presence, stopping his breathing, and he went to the window and flung the sash crashing upward and leaned there, gulping air into his lungs like a man who has been submerged and who still cannot believe that he has reached the surface again.
Later, lying naked between the sheets, he waked himselfwith his own groaning. The room was filled now with a gray light, sourceless and chill, and he turned his head and saw Miss Jenny, the woolen shawl about her shoulders, sitting in a chair beside the bed.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“That’s what I want to know,” Miss Jenny answered. “You make more noise than that water pump.”
“I want a drink.”
Miss Jenny leaned over and raised a glass from the floor beside her. Bayard had risen to his elbow and he took the glass. His hand stopped before the glass reached his mouth and he hunched on his elbow, the glass beneath his nose.
“Hell,” he said. “I said a drink.”
“You drink that milk, boy,” Miss Jenny commanded. “You think I’m going to sit up all night just to feed you whisky? Drink it, now.”
He emptied the glass obediently and lay back. Miss Jenny set the glass on the floor.
“What time is it?”
“Hush,” she said. She laid her hand on his brow. “Go to sleep.”
He rolled his head on the pillow, but he could not evade her hand.
“Get away,” he said. “Let me alone.”
“Hush,” Miss Jenny said. “Go to sleep.”
Two
1
S imon said: “You aint never yit planted nothin’ whar hit ought ter be planted.” He sat on the bottom step, whetting the blade of his hoe with a file. Miss Jenny stood with her caller at the edge of the veranda above him, in a man’s felt hat and heavy gloves. A pair of shears dangled below her waist, glinting in the morning sunlight.
“And whose business is that?” she demanded. “Yours, or Colonel’s? Either one of you can loaf on this porch and tell me where a plant will grow best or look best, but if either of you ever grew as much as a weed out of the ground yourselves, I’d like to see it. I dont give two whoops in the bad place where you or Colonel either thinks a flower ought to be planted; I plant my flowers just exactly where I want ’em to be planted.”
“And den dares ’um not ter come up,” Simon added. “Dat’s de way you en Isom gyardens. Thank de Lawd Isom aint got to make his livin’ wid de sort of gyardenin’ he learns in dat place.” Still whetting at the hoe blade he jerked his head toward the corner of the house.
He wore a disreputable hat, of a fabric these many years anonymous. Miss Jenny stared coldly down upon this hat.
“Isom made his living by being born black,” Miss Jenny snapped. “Suppose you quit scraping at that hoe and see if you cant dare some of the grass in that salvia bed to come up.”
“I got to git a aidge on dis curry-comb,” Simon said. “You go’n out dar to yo’ gyarden: I’ll git dis bed cleaned up.” He scraped steadily at the hoe-blade.
“You’ve been at that long enough to find out that you cant possibly wear that blade down to the handle with just a file. You’ve been at it ever since breakfast. I heard you. You get on out there where folks passing will think you’re working, anyhow.”
Simon groaned dismally and spent a half minute laying the file aside. He laid it on a step, then he picked it up and moved it to another step. Then he laid it against the step behind him. Then he ran his thumb along the blade, examining it with morose hopefulness.
“Hit mought do now,” he said. “But hit’ll be jes’ like weed-in’ wid a curry-c——”
“You try it, anyway,” Miss Jenny said. “Maybe the weeds’ll think it’s a hoe. You go give ’em a chance to, anyhow.”
“Ise gwine, Ise gwine,” Simon answered pettishly, rising and hobbling away. “You go’n see erbout dat place o’ yo’n; I’ll ’tend ter dis.”
Miss Jenny and the caller descended the steps and went on around the corner of the house.
“Why
Later, lying naked between the sheets, he waked himselfwith his own groaning. The room was filled now with a gray light, sourceless and chill, and he turned his head and saw Miss Jenny, the woolen shawl about her shoulders, sitting in a chair beside the bed.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“That’s what I want to know,” Miss Jenny answered. “You make more noise than that water pump.”
“I want a drink.”
Miss Jenny leaned over and raised a glass from the floor beside her. Bayard had risen to his elbow and he took the glass. His hand stopped before the glass reached his mouth and he hunched on his elbow, the glass beneath his nose.
“Hell,” he said. “I said a drink.”
“You drink that milk, boy,” Miss Jenny commanded. “You think I’m going to sit up all night just to feed you whisky? Drink it, now.”
He emptied the glass obediently and lay back. Miss Jenny set the glass on the floor.
“What time is it?”
“Hush,” she said. She laid her hand on his brow. “Go to sleep.”
He rolled his head on the pillow, but he could not evade her hand.
“Get away,” he said. “Let me alone.”
“Hush,” Miss Jenny said. “Go to sleep.”
Two
1
S imon said: “You aint never yit planted nothin’ whar hit ought ter be planted.” He sat on the bottom step, whetting the blade of his hoe with a file. Miss Jenny stood with her caller at the edge of the veranda above him, in a man’s felt hat and heavy gloves. A pair of shears dangled below her waist, glinting in the morning sunlight.
“And whose business is that?” she demanded. “Yours, or Colonel’s? Either one of you can loaf on this porch and tell me where a plant will grow best or look best, but if either of you ever grew as much as a weed out of the ground yourselves, I’d like to see it. I dont give two whoops in the bad place where you or Colonel either thinks a flower ought to be planted; I plant my flowers just exactly where I want ’em to be planted.”
“And den dares ’um not ter come up,” Simon added. “Dat’s de way you en Isom gyardens. Thank de Lawd Isom aint got to make his livin’ wid de sort of gyardenin’ he learns in dat place.” Still whetting at the hoe blade he jerked his head toward the corner of the house.
He wore a disreputable hat, of a fabric these many years anonymous. Miss Jenny stared coldly down upon this hat.
“Isom made his living by being born black,” Miss Jenny snapped. “Suppose you quit scraping at that hoe and see if you cant dare some of the grass in that salvia bed to come up.”
“I got to git a aidge on dis curry-comb,” Simon said. “You go’n out dar to yo’ gyarden: I’ll git dis bed cleaned up.” He scraped steadily at the hoe-blade.
“You’ve been at that long enough to find out that you cant possibly wear that blade down to the handle with just a file. You’ve been at it ever since breakfast. I heard you. You get on out there where folks passing will think you’re working, anyhow.”
Simon groaned dismally and spent a half minute laying the file aside. He laid it on a step, then he picked it up and moved it to another step. Then he laid it against the step behind him. Then he ran his thumb along the blade, examining it with morose hopefulness.
“Hit mought do now,” he said. “But hit’ll be jes’ like weed-in’ wid a curry-c——”
“You try it, anyway,” Miss Jenny said. “Maybe the weeds’ll think it’s a hoe. You go give ’em a chance to, anyhow.”
“Ise gwine, Ise gwine,” Simon answered pettishly, rising and hobbling away. “You go’n see erbout dat place o’ yo’n; I’ll ’tend ter dis.”
Miss Jenny and the caller descended the steps and went on around the corner of the house.
“Why
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