hoarse, and his body was trembling also. He led her to the steps and tried to draw her on, but she held back a little, peering at him.

“Let’s set on the steps,” she said. “What’s the matter, Byron? You got a chill?”

“I’m all right. Let’s git away where we can talk.”

She let him draw her forward and down the steps, but as they moved further and further away from the house she began to resist, with curiosity and growing alarm. “Byron,” she said again and stopped. His hands were trembling upon her, moving
about her body, and his voice was shaking so that she could not understand him.

“You aint got on nothing under here but your nightgown, have you?” he whispered.

“What?” He drew her a little farther, but she stopped firmly and he could not move her; she was as strong as he. “You tell me what it is, now,” she commanded. “You aint ready fer our marryin’ yet, are you?”

But he made no answer. He was trembling more than ever, pawing at her. They struggled, and at last he succeeded in dragging her to the ground and he sprawled beside her, pawing at her clothing; whereupon she struggled in earnest, and soon she held him helpless while he sprawled with his face against her throat, babbling a name not hers. When he was still she turned and thrust him away, and rose to her feet.

“You come back tomorrer, when you git over this,” she said, and she ran silently toward the house, and was gone.

He sat where she had left him for a long time, with his half-insane face between his knees and madness and helpless rage and thwarted desire coiling within him. The owl hooted again from the black river bottom; its cry faded mournfully across the land, beneath the chill stars, and the hound came silently through the dust and sniffed at him, and went away. After a time he rose and limped to the car and started the engine.

I
t was a sunny Sunday afternoon in October. Narcissa and Bayard had driven off soon after dinner, and Miss Jenny and old Bayard were sitting on the sunny end of the veranda when, preceded by Simon, the deputation came solemnly around the corner of the house from the rear. It consisted of six negroes in a catholic variety of Sunday raiment and it was headed by a huge, bull-necked negro in a hind-side-before collar and a prince albert coat, with an orotund air and a wild, compelling eye.

“Yere dey is, Cunnel,” Simon said, and without pausing he mounted the steps and turned about, leaving no doubt in any one’s mind as to which side he considered himself aligned with. The deputation halted and milled a little, solemnly decorous.

“What’s this?” Miss Jenny asked. “That you, uncle Bird?”

“Yessum, Miss Jenny.” One of the committee uncovered his grizzled wool and bowed. “How you gittin’ on?” The others shuffled their feet, and one by one they removed their hats. The leader clasped his across his chest like a congressman being photographed.

“Here, Simon,” old Bayard demanded. “What’s this? What did you bring these niggers around here for?”

“Dey come fer dey money,” Simon explained.

“What?”

“Money?” Miss Jenny repeated with interest. “What money, Simon?”

“Dey come fer de money you promised ’um,” Simon shouted.

“I told you I wasn’t going to pay that money,” old Bayard said. “Did Simon tell you I was going to pay it?” he demanded of the deputation.

“What money?” Miss Jenny repeated. “What are you talking about, Simon?” The leader of the committee was shaping his face for words, but Simon forestalled him.

“Why, Cunnel, you tole me yo’self to tell dem niggers you wuz gwine pay ’um.”

“I didn’t do any such thing,” old Bayard answered violently. “I told you that if they wanted to put you in jail, to go ahead and do it. That’s what I told you.”

“Why, Cunnel, you said it des’ ez plain. You jes’ fergot erbout it. I kin prove it by Miss Jenny you tole me——”

“Not by me,” Miss Jenny interrupted. “This is the first I heard about it. Whose money is it, Simon?”

Simon gave her a pained, reproachful look. “He tole me to tell ’um he wuz gwine pay it.”

“I’m damned if I did,” old Bayard shouted. “I told you I wouldn’t pay a damn cent of it. And I told you that if you let ’em worry me about it, I’d skin you alive, sir.”

“I aint gwine let ’um worry you,” Simon answered soothingly. “Dat’s whut I’m fixin’ now. You jes’ give ’um dey money, en me en you kin fix it up later.”

