didn’t even have to talk about it any more.
Two more years. If you went into a room with a girl and she was your wife and she took off her things, even the very last one, and there was nothing at all to have to guess through—he caught his breath—what would it be like? If you woke in the night and it wasn’t David, but a girl, beside you. If you touched her and there was no dress over any of those places.
He wished he had a room of his own.
III
“What will we have for supper?” Charlotte said to her mother. The rocker Rachel sat in seemed to move by itself. She gazed out the window as if the level of her vision passed above anything that was to be seen. She kept pleating and unpleating the handkerchief she held in her lap.
“Supper?” The tone of her mother’s voice made Charlotte feel guilty for having thought of eating. “You git what you like, dear. I don’t want anything.”
Charlotte got herself some bread and molasses and a cup of milk.
There was always food in the pantry, but never anything fancy: no boughten cookies, no frosting on the spongecake, never an orange, except at Christmas. They didn’t make toast in the morning. They never made the blueberries into a fungy, as Mrs Canaan did—they just stewed them. And in the summer they never fixed up potatoes
on
the lettuce as Mrs Canaan did; the lettuce was in a bowl by itself and the vinegar beside it. The plate of cheese when the minister came to supper was the only frivolous food they ever had.
Our house isn’t like Canaan’s house at all, Charlotte thought. The curtains didn’t have ruffles, the kitchen had no mats on the floor, the organ was always closed so it wouldn’t swell in the dampness, the banisters were just square wooden sticks. The only pictures they had on the wall were the enlarged ones of her grandfather and grandmother, the only book was the Bible on the centre-table in the front room. She didn’t mean the Bible shouldn’t be there (and once it was there, how could you replace it?); but she’d seen Mrs Canaan move theirs sometimes, to make room for a jar of daisies, and it didn’t seem as if there was any sin in that.
She thought of Chris; and before she could help it, she felt a little inward touch at the way his pants slimmed down so smoothly over his haunches and the suggestion of a bulge in front which she’d glimpsed sometimes as he walked towards her.
“Kin I go up the road tonight, Mother?” she said.
“If you
feel
like it, child.”
As her mother spoke, suddenly Charlotte didn’t feel like it at all. She thought of Rachel sitting there, with the lamp not lit, folding and unfolding her handkerchief in the darkness. She felt traitorous for the way she’d thought of the Canaans. She almost hated them. She began to cry.
“No, I
don’t
feel like it,” she sobbed. “I feel awful.”
“It’s hard,” Rachel said. “It’s hard, child, ain’t it?”
“I couldn’t leave you alone, Mother,” Charlotte cried. “Not now.”
“I didn’t think you would, dear,” Rachel said. She shifted her gaze from the window and sighed. “If I had just a crust of bread, Lottie. I don’t know, I might try …”
IV
After supper the sun shone lonesome in the church windows. The meadow hens trailed their lonesome cries as they flew upward from the swamps.
“I think I should take a run down to see Bess,” Martha said to Joseph. “Poor soul, let her be what she is, I …”
“I don’t see nothin wrong with the woman,” Joseph said. “If some of these damned gospel-grinders’d keep their jaws shut.”
David had never heard his father speak so short in the house.
It was the way he spoke outside, sometimes, when one of the men had kept at a joke until it became a malice. He judged so seldom that his fierce opinions on things you’d never have thought such a quiet man would have any feeling about, when they did come, came as a kind of shock. The men never tempted him further when he spoke like that. It
Two more years. If you went into a room with a girl and she was your wife and she took off her things, even the very last one, and there was nothing at all to have to guess through—he caught his breath—what would it be like? If you woke in the night and it wasn’t David, but a girl, beside you. If you touched her and there was no dress over any of those places.
He wished he had a room of his own.
III
“What will we have for supper?” Charlotte said to her mother. The rocker Rachel sat in seemed to move by itself. She gazed out the window as if the level of her vision passed above anything that was to be seen. She kept pleating and unpleating the handkerchief she held in her lap.
“Supper?” The tone of her mother’s voice made Charlotte feel guilty for having thought of eating. “You git what you like, dear. I don’t want anything.”
Charlotte got herself some bread and molasses and a cup of milk.
There was always food in the pantry, but never anything fancy: no boughten cookies, no frosting on the spongecake, never an orange, except at Christmas. They didn’t make toast in the morning. They never made the blueberries into a fungy, as Mrs Canaan did—they just stewed them. And in the summer they never fixed up potatoes
on
the lettuce as Mrs Canaan did; the lettuce was in a bowl by itself and the vinegar beside it. The plate of cheese when the minister came to supper was the only frivolous food they ever had.
Our house isn’t like Canaan’s house at all, Charlotte thought. The curtains didn’t have ruffles, the kitchen had no mats on the floor, the organ was always closed so it wouldn’t swell in the dampness, the banisters were just square wooden sticks. The only pictures they had on the wall were the enlarged ones of her grandfather and grandmother, the only book was the Bible on the centre-table in the front room. She didn’t mean the Bible shouldn’t be there (and once it was there, how could you replace it?); but she’d seen Mrs Canaan move theirs sometimes, to make room for a jar of daisies, and it didn’t seem as if there was any sin in that.
She thought of Chris; and before she could help it, she felt a little inward touch at the way his pants slimmed down so smoothly over his haunches and the suggestion of a bulge in front which she’d glimpsed sometimes as he walked towards her.
“Kin I go up the road tonight, Mother?” she said.
“If you
feel
like it, child.”
As her mother spoke, suddenly Charlotte didn’t feel like it at all. She thought of Rachel sitting there, with the lamp not lit, folding and unfolding her handkerchief in the darkness. She felt traitorous for the way she’d thought of the Canaans. She almost hated them. She began to cry.
“No, I
don’t
feel like it,” she sobbed. “I feel awful.”
“It’s hard,” Rachel said. “It’s hard, child, ain’t it?”
“I couldn’t leave you alone, Mother,” Charlotte cried. “Not now.”
“I didn’t think you would, dear,” Rachel said. She shifted her gaze from the window and sighed. “If I had just a crust of bread, Lottie. I don’t know, I might try …”
IV
After supper the sun shone lonesome in the church windows. The meadow hens trailed their lonesome cries as they flew upward from the swamps.
“I think I should take a run down to see Bess,” Martha said to Joseph. “Poor soul, let her be what she is, I …”
“I don’t see nothin wrong with the woman,” Joseph said. “If some of these damned gospel-grinders’d keep their jaws shut.”
David had never heard his father speak so short in the house.
It was the way he spoke outside, sometimes, when one of the men had kept at a joke until it became a malice. He judged so seldom that his fierce opinions on things you’d never have thought such a quiet man would have any feeling about, when they did come, came as a kind of shock. The men never tempted him further when he spoke like that. It
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