Flannery O'Connor Complete Short Stories (3 page)

“Well,” Jacobs said, “so what? What do you call yourself doing?” He had been jotting figures down on a record sheet all the time Rayber was reading.

Rayber wondered if he were busy. “Defending myself against barbers,” he said. “You ever tried to argue with a barber?”

“I never argue,” Jacobs said.

“That's because you don't know this kind of ignorance,” Rayber explained. “You've never experienced it.”

Jacobs snorted. “Oh yes I have,” he said.

“What happened?”

“I never argue.”

“But you know you're right,” Rayber persisted.

“I never argue.”

“Well, I'm going to argue,” Rayber said. “I'm going to say the right thing as fast as they can say the wrong. It'll be a question of speed. Understand,” he went on, “this is no mission of conversion; I'm defending myself.”

“I understand that,” Jacobs said. “I hope you're able to do it.”

“I've already done it! You read the paper. There it is.” Rayber wondered if Jacobs were dense or preoccupied.

“Okay, then leave it there. Don't spoil your complexion arguing with barbers.”

“It's got to be done,” Rayber said.

Jacobs shrugged.

Rayber had counted on discussing it with him at length. “Well, I'll see you,” he said.

“Okay,” Jacobs said.

Rayber wondered why he had ever read the paper to him in the first place.

Before he left for the barber's Tuesday afternoon, Rayber was nervous and he thought that by way of practice he'd try the paper out on his wife. He didn't know but what she was for Hawkson herself. Whenever he mentioned the election, she made it a point to say, “Just because you teach doesn't mean you know everything.” Did he ever say he knew anything at all? Maybe he wouldn't call her. But he wanted to hear how the thing was actually going to sound said casually. It wasn't long; wouldn't take up much of her time. She would probably dislike being called. Still, she might possibly be affected by what he said. Possibly. He called her.

She said all right, but he'd just have to wait until she got through what she was doing; it looked like every time she got her hands in something, she had to leave and go do something else.

He said he didn't have all day to wait—it was only forty-five minutes until the shop closed—and would she please hurry up?

She came in wiping her hands and said all right; all right, she was there, wasn't she? Go ahead.

He began saying it very easily and casually, looking over her head. The sound of his voice playing over the words was not bad. He wondered if it were the words themselves or his tones that made them sound the way they did. He paused in the middle of a sentence and glanced at his wife to see if her face would give him any clue. Her head was turned slightly toward the table by her chair where an open magazine was lying. As he paused, she got up. “That was very nice,” she said and went back to the kitchen. Rayber left for the barber's.

He walked slowly, thinking what he was going to say in the shop and now and then stopping to look absently at a store window. Block's Feed Company had a display of automatic chicken-killers—“So Timid Persons Can Kill Their Own Fowl” the sign over them read. Rayber wondered if many timid persons used them. As he neared the barber's, he could see obliquely through the door the man with the executive assurance was sitting in the corner reading a newspaper. Rayber went in and hung up his hat.

“Howdy,” the barber said. “Ain't this the hottest day in the year, though!”

“It's hot enough,” Rayber said.

“Hunting season soon be over,” the barber commented.

All right, Rayber wanted to say, let's get this thing going. He thought he would work into his argument from their remarks. The fat man hadn't noticed him.

“You should have seen the covey this dog of mine Bushed the other day,” the barber went on as Rayber got in the chair. “The birds spread once and we got four and they spread again and we got two. That ain't bad.”

“Never hunted quail,” Rayber said hoarsely.

“There ain't nothing like taking a nigger and a hound dog and a gun and going after quail,” the barber said. “You missed a lot out of life if you ain't had that.”

Rayber cleared his throat and the barber went on working. The fat man in the corner turned a page. What do they think I came in here for? Rayber thought. They couldn't have forgotten. He waited, hearing the noises flies make and the mumble of the men talking in the back. The fat man turned another page. Rayber could hear George's broom slowly stroking the floor somewhere in the shop, then stop, then scrape, then. . . . “You er, still a Hawkson man?” Rayber asked the barber.

