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 Page B
Authors: William Styron
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heels and tight jersey skirt might catapult her sprawling if she weren’t careful, and then hurried up to Barclay, who was still tinkering with the engine.
“Have you seen Mr. Loftis?” she said. “Where is he?”
The boy looked up suddenly and raised a startled arm toward the restaurant. Dolly had given him a terrible surprise. “Over there. Over there, ma’am,” he said. He closed the hood with a bang, for he had just seen Mr. Casper, standing by the baggage car with the remains, motioning him to bring the hearse over. The dust had lifted, although little eddies and swirls still lingered on the air; through one of these tiny clouds Dolly approached the restaurant, patting dust from her skirt. She heard the swollen notes of a mournful guitar; she peered in through the dusty window, shielding light from her eyes. Within, Loftis sat propped up over a cup of coffee, and the woman behind the counter opened and closed her mouth rapidly, soundlessly. Poor dear Milton. A rainbow of juke-box color enveloped the restaurant, a lovely spectrum endlessly shifting; a man with a deep, sad voice sang: “Take me back and try me one more time.” Such a hillbilly song, yet it filled her with gentle, genuine sorrow. Poor dear Milton.
She wiped dust from her face with a handkerchief, powdered her nose, and looked briefly at herself in the windowpane. She was a dark and pretty woman and would perhaps have been beautiful except for a slightly receding chin which lent to her features an expression not so much of weakness as fretfulness, as if at any moment her jaw and lips might tremble in sorrow, like a little girl’s. She had been much publicized for her social activities—Red Cross, the Women’s Club, and the like—and her picture, taken shortly after her wedding, had been printed in the local papers sometimes as often as twice a month for over a period of twenty years until finally even she sensed the impropriety of the cloche hat and bangs which had given rise to idle and secret laughter around town. So she had had the picture replaced, regretfully, with another, newer one in which there no longer blossomed the youthful smile, but which instead recorded with precision the small puffy folds beneath her eyes and her neck, too, flaccid and slightly wrinkled. Now she gave her nose one last loving pat and entered the restaurant.
She laid her hand softly on Loftis’ arm. “Dear, we’d better go now. Everything is ready and …”
“When the great Day of Judgment cometh,” Hazel was saying in a level voice, “you and her will enter unto the golden streets together. Don’t you worry, mister. That’s what the good book says. John eighteen thirty-six, ‘My kingdom is not of this world …’ ”
Loftis groaned, looking up at Dolly with frightened eyes. “You say everything’s ready?”
“Yes, dear. Come on, now.”
“This vale of tears,” Hazel continued, “is like unto the veriest smoke …”
“How much do I owe you?” Loftis asked.
“That’ll be five cents.”
Loftis laid a nickel on the counter.
“My heart goes out to you, mister. It truly does.”
“Thank you,” Loftis murmured. Automatically he opened the door for Dolly. They stepped out together into the street, where the dust had cleared away entirely, and the sun now shone brightly. The jukebox voice, trailing them with remote sadness, sang: “Take me back and try me one more time.” Far off, coal plunged seaward from the elevators, shaking the earth. Try me one more time.
Now, as they prepared to get into the limousine, Ella Swan labored down the steps from the dock and silently climbed into the back seat; the hearse came up, too, with sleek, privileged gravity and a dulcet honking noise, while pedestrians in its path scurried like beetles to the sidewalk. Dolly entered the limousine, then Loftis; the train, which was about to go back to Richmond, made a doleful blast on its whistle and Mr. Casper got out of the hearse and paused benignly at
“Have you seen Mr. Loftis?” she said. “Where is he?”
The boy looked up suddenly and raised a startled arm toward the restaurant. Dolly had given him a terrible surprise. “Over there. Over there, ma’am,” he said. He closed the hood with a bang, for he had just seen Mr. Casper, standing by the baggage car with the remains, motioning him to bring the hearse over. The dust had lifted, although little eddies and swirls still lingered on the air; through one of these tiny clouds Dolly approached the restaurant, patting dust from her skirt. She heard the swollen notes of a mournful guitar; she peered in through the dusty window, shielding light from her eyes. Within, Loftis sat propped up over a cup of coffee, and the woman behind the counter opened and closed her mouth rapidly, soundlessly. Poor dear Milton. A rainbow of juke-box color enveloped the restaurant, a lovely spectrum endlessly shifting; a man with a deep, sad voice sang: “Take me back and try me one more time.” Such a hillbilly song, yet it filled her with gentle, genuine sorrow. Poor dear Milton.
She wiped dust from her face with a handkerchief, powdered her nose, and looked briefly at herself in the windowpane. She was a dark and pretty woman and would perhaps have been beautiful except for a slightly receding chin which lent to her features an expression not so much of weakness as fretfulness, as if at any moment her jaw and lips might tremble in sorrow, like a little girl’s. She had been much publicized for her social activities—Red Cross, the Women’s Club, and the like—and her picture, taken shortly after her wedding, had been printed in the local papers sometimes as often as twice a month for over a period of twenty years until finally even she sensed the impropriety of the cloche hat and bangs which had given rise to idle and secret laughter around town. So she had had the picture replaced, regretfully, with another, newer one in which there no longer blossomed the youthful smile, but which instead recorded with precision the small puffy folds beneath her eyes and her neck, too, flaccid and slightly wrinkled. Now she gave her nose one last loving pat and entered the restaurant.
She laid her hand softly on Loftis’ arm. “Dear, we’d better go now. Everything is ready and …”
“When the great Day of Judgment cometh,” Hazel was saying in a level voice, “you and her will enter unto the golden streets together. Don’t you worry, mister. That’s what the good book says. John eighteen thirty-six, ‘My kingdom is not of this world …’ ”
Loftis groaned, looking up at Dolly with frightened eyes. “You say everything’s ready?”
“Yes, dear. Come on, now.”
“This vale of tears,” Hazel continued, “is like unto the veriest smoke …”
“How much do I owe you?” Loftis asked.
“That’ll be five cents.”
Loftis laid a nickel on the counter.
“My heart goes out to you, mister. It truly does.”
“Thank you,” Loftis murmured. Automatically he opened the door for Dolly. They stepped out together into the street, where the dust had cleared away entirely, and the sun now shone brightly. The jukebox voice, trailing them with remote sadness, sang: “Take me back and try me one more time.” Far off, coal plunged seaward from the elevators, shaking the earth. Try me one more time.
Now, as they prepared to get into the limousine, Ella Swan labored down the steps from the dock and silently climbed into the back seat; the hearse came up, too, with sleek, privileged gravity and a dulcet honking noise, while pedestrians in its path scurried like beetles to the sidewalk. Dolly entered the limousine, then Loftis; the train, which was about to go back to Richmond, made a doleful blast on its whistle and Mr. Casper got out of the hearse and paused benignly at
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