William Styron: The Collected Novels: Lie Down in Darkness, Set This House on Fire, The Confessions of Nat Turner, and Sophie's Choice by William Styron
Authors: William Styron
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probe against some sticky film and withdraw, iridescent wings fanning upward, downward, coquettishly. Somewhere an electric fan droned without end, in a still and constant minor key.
“… that’s the sister of my helpmate, if I might use the expression——” She paused and Loftis, languid eyes upon her, saw her lips compress abruptly in a look of derision and scorn. “You haven’t seen him, I guess, since I rarely if ever seen you in here before … the ninny, ” she sneered, “well, pore thing, burdened as she was …”
Peyton—he saw her now: shape, form, substance; thinking of her in this way brought sudden fire to his chest. Lost now? Gone? Oh, that this moment should have never come, but would melt away like mist. My God, for a drink. Moving his arm upward, he became aware of a faint noise, as of paper crackling, in his breast pocket.
“Men,” the woman said. “Men!” she was saying. Blind, headlong, she talked on and on exhaustlessly above the droning fan, above the sound of water slowly dripping. The fly pivoted, buzzed away.
Ah, yes, the letter—he had forgotten. Before leaving the house an hour ago he had put it away without thought, fearfully, and now fearfully, with trembling fingers, he withdrew it from his pocket, examining the envelope: a green stamp upon which a three-masted schooner rested at anchor, commemorating something, obscured by the postmark’s sinuous inky lines. For an instant he laid the envelope on the counter, thinking: I just can’t. But then he opened it, saw six pages of writing, the familiar feminine script. … Something wrung his heart like hands as, tremulous, irresolute, he began to read——
Dearest Bunny, today I was 22 and I woke up this morning in a thunderstorm feeling so old—really sick, I guess—and then the money order came with your lovely nite letter (those telegraph people must think you’re my sweetheart) and I guess I feel better now. I went out and bought two quarts of milk and a Mozart concerto and I guess I feel better now. And I bought a lovely big alarm clock, too.
Bunny, you don’t know how much I miss you, how much that long lovely telegram meant to me. You get stewed to the gills and you try to be modern but you’re absolutely hopelessly conventional. Even so I love you and miss you terribly. I’ve really been so lonely since Harry left (has the news really gotten around town? What kind of poison’s being spread by the local you-knows? What has she said?) Dear Bunny, I suspect you’re the only one who understands and doesn’t too much care—from the gossip point of view anyway. Anyway, I am lonely, something I hate to admit but I guess it’s true. After you’ve lived with someone for a time it leaves a huge gap in your life when they’re gone—even if they’re impossible (so you think) or downright horrible (maybe you just think that too). Just feeling that sort of vacuum and silence around you when you’re cleaning the apartment or going to bed—that’s what’s so bad—even though if the person came back you’d slam the door in his face (not really).
So Bunny I just lay there last night and thought about you. New York is so beastly hot in the summer. I felt absolutely miserable. There’s a bar downstairs (I remember you haven’t seen this apt. since I moved up from the village) full of the loudest Italians imaginable. The juke box goes all the time full blast and of course it’s worse in the summer with all the windows open. Then with a pillow over my head I almost drifted off to sleep when the Cecchinos (he’s a dark and mustachioed (sp?) Latin type, a rather ominous young man) came in drunk—their apt. is across the hall—she shrieking at the top of her lungs and banging up against my door. So I just stayed awake until the bar closed listening to the busses go by and thinking thoughts. They weren’t very pleasant thoughts—in fact they were very dreary and morbid and depressing. They’ve just started lately it
“… that’s the sister of my helpmate, if I might use the expression——” She paused and Loftis, languid eyes upon her, saw her lips compress abruptly in a look of derision and scorn. “You haven’t seen him, I guess, since I rarely if ever seen you in here before … the ninny, ” she sneered, “well, pore thing, burdened as she was …”
Peyton—he saw her now: shape, form, substance; thinking of her in this way brought sudden fire to his chest. Lost now? Gone? Oh, that this moment should have never come, but would melt away like mist. My God, for a drink. Moving his arm upward, he became aware of a faint noise, as of paper crackling, in his breast pocket.
“Men,” the woman said. “Men!” she was saying. Blind, headlong, she talked on and on exhaustlessly above the droning fan, above the sound of water slowly dripping. The fly pivoted, buzzed away.
Ah, yes, the letter—he had forgotten. Before leaving the house an hour ago he had put it away without thought, fearfully, and now fearfully, with trembling fingers, he withdrew it from his pocket, examining the envelope: a green stamp upon which a three-masted schooner rested at anchor, commemorating something, obscured by the postmark’s sinuous inky lines. For an instant he laid the envelope on the counter, thinking: I just can’t. But then he opened it, saw six pages of writing, the familiar feminine script. … Something wrung his heart like hands as, tremulous, irresolute, he began to read——
Dearest Bunny, today I was 22 and I woke up this morning in a thunderstorm feeling so old—really sick, I guess—and then the money order came with your lovely nite letter (those telegraph people must think you’re my sweetheart) and I guess I feel better now. I went out and bought two quarts of milk and a Mozart concerto and I guess I feel better now. And I bought a lovely big alarm clock, too.
Bunny, you don’t know how much I miss you, how much that long lovely telegram meant to me. You get stewed to the gills and you try to be modern but you’re absolutely hopelessly conventional. Even so I love you and miss you terribly. I’ve really been so lonely since Harry left (has the news really gotten around town? What kind of poison’s being spread by the local you-knows? What has she said?) Dear Bunny, I suspect you’re the only one who understands and doesn’t too much care—from the gossip point of view anyway. Anyway, I am lonely, something I hate to admit but I guess it’s true. After you’ve lived with someone for a time it leaves a huge gap in your life when they’re gone—even if they’re impossible (so you think) or downright horrible (maybe you just think that too). Just feeling that sort of vacuum and silence around you when you’re cleaning the apartment or going to bed—that’s what’s so bad—even though if the person came back you’d slam the door in his face (not really).
So Bunny I just lay there last night and thought about you. New York is so beastly hot in the summer. I felt absolutely miserable. There’s a bar downstairs (I remember you haven’t seen this apt. since I moved up from the village) full of the loudest Italians imaginable. The juke box goes all the time full blast and of course it’s worse in the summer with all the windows open. Then with a pillow over my head I almost drifted off to sleep when the Cecchinos (he’s a dark and mustachioed (sp?) Latin type, a rather ominous young man) came in drunk—their apt. is across the hall—she shrieking at the top of her lungs and banging up against my door. So I just stayed awake until the bar closed listening to the busses go by and thinking thoughts. They weren’t very pleasant thoughts—in fact they were very dreary and morbid and depressing. They’ve just started lately it
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