“Yeah!” the barber laughed. “Yeah! You know I had forgot. You was gonna tell us why you are voting for Darmon. Hey, Roy!” he yelled to the fat man, “come over here. We gonna hear why we should vote for Boy Blue.”

Roy grunted and turned another page. “Be there when I finish this piece,” he mumbled.

“What you got there, Joe?” one of the men in the back called, “one of them goodgovermint boys?”

“Yeah,” the barber said. “He's gonna make a speech.”

“I've heard too many of that kind already,” the man said.

“You ain't heard one by Rayber,” the barber said. “Rayber's all right. He don't know how to vote, but he's all right.”

Rayber reddened. Two of the men strolled up. “This is no speech,” Rayber said. “I only want to discuss it with you—sanely.”

“Come on over here, Roy,” the barber yelled.

“What are you trying to make of this?” Rayber muttered; then he said suddenly, “If you're calling everybody else, why don't you call your boy, George. You afraid to have him listen?”

The barber looked at Rayber for a second without saying anything.

Rayber felt as if he had made himself too much at home.

“He can hear,” the barber said. “He can hear back where he is.”

“I just thought he might be interested,” Rayber said.

“He can hear,” the barber repeated. “He can hear what he hears and he can hear two times that much. He can hear what you don't say as well as what you do.”

Roy came over folding his newspaper. “Howdy, boy,” he said, putting his hand on Rayber's head, “let's get on with this speech.”

Rayber felt as if he were fighting his way out of a net. They were over him with their red faces grinning. He heard the words drag out—“Well, the way I see it, men elect. . . .” He felt them pull out of his mouth like freight cars, jangling, backing up on each other, grating to a halt, sliding, clinching back, jarring, and then suddenly stopping as roughly as they had begun. It was over. Rayber was jarred that it was over so soon. For a second—as if they were expecting him to go on—no one said anything.

Then, “How many yawl gonna vote for Boy Blue!” the barber yelled.

Some of the men turned around and snickered. One doubled over.

“Me,” Roy said. “I'm gonna run right down there now so I'll be first to vote for Boy Blue tomorrow morning.”

“Listen!” Rayber shouted, “I'm not trying. . . .”

“George,” the barber yelled, “you heard that speech?”

“Yessir,” George said.

“Who you gonna vote for, George?”

“I'm not trying to. . . .” Rayber yelled.

“I don't know is they gonna let
me vote,” George said. “Do, I gonna vote for Mr. Hawkson.”

“Listen!” Rayber yelled, “do you think I'm trying to change your fat minds? What do you think I am?” He jerked the barber around by the shoulder. “Do you think I'd tamper with your damn fool ignorance?”

The barber shook Rayber's grip off his shoulder. “Don't get excited,” he said, “we all thought it was a fine speech. That's what I been saying all along—you got to think, you got to. . . .” He lurched backward when Rayber hit him, and landed sitting on the footrest of the next chair. “Thought it was fine,” he finished, looking steadily at Rayber's white, half-lathered face glaring down at him. “It's what I been saying all along.”

The blood
began pounding up Rayber's neck just under his skin. He turned and pushed quickly
through the men around him to the door. Outside, the sun was suspending everything in a pool of heat, and before he had turned the first corner, almost running, lather began to drip inside his collar and down the barber's bib, dangling to his knees.

Old Gabriel shuffled across the room waving his stick slowly sideways in front of him.

“Who that?” he whispered, appearing in the doorway. “I smells fo' niggers.”

Their soft, minor-toned laughter rose above the frog's hum and blended into voices.

“Cain't you do no bettern that, Gabe?”

“Is you goin' with us, Granpaw?”

“You oughter be able to smell good enough to git our names.”

Old Gabriel moved out on the porch a little way. “That Matthew an' George an' Willie Myrick. An' who that other?”

“This Boon Williams, Granpaw.”

Gabriel felt for the edge of the porch with his stick. “What yawl doin'? Set down a spell.”

“We waitin' on Mose an' Luke.”

“We goin' huntin' that cat.”

