Requiem for a Nun by William Faulkner Page A

me do it in privacy, since God knows if anyone of the excretions should take place in privacy, triumph should be the one—
    Stevens watches her. Then he crosses to her, taking the handkerchief from his breast pocket, stops behind her and extends the handkerchief down where she can see it. She looks at it, then up at him. Her face is quite calm.

    Temple
    What’s that for?

    Stevens
    It’s all right. It’s dry too.

    (still extending the handkerchief)

    For tomorrow, then.

    Temple
    (rises quickly)

    Oh, for cinders. On the train. We’re going by air; hadn’t Gowan told you? We leave from the Memphis airport at midnight; we’re driving up after supper. Then California tomorrow morning; maybe we’ll even go on to Hawaii in the spring. No; wrong season: Canada, maybe. Lake Louise in May and June—

    (she stops, listens a moment toward the dining room doors)

    So why the handkerchief? Not a threat, because you dont have anything to threaten me with, do you? And if you dont have anything to threaten me with, I must not have anything you want, so it cant be a bribe either, can it?

    (they both hear the sound from beyond the dining room doors which indicates that Gowan is approaching. Temple lowers her voice again, rapidly)

    Put it this way then. I dont know what you want, because I dont care. Because whatever it is, you wont get it from me.

    (the sound is near now—footsteps, clink of glass)

    Now he’ll offer you a drink, and then he’ll ask you too what you want, why you followed us home. I’ve already answered you. No. If what you came for is to see me weep, I doubt if you’ll even get that. But you certainly wont get anything else. Not from me. Do you understand that?

    Stevens
    I hear you.

    Temple
    Meaning, you dont believe it. All right,
touché
then.

    (quicker, tenser)

    I refused to answer your question; now I’ll ask you one: How much do you—

    (as Gowan enters, she changes what she was saying so smoothly in mid-sentence that anyone entering would not even realise that the pitch of her voice had altered)

    â€”are her lawyer, she must have talked to you; even a dope fiend that murders a little baby must have what she calls some excuse for it, even a nigger dope fiend and a white baby—or maybe even more, a nigger dope fiend and a white baby—

    Gowan
    I said, stop it, Boots.
    He carries a tray containing a pitcher of water, a bowl of ice, three empty tumblers and three whiskey glasses already filled. The bottle itself protrudes from his top-coat pocket. He approaches Temple and offers the tray.

    That’s right. I’m going to have one myself. For a change. After eight years. Why not?

    Temple
    Why not?

    (looks at the tray)

    Not highballs?

    Gowan
    Not this one.
    She takes one of the filled glasses. He offers the tray to Stevens, who takes the second one. Then he sets the tray on the table and takes up the third glass.

    Nary a drink in eight years; count ’em. So maybe this will be a good time to start again. At least, it wont be too soon.

    (to Stevens)

    Drink up. A little water behind it?
    As though not aware that he had done so, he sets his untasted glass back on the tray, splashes water from the pitcher into a tumbler and hands the tumbler to Stevens as Stevens empties his glass and lowers it, taking the tumbler. Temple has not touched hers either.

    Now maybe Defense Attorney Stevens will tell us what he wants here.

    Stevens
    Your wife has already told you. To say good-bye.

    Gowan
    Then say it. One more for the road, and where’s your hat, huh?
    He takes the tumbler from Stevens and turns back to the table.

    Temple
    (sets her untasted glass back on the tray)

    And put ice in it this time, and maybe even a little water. But first, take Uncle Gavin’s coat.

    Gowan
    (takes bottle from his pocket and makes a highball for Stevens in the tumbler)

    That wont be necessary. If he could raise his arm in a white courtroom