Soldiers’ Pay - William Faulkner (people reading books TXT) 📗

But she was obdurate. “Hush, Doctor. Surely Donald can see Miss Saunders’ father at any time.” She firmly compelled him through the door, and he and the divine followed her up the stairs. To her knock, Gilligan’s voice replied and she opened the door.

“Here is Cecily’s father to see Donald, Joe,” she said, standing aside. The door opened and flooded the narrow passage with light, closing, it reft the passage of light again, and moving through a walled twilight, she descended the stairs again slowly. The lawn mower was long since stilled and beneath a tree she could see the recumbent form and one propped knee of its languid conductor lapped in slumber. Along the street passed slowly the hourly quota of negro children who, seeming to have no arbitrary hours, seemingly free of all compulsions of time or higher learning, went to and from school at any hour of a possible lighted eight, carrying lunch pails of ex-molasses and -lard tins. Some of them also carried books. The lunch was usually eaten on the way to school, which was conducted by a fattish negro in a lawn tie and an alpaca coat who could take a given line from any book from the telephone directory down and soon have the entire present personnel chanting it after him, like Vachel Lindsay. Then they were off for the day.

The clouds had piled higher and thicker, taking a lavender tinge, making bits of sky laked among them more blue. The air was becoming sultry, oppressive; and the church spire had lost perspective until now it seemed but two dimensions of metal and cardboard.

The leaves hung lifeless and sad, as if life were being recalled from them before it was fully given, leaving only the ghosts of young leaves. As she lingered near the door, she could hear Emmy clashing dishes in the dining-room and at last she heard that for which she waited.

“⁠—expect you and Mrs. Saunders this afternoon, then,” the rector was saying as they appeared.

“Yes, yes,” the caller answered with detachment. His eyes met Mrs. Powers’. How like her he is! she thought, and her heart sank. Have I blundered again? She examined his face fleetingly and sighed with relief.

“How do you think he looks, Mr. Saunders?” she asked.

“Fine, considering his long trip, fine.”

The rector said happily: “I had noticed it myself this morning. Didn’t you also, Mrs. Powers?” His eyes implored her and she said yes. “You should have seen him yesterday, to discern the amazing improvement in him. Eh, Mrs. Powers?”

“Yes, indeed, sir. We all commented on it this morning.”

Mr. Saunders, carrying his limp panama hat, moved toward the steps. “Well, Doctor, it’s fine having the boy home again. We are all glad for our own sakes as well as yours. If there is anything we can do⁠—” he added with neighborly sincerity.

“Thank you, thank you. I will not hesitate. But Donald is in a position to help himself now, provided he gets his medicine often enough. We depend on you for this, you know,” the rector answered with jovial innuendo.

Mr. Saunders added a complement of expected laughter. “As soon as she is herself again we, her mother and I, expect it to be the other way: we expect to be asking you to lend us Cecily occasionally.”

“Well, that might be arranged, I imagine⁠—especially with a friend.” The rector laughed in turn and Mrs. Powers, listening, exulted. Then she knew a brief misgiving. They are so much alike! Will they change his mind for him, those women? She said:

“I think I’ll walk as far as the gate with Mr. Saunders, if he doesn’t mind.”

“Not at all, ma’am. I’ll be delighted.”

The rector stood in the door and beamed upon them as they descended the steps. “Sorry you cannot remain to dinner,” he said.

“Some other time, Doctor. My missus is waiting for me today.”

“Yes, some other time,” the rector agreed. He entered the house again, and they crossed grass beneath the imminent heavens. Mr. Saunders looked at her sharply. “I don’t like this,” he stated. “Why doesn’t someone tell him the truth about that boy?”

“Neither do I,” she answered. “But if they did, would he believe it? Did anyone have to tell you about him?”

“My God, no! Anybody could look at him. It made me sick. But, then, I’m chicken-livered, anyway,” he added with mirthless apology. “What did the doctor say about him?”

“Nothing definite, except that he remembers nothing that happened before he was hurt. The man that was wounded is dead and this is another person, a grown child. It’s his apathy, his detachment, that’s so terrible. He doesn’t seem to care where he is nor what he does. He must have been passed from hand to hand, like a child.”

“I mean, about his recovery.”

She shrugged. “Who can tell? There is nothing physically wrong with him that surgeons can remedy, if that’s what you mean.”

He walked on in silence. “His father should be told, though,” he said at last.

“I know, but who is to do it? Besides, he is bound to know some day, so why not let him believe as he wishes as long as he can? The shock will be no greater at one time than at another. And he is old, and so big and happy now. And Donald may recover, you know,” she lied.

“Yes, that’s right. But do you think he will?”

“Why not? He can’t remain forever as he is now.” They had reached the gate. The iron was rough and hot with sun under her hand, but there was no blue anywhere in the sky.

Mr. Saunders, fumbling with his hat, said: “But suppose he⁠—he does not recover?”

She gave him a direct look. “Dies, you mean?” she asked brutally.

“Well, yes. Since you put it that way.”

“Now that’s what I want to discuss with you. It is a question of strengthening his morale, of giving him some reason to⁠—well, buck up. And who could do that better than Miss Saunders?”

“But, ma’am, ain’t you asking a lot, asking me to risk my daughter’s happiness