“What yawl huntin' him with?” old Gabriel muttered. “Yawl ain't got nothin' fit to kill a wildcat with.” He sat down on the edge of the porch and hung his feet over the side. “I done tol' Mose an' Luke that.”

“How many wildcats you killed, Gabrul?” Their voices, rising to him through the darkness, were full of gentle mockery.

“When I was a boy, there was a cat once,” Gabriel started. “It come 'round here huntin' blood. Come in through the winder of a cabin one night an' sprung in bed with a nigger an' tore that nigger's throat open befo' he could holler good.”

“This cat in the woods, Granpaw. It jus' come out to git cows. Jupe Williams seen it when he gone through to the sawmill.”

“What he done about it?”

“Started runnin'.” Their laughter broke over the night sounds again. “He thought it was after him.”

“It was,” old Gabriel murmured.

“It after cows.”

Gabriel sniffed. “It comin' out the woods for mo' than cows. It gonna git itssef some folks' blood. You watch. An' yawl goin' off huntin' it ain't gonna do no good. It goin' huntin' itssef. I been smellin' it.”

“How you know that it you smellin'?”

“Ain't no mistakin' a wildcat. Ain't been one 'round here since I was a boy. Why don't yawl set a spell?” he added.

“You ain't afraid to stay here by yosef, is you, Granpaw?”

Old Gabriel stiffened. He felt for the post to pull himself up on. “Ef you waitin' on Mose an' Luke,” he said, “you better git goin'. They started over to yawl's place an hour ago.”

“Come in here, I say! Come in here right now!”

The blind boy sat alone on the steps, staring ahead. “All the men gone?” he called.

“All gone but ol' Hezuh. Come in.”

He hated to go in—among the women.

“I smells it,” he said.

“You come in here, Gabriel.”

He went in and walked to where the window was. The women were muttering at him.

“You stay in here, boy.”

“You be 'tractin' that cat right in this room, settin' out there.”

No air was coming through the window, and he scratched at the shutter latch to open it.

“Don't open that winder, boy. Us don't want no wildcat jumpin' in here.”

“I could er gone wit 'em,” he said sullenly. “I could er smelled it out. I ain't afraid.” Shut up wit these women like he one too
.

“Reba say she kin smell it herself.”

He heard the old woman groan in the corner. “They ain't gonna do no good out huntin' it,” she whined. “It here. It right around here. Ef it jump in this room it gonna git me fust, then it gonna git that boy, then it gonna git. . . .”

“Hush yo' mouth, Reba,” he heard his mother say. “I look after my boy.”

He could look after hissef. He warn't afraid. He could smell it—him an' Reba could. It'd jump on them fust; fust Reba an' then him. It was the shape of a reg'lar cat only bigger, his mother said. An' where you felt the sharp points on a house cat's foot, you felt big knife claws in a wildcat's, an' knife teeth, too; an' it breathed heat an' spit wet lime. Gabriel could feel its claws in his shoulders and its teeth in his throat. But he wouldn't let 'em stay there. He'd lock his arms 'round its body an' feel up for its neck an' jerk its head back an' go down wit it on the floor until its claws dropped away from his shoulders. Beat, beat, beat its head, beat, beat beat. . . .

“Who wit ol' Hezuh?” one of the women asked.

“Jus' Nancy.”

“Oughter be somebody else down there,” his mother said softly.

Reba moaned. “Anybody go out gonna git sprung on befo' they gits there. It around here, I say. It gittin' closer an' closer. It gonna git me sho.”

He could smell it strong.

“How it gonna git in here? Yawl jus' frettin' for nothin'.”

That was Thin Minnie. Nothin' could git her. She'd had a spell on her since when she was small—put there by a conjer woman.

“It come in easy ef it wanter,” Reba snorted. “It tear up that cat hole an' come through.”

“We could be down to Nancy's by then,” Minnie sniffed.

“Yawl could,” the old woman muttered.

Him an' her couldn't, he knew. But he'd stay an' fight it. You see that blin' boy there? He the one kill the wildcat!