“I’ll be eternally damned, if I will; if I let a lazy nigger that aint worth his keep——”

“But somebody got to pay ’um,” Simon pointed out patiently. “Aint dat right, Miss Jenny?”

“That’s right,” Miss Jenny agreed. “But I aint the one.”

“Yessuh, dey aint no argument dat somebody got to pay ’um. Ef somebody dont quiet ’um down, dey’ll put me in de jail. And den whut’ll y’all do, widout nobody to keep dem hosses fed en clean, en to clean de house en wait on de table? Co’se I dont mine gwine to jail, even ef dem stone flo’s aint gwine do my mis’ry no good.” And he drew a long and affecting picture, of high and grail-like principles, and of patient abnegation. Old Bayard slammed his feet to the floor.

“How much is it?”

The leader swelled within his prince albert. “Brudder Mo’,” he said, “will you read out de total emoluments owed to de pupposed Secon’ Baptis’ church by de late Deacon Strother in his capacity ez treasurer of de church boa’d?”

Brother Moore created a mild disturbance in the rear of the group, emerging presently by the agency of sundry willing hands—a small, reluctant ebon negro in sombre, overlarge black—where the parson majestically made room for him, contriving by some means to focus attention on him. He laid his hat on the ground at his feet and from the right hand pocket of his coat he produced in order, a red bandanna handkerchief; a shoe horn; a plug of chewing tobacco, and holding these in his free hand he delved again, with an expression of mildly conscientious alarm. Then he replaced the objects, and from his left pocket he produced a pocket knife; a stick on which was wound a length of soiled twine; a short piece of leather strap attached to a rusty and apparently idle buckle, and lastly a greasy, dogeared notebook. He crammed the other things back into his pocket, dropping the strap, which he stooped and recovered, then he and the parson held a brief whispered conversation. He opened the notebook and fumbled at the leaves, fumbled at them until the parson leaned over his shoulder and found the proper page and laid his finger upon it.

“How much is it, reverend?” old Bayard asked impatiently.

“Brudder Mo’ will now read out de amount,” the parson intoned. Brother Moore looked at the page with his tranced gaze and mumbled something in a practically indistinguishable voice.

“What?” old Bayard demanded, cupping his ear. “Make ’im talk up,” Simon said. “Cant nobody tell whut he sayin’.”

“Louder,” the parson rumbled, with just a trace of impatience.

“Sixty sevum dollars en fawty cents,” Brother Moore enunciated at last. Old Bayard slammed back in his chair and swore for a long minute while Simon watched him with covert anxiety. Then he rose and tramped up the veranda and into the house, still swearing. Simon sighed and relaxed. The deputation milled again, and Brother Moore faded briskly into the rear rank of it. The parson however still retained his former attitude of fateful and impressive profundity.

“What became of that money, Simon?” Miss Jenny asked curiously. “You had it, didn’t you?”

“Dat’s whut dey claims,” Simon answered.

“What did you do with it?”

“Hit’s all right,” Simon assured her. “I jes’ put it out, sort of.”

“I bet you did,” she agreed drily. “I bet it never even got cool while you had it. They deserve to lose it for ever giving it to you in the first place. Who did you put it out to?”

“Oh, me en Cunnel done fix dat up,” Simon said easily. “Long time ago.” Old Bayard tramped in the hall again, and emerged flapping a check in his hand.

“Here,” he commanded, and the parson approached the railing and took it and folded it away in his pocket. “And if you folks are fools enough to turn any more money over to him,
dont come to me for it, you hear?” He glared at the deputation a moment; then he glared at Simon. “And the next time you steal money and come to me to pay it back, I’m going to have you arrested and prosecute you myself. Get those niggers out of here.”

The deputation had already stirred, with a concerted movement, but the parson halted them with a commanding hand. He faced Simon again. “Deacon Strother,” he said, “ez awdained minister of de late Fust Baptis’ church, en recalled minister of de pupposed Secon’ Baptis’ church, en chairman of dis committee, I hereby reinfestes you wid yo’ fawmer capacity of deacon in de said pupposed Secon’ Baptis’ church. Amen. Cunnel Sartoris en ma’am, good day.” Then he turned and herded his committee from the scene.

