Sanctuary by William Faulkner Page B

the wall, her coat shapeless, her hat tilted monstrously above a monstrous escaping of hair. “Poor little baby,” she whispered, “poor little baby.” The men’s voices grew louder. She heard a trampling of feet in the hall, a rasping of chairs, the voice of the man who had laughed above them, laughing again. She turned, motionless again, watching the door. The woman entered.
    “Go and eat your supper,” she said.
    “The car,” Temple said. “I could go now, while they’re eating.”
    “What car?” the woman said. “Go on and eat. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
    “I’m not hungry. I haven’t eaten today. I’m not hungry at all.”
    “Go and eat your supper,” she said.
    “I’ll wait and eat when you do.”
    “Go on and eat your supper. I’ve got to get done here some time tonight.”

8

    T emple entered the dining-room from the kitchen, her face fixed in a cringing, placative expression; she was quite blind when she entered, holding her coat about her, her hat thrust upward and back at that dissolute angle. After a moment she saw Tommy. She went straight toward him, as if she had been looking for him all the while. Something intervened: a hard forearm; she attempted to evade it, looking at Tommy.
    “Here,” Gowan said across the table, his chair rasping back, “you come around here.”
    “Outside, brother,” the one who had stopped her said, whom she recognised then as the one who had laughed so often; “you’re drunk. Come here, kid.” His hard forearm came across her middle. She thrust against it, grinning rigidly at Tommy. “Move down, Tommy,” the man said. “Aint you got no manners, you mat-faced bastard?” Tommy guffawed, scraping his chair along the floor. The man drew her toward him by the wrist. Across the table Gowan stood up, propping himself on the table. She began to resist, grinning at Tommy, picking at the man’s fingers.
    “Quit that, Van,” Goodwin said.
    “Right on my lap here,” Van said.
    “Let her go,” Goodwin said.
    “Who’ll make me?” Van said. “Who’s big enough?”
    “Let her go,” Goodwin said. Then she was free. She began to back slowly away. Behind her the woman, entering with a dish, stepped aside. Still smiling her aching, rigid grimace Temple backed from the room. In the hall she whirled and ran. She ran right off the porch, into the weeds, and sped on. She ran to the road and down it for fifty yards in the darkness, then without a break she whirled and ran back to the house and sprang onto the porch and crouched against the door just as someone came up the hall. It was Tommy.
    “Oh, hyer you are,” he said. He thrust something awkwardly at her. “Hyer,” he said.
    “What is it?” she whispered.
    “Little bite of victuals. I bet you aint et since mawnin.”
    “No. Not then, even,” she whispered.
    “You eat a little mite and you’ll feel better,” he said,poking the plate at her. “You set down hyer and eat a little bite wher wont nobody bother you. Durn them fellers.”
    Temple leaned around the door, past his dim shape, her face wan as a small ghost in the refracted light from the dining-room. “Mrs—Mrs.……” she whispered.
    “She’s in the kitchen. Want me to go back there with you?” In the dining-room a chair scraped. Between blinks Tommy saw Temple in the path, her body slender and motionless for a moment as though waiting for some laggard part to catch up. Then she was gone like a shadow around the corner of the house. He stood in the door, the plate of food in his hand. Then he turned his head and looked down the hall just in time to see her flit across the darkness toward the kitchen. “Durn them fellers.”
    He was standing there when the others returned to the porch.
    “He’s got a plate of grub,” Van said. “He’s trying to get his with a plate full of ham.”
    “Git my whut?” Tommy said.
    “Look here,” Gowan said.
    Van struck the plate from Tommy’s hand. He turned to Gowan. “Dont you like