Reba started groaning.

“Hush that!” his mother ordered.

The groaning turned into singing—low in her throat.

“Lord, Lord,

Gonna see yo' pilgrim today.

Lord, Lord,

Gonna see yo' . . .”

“Hush!” his mother hissed. “What that I hear?”

Gabriel leaned forward in the silence; stiff, ready.

It was a thump, thump and maybe a snarl, away, muffled, and then a shriek, far away, then louder and louder, closer and closer, over the edge of the hill into the yard and up on the porch. The cabin was shaking with the weight of a body against the door. There was the feel of a rush inside the room and the scream was let in. Nancy!

“It got him!” she screamed. “Got him, sprung in through the winder, got him in the throat. Hezuh,” she wailed, “ol' Hezuh.”

Later in the night the men returned, carrying a rabbit and two squirrels.

Old Gabriel crept back through the darkness to his bed. He could sit in the chair a while or he could lie down. He eased down in the bed and pushed his nose into the feel and smell of the quilt. They won't no use to do that. He could smell the other jus' the same. He had been smellin' it, been smellin' it ever since they started talkin' about it. There it was one evenin'—different from all the smells around, different from niggers' and cows' an' ground smells. Wildcat. Tull Williams seen it jump on a bull.

Gabriel sat up suddenly. It was nearer. He got out the bed and pushed to the door. He had bolted that one; the other must be open. A breeze was coming in and he walked in it until he felt the night air full in his face. This one was open. He slammed it shut and pushed the bolt in. What was the use to do that? Ef the cat aimed on comin' in, it could git there. He went back to the chair and sat down. It come in east ef it wanta. There were little drafts all around him. By the door there was a hole the hound could git under; that cat could gnaw it through an' be in befo' he got out. Maybe ef he sat by the back do', he could git away quicker. He got up and dragged his chair after him across the room. The smell was near. Maybe he'd count. He could count to a thousand. Won't no nigger for five miles could count that fur. He started counting.

Mose an' Luke wouldn't be back for six hours yet. Tomorrow night they wouldn't go; but the cat was gonna git him tonight. Lemme go wit you boys an' smell him out for you. I the onliest one kin smell 'round here.

They'd lose him in the woods, they'd said. Huntin' wildcats won't no business for him.

I ain't afraid er no wildcat er no woods neither. Lemme go wit you boys, lemme go.

Ain't no reason to be 'fraid to stay here by yosef, they'd laughed.

Ain't nothin' gonna git you. We take you up the road to Mattie's ef you scaird.

Mattie's! Take him to Mattie's! Settin' wit the women. What yawl think I is? I ain't afraid er no wildcat. But it comin', boys; an' it ain't gonna be in no woods—it gonna be here. Yawl wastin' yo' time in the woods. Stay here an' you ketch it.

He suppose to be countin'. Where he lef off at? Five hunnert an' five, five hunnert an' six . . . Mattie's! What they think he is? Five hunnert an' two, five hunnert an'. . . .

He sat stiff in the chair with his hands gripped tight to the stick across his knees. It won't gonna git him like he was a woman. His shirt was stuck wet to him, making him smell higher. The men had come back later in the night with a rabbit and two squirrels. He began to remember the other wildcat and he remembered as if he had been in Hezuh's cabin instead of with the women. He wondered was he Hezuh. He was Gabrul. It won't gonna git him like Hezuh. He was gonna hit it. He was gonna pull it off. He was gonna . . . how he gonna do all that? He hadn't been able to wring a chicken's neck for fo' years. It was gonna git him. Won't nothin' to do but wait. The smell was near. Won't nothin' for old people to do but wait. It was gonna git him tonight. The teeth would be hot an' the claws cold. The claws would sink in soft, an' the teeth would cut sharp an' scrape his bones inside.

Gabriel felt the sweat on himself. It kin smell me good's I kin smell it, he thought. I settin' here smellin' an' it comin' here smellin'. Two hunnert an' fo'; where he lef off at? Fo' hunnert an' five. . . .

