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

distributed weight made his own progress more difficult, and he disengaged his arm and put his hand against her back.

“That’s better,” she said, leaning against his firm hand. The road circled the foot of a hill and trees descending the hill were halted by the curving road’s green canyon as though waiting to step across when they had passed. Sun was in the trees like an arrested lateral rain and ahead where circling, the green track of the stream approached the road again, they heard young voices and a sound of water.

They walked slowly through the shifting sand, and the voices beyond a screen of thick leaves became louder. She squeezed his arm for silence and they left the road and parted leaves cautiously upon glinted disturbed water, taking and giving the sun in a flashing barter of gold for gold, dazzling the eyes. Two wet matted heads spread opening fans of water like muskrats and on a limb, balanced precariously to dive, stood a third swimmer. His body was the color of old paper, beautiful as a young animal’s.

They stepped into view and Gilligan said:

“Hi, Colonel.”

The diver took one quick, terrified look and releasing his hold he fell like a stone into the water. The other two, shocked and motionless, stared at the intruders, then when the diver reappeared above the surface they whooped at him in merciless derision. He swam like an eel across the pool and took refuge beneath the overhanging bank, out of sight. His companions still squalled at him in inarticulate mirth. She raised her voice above the din.

“Come on, Joe. We’ve spoiled their fun.”

They left the noise behind and again in the road, she remarked:

“We shouldn’t have done that. Poor boy, they’ll tease him to death now. What makes men so silly, Joe?”

“Dam’f I know. But they sure are. Do you know who that was?”

“No. Who was it?”

“Her brother.”

“Her⁠—”

“Young Saunders.”

“Oh, was it? Poor boy, I’m sorry I shocked him.”

And well she might have been, could she have seen his malevolent face watching her retreating figure as he swiftly donned his clothes. I’ll fix you! he swore, almost crying.

The road wound through a depression between two small ridges. The sun was yet in the tops of trees and here were cedars unsunned and solemn, a green quiet nave. A thrush sang and they stopped as one, listening to its four notes, watching the fading patches of sun on the top of the ridge.

“Let’s sit down and have a cigarette,” she suggested.

She lowered herself easily and he sat beside her as young Robert Saunders, panting up the hill behind them, saw them and fell flat, creeping as near as he dared. Gilligan, reclining on his elbow, watched her pallid face. Her head was lowered and she dug in the earth with a stick. Her unconscious profile was in relief against a dark cedar and she said, feeling his eyes on her:

“Joe, we have got to do something about that girl. We can’t expect Dr. Mahon to take sickness as an excuse much longer. I hoped her father would make her come, but they are so much alike.⁠ ⁠…”

“Whatcher want to do? Want me to go and drag her up by the hair?”

“I expect that would be the best way, after all.” Her twig broke and casting it aside she searched for another one.

“Sure it would⁠—if you got to fool with her kind at all.”

“Unluckily, though, this is a civilized age and you can’t do that.”

“So called,” muttered Gilligan. He sucked at his cigarette, then watched the spun white arc of its flight. The thrush sang again, filling the interval liquidly and young Robert, thinking, is it Sis they’re talking about? felt fire on his leg and brushed from it an ant almost half an inch long. Drag her by the hair, huh? he muttered. I’d like to see ’em. Ow, but he stings! rubbing his leg, which did not help it any.

“What are we going to do, Joe? Tell me. You know about people.”

Gilligan shifted his weight and his corrugated elbow tingled under his other hand.

“We’ve been thinking of them ever since we met. Let’s think about you and me for a while,” he said roughly.

She looked at him quickly. Her black hair and her mouth like a pomegranate blossom. Her eyes were black and they became quite gentle as she said:

“Please, Joe.”

“Oh, I ain’t going to propose. I just want you to talk to me about yourself for a while.”

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“Nothing you don’t want to. Just quit thinking about the loot for a while. Just talk to me.”

“So you are surprised to find a woman doing something without some obvious material end in view. Aren’t you?” He was silent, nursing his knees, staring between them at the ground. “Joe, you think I’m in love with him, don’t you?” (Uhuh! Stealing Sis’ feller. Young Robert Saunders squirming nearer, taking sand into his bosom.) “Don’t you, Joe?”

“I don’t know,” he replied sullenly and she asked:

“What kind of women have you known, Joe?”

“The wrong kind, I guess. Leastways none of ’em ever made me lose a night’s sleep until I saw you.”

“It isn’t me that made you lose a night’s sleep. I just happened to be the first woman you ever knew doing something you thought only a man would do. You had nice fixed ideas about women and I upset them. Wasn’t that it?”

She looked at his averted face, at his reliable homely face. (Are they going to talk all night? thought young Robert Saunders. Hunger was in his belly and he was gritty and uncomfortable with sand.)

The sun was almost down. Only the tips of trees were yet dipped in fading light and where they sat the shadow became a violet substance in which the thrush sang and then fell still.

“Margaret,” said Gilligan at last, “were you in love with your husband?”

Her face in the dusk was a smooth pallor, and after a while:

“I don’t know, Joe. I don’t think I was.