“Thank de Lawd, we got dat offen our mind,” Simon said, and he came and lowered himself to the top step, groaning pleasurably.

“And you remember what I said,” old Bayard warned him. “One more time, now——”

But Simon was craning his head in the direction the church board had taken. “Dar now,” he said. “Whut you reckon dey wants now?” For the committee had returned and it now peered diffidently around the corner of the house.

“Well,” old Bayard demanded. “What is it now?”

They were trying to thrust Brother Moore forward again, but he won this time. At last the parson spoke.

“You fergot de fawty cents, white folks.”

“What?”

“He says you lef’ out de extry fawty cents,” Simon shouted. Old Bayard exploded; Miss Jenny clapped her hands to her ears and the committee rolled its eyes in fearsome admiration while he soared to magnificent heights, alighting finally upon Simon.

“You give him that forty cents, and get ’em out of here,” old Bayard stormed. “And if you ever let ’em come back here again, I’ll take a horsewhip to the whole passel of you.”

“Lawd, Cunnel, I aint got no fawty cents, en you knows it. Cant dey do widout dat, after gittin’ de balance of it?”

“Yes you have, Simon,” Miss Jenny said. “You had a half a dollar left after I ordered those shoes for you last night.” Again Simon looked at her with pained astonishment.

“Give it to ’em,” old Bayard commanded. Slowly Simon reached into his pocket and produced a half dollar and turned it slowly in his palm.

“I mought need dis money, Cunnel,” he protested. “Seems like dey mought leave me dis.”

“Give ’em that money!” old Bayard thundered. “I reckon you can pay forty cents of it, at least.” Simon rose reluctantly, and the parson approached.

“Whar’s my dime change?” Simon demanded, nor would he surrender the coin until two nickels were in his hand. Then the committee departed.

“Now,” old Bayard said, “I want to know what you did with that money.”

“Well, suh,” Simon began readily, “it wuz like dis. I put dat money out.” Miss Jenny rose.

“My Lord, are you all going over that again?” And she left them. In her room, where she sat in a sunny window, she could still hear them—old Bayard’s stormy rage, and Simon’s bland and plausible evasion rising and falling on the drowsy Sabbath air.

There was a rose, a single remaining rose. Through the sad, dead days of late summer it had continued to bloom, and now though persimmons had long swung their miniature suns among the caterpillar-festooned branches, and gum and maple
and hickory had flaunted two gold-and-scarlet weeks, and the grass, where grandfathers of grasshoppers squatted sluggishly like sullen octogenarians, had been pencilled twice delicately with frost, and the sunny noons were scented with sassafras, it still bloomed. Overripe now, and a little gallantly blowsy, like a fading burlesque star. Miss Jenny worked in a sweater, nowadays, and her trowel glinted in her earthy glove.

“It’s like some women I’ve known,” she said. “It just dont know how to give up gracefully and be a grandmamma.”

“Let it have the summer out,” Narcissa in her dark woolen dress, protested. She had a trowel too, and she pottered serenely after Miss Jenny’s scolding brisk impatience, accomplishing nothing. Worse than nothing, worse than Isom even, because she demoralized Isom, who had immediately given his unspoken allegiance to the Left, or passive, Wing. “It’s entitled to its summer.”

“Some folks dont know when summer’s over,” Miss Jenny rejoined. “Indian summer’s no excuse for senile adolescence.”

“It isn’t senility, either.”

“All right. You’ll see, some day.”

“Oh, someday. I’m not quite prepared to be a grandmother, yet.”

“You’re doing pretty well.” Miss Jenny trowelled a tulip bulb carefully and expertly up and removed the clotted earth from its roots. “We seem to have pretty well worn out Bayard, for the time being,” she continued. “I reckon we’d better name him John this time.”