There was a sudden scratching by the chimney. He sat forward, tense, tight-throated. “Come on,” he whispered, “I here. I waitin'.” He couldn't move. He couldn't make himself move. There was another scratching. It was the pain he didn't want. But he didn't want the waiting either. “I here,” he—there was another, just a small noise and then a flutter. Bats. His grip on the stick loosened. He should have known that won't it. It won't no farther than the barn yet. What ail his nose? What ail him? Won't no nigger for hunnert miles could smell like he could. He heard the scratching again, coming differently, coming from the corner of the house where the cat hole was. Pick . . . pick . . . pick. That was a bat. He knowd that was a bat. Pick . . . pick. “Here I is,” he whispered. Won't no bat. He braced his feet to get up. Pick. “Lord waitin' on me,” he whispered. “He don't want me with my face tore open. Why don't you go on, Wildcat, why you want me?” He was on his feet now. “Lord don't want me with no wildcat marks.” He was moving toward the cat hole. Across on the riverbank the Lord was waiting on him with a troupe of angels and golden vestments for him to put on and when he came, he'd put on the vestments and stand there with the Lord and the angels, judging life. Won't no nigger for fifty miles fitter to judge than him. Pick. He stopped. He smelled it right outside, nosing the hole. He had to climb onto something! What he going toward it for? He had to get on something high! There was a shelf nailed over the chimney and he turned wildly and fell against a chair and shoved it up to the fireplace. He caught hold of the shelf and pulled himself onto the chair and sprang up and backwards and felt the narrow shelf board under him for an instant and then felt it sag and jerked his feet up and felt it crack somewhere from the wall. His stomach flew inside him and stopped hard and the shelf board fell across his feet and the rung of the chair hit against his head and then, after a second of stillness, he heard a low, gasping animal cry wail over two hills and fade past him; then snarls, tearing short, furious, through the pain wails. Gabriel sat stiff on the floor.

“Cow,” he breathed finally. “Cow.”

Gradually he felt his muscles loosen. It got to her befo' him. It would go on off now, but it would be back tomorrer night. He rose shaking from the chair and stumbled to his bed. The cat had been a half mile away. He won't sharp like he used to be. They shouldn't leave old people by theyselves. He done tole 'em they won't gonna ketch nothin' off in no woods. Tomorrer night it would come back. Tomorrer night they would stay here an' kill it. Now he want to sleep. He done tole 'em they couldn't get no wildcat in no woods. He the one tole 'em where it gonna be. They'd a listened to him, they'd done had it by now. When he die he want to be sleepin' in a bed; didn't want to be on no floor with a wildcat stuck in his face. Lord waitin'.

When he woke up, the darkness was full of morning things. He heard Mose and Luke at the stove and smelled the side meat in the skillet. He reached for his snuff and filled his lip. “What yawl ketch?” he asked trenchantly.

“Ain't caught nothin' las' night.” Luke put the plate in his hands. “Here yo' side meat. How you bust that shelf?”

“Ain't busted no shelf,” old Gabriel muttered. “Wind to' it down and waked me up in the middle of the night. It been due to fall. You ain't never built nothin' yet stayed together.”

“We sot a trap,” Mose said. “We git that cat tonight.”

“Yawl sho will, boys,” Gabriel said. “It'll be right here tonight. Ain't it done kill a cow a half a mile from here las' night?”

“That don't mean it comin' this way,” Luke said.

“It comin' this way,” Gabriel said.

“How many wildcats you killed, Granpaw?”

Gabriel stopped; the plate of side meat tremored in his hand. “I knows what I knows, boy.”

“We git it soon. We sot a trap over in Ford's Woods. It been around there. We goin' up in a tree over the trap every night an' wait 'til we gits it.”

Their forks were scraping back and forth over their tin plates like knife teeth against stone.

“You wants sommo' side meat, Granpaw?”

Gabriel put his fork down on the quilt. “No, boy,” he said, “no mo' side meat.” The darkness was hollow around him and through its depth, animal cries wailed and mingled with the beats pounding in his throat.