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

her arm. As they stood, a couple passed them, and the girl, leaning to her, whispered: “See right through you. Stay out of the light.”

They passed on and she looked after them, watching the other girl. Cat! What a queer dress she is wearing. Funny ankles. Funny. Poor girl.

But she had little time for impersonal speculation, being attached temporarily to Jones. “No, no,” she repeated, twisting the hand he held, drawing him in the direction of the car. Mrs. Powers, looking over Madden’s head, saw them.

Jones released the fragile writhing of her fingers, and she sped delicately over the damp grass. He followed fatly and she put her hands on the door of the car, her narrow nervous hands, between which the green fan splashed graciously.

“Oh, how do you do? I didn’t have any idea you were coming! If I had I would have arranged partners for you. I’m sure you dance awfully well. But then, as soon as the men see you here you won’t lack for partners, I know.”

(What does she want with him now? Watching me: doesn’t trust me with him.)

“Awfully nice dance. And Mr. Gilligan!” (What’s she wanta come worrying him now for? She bothers damn little while he’s sitting at home there.) “Of course, one simply does not see Donald without Mr. Gilligan. It must be nice to have Mr. Gilligan fond of you like that. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Powers?” Her braced straightening arms supported a pliant slow backward curve from her hips. “And Rufus. (Yes, she is pretty. And silly. But⁠—but pretty.) You deserted me for another woman! Don’t say you didn’t. I tried to make him dance with me, Mrs. Powers, but he wouldn’t do it. Perhaps you had better luck?” A dropped knee molded the glass-like fragility of her silver dress. “Ah, you needn’t say anything: we know how attractive Mrs. Powers is, don’t we, Mr. Jones?” (See your behind, the shape of it. And your whole leg, when you stand like that. Knows it, too.)

Her eyes became hard, black. “You told me they were dancing,” she accused.

“He can’t dance, you know,” Mrs. Powers said. “We brought him so he could hear the music.”

“Mr. Jones told me you and he were dancing. And I believed him: I seem to know so much less than other people about him. But, of course, he is sick, he does not⁠—remember his old friends, now that he has made new ones.”

(Is she going to cry? It would be just like her. The fool, the little fool.) “I think you are not fair to him. But won’t you get in and sit down? Mr. Madden, will you⁠—?”

Madden had already opened the door.

“No, no: if he likes the music I’d only disturb him. He had much rather sit with Mrs. Powers, I know.”

(Yes, she’s going to make a scene.) “Please. Just a moment. He hasn’t seen you today, you know.”

She hesitated, then Jones regarded the dividing soft curves of her thighs and the fleeting exposure of a stocking, and borrowed a match from Gilligan. The music had ceased and through the two identical magnolias the porch was like an empty stage. The negro driver’s head was round as a capped cannonball: perhaps he slept. She mounted and sank into the dark seat beside Mahon, sitting still and resigned. Mrs. Powers suddenly spoke:

“Do you dance, Mr. Madden?”

“Yes, a little,” he admitted. She descended from the car and turning, met Cecily’s startled shallow face.

“I’ll leave you to visit with Donald while I have a dance or two with Mr. Madden, shall I?” She took Madden’s arm. “Don’t you want to come in, too, Joe?”

“I guess not,” Gilligan answered. “Competition’ll be too strong for me. I’ll get you to learn me private, some time, so I can be a credit to you.”

Cecily, in exasperation, saw the other woman stealing part of her audience. But here were still Jones and Gilligan. Jones climbed heavily into the vacated seat, uninvited. Cecily gave him a fierce glance and turned her back upon him, feeling his arm against her side.

“Donald, sweetheart,” she said, patting her arm about Mahon. From here she could not see the scar so she drew his face to hers with her hand, laying her cheek against his. Feeling her touch, hearing voices, he stirred. “It’s Cecily, Donald,” she said sweetly.

“Cecily,” he parroted.

“Yes. Put your arm around me like you used to, Donald, dear heart.” She moved nervously, but the length of Jones’ arm remained against her closely as though it were attached by suction, like an octopus’ tentacle. Trying to avoid him, her clasp about Mahon tightened convulsively, and he raised his hand, touching her face, fumbling at his glasses. “Easy there, Loot,” Gilligan warned quickly, and he lowered his hand.

Cecily kissed his cheek swiftly and sat up, releasing him. “Oh, there goes the music again, and I have this dance.” She stood up in the car, looking about. One lounging immaculately, smoking, strolled past. “Oh, Lee,” she called, in happy relief, “here I am.”

She opened the door and sprang out as the conventional one approached. Jones descended fatly, baggily, and stood dragging his jacket across his thick, heavy hips, staring yellowly at Mr. Rivers. Her body poised again, turning, and she said to Gilligan: “You aren’t dancing tonight?”

“Not like that,” he replied, “no, ma’am. Where I come from you’d have to have a license to dance that way.”

Her laugh was in three notes and she was like a swept tree. Her eyes, beneath lowered lids, her teeth, between her purple lips, glittered briefly.

“I think that’s awfully clever. And Mr. Jones doesn’t dance either, so all I have left is Lee.”

Lee⁠—Mr. Rivers⁠—stood waiting, and Jones said heavily: “This is my dance.”

“I’m sorry. I promised Lee,” she answered swiftly. “But you cut in, won’t you?” Her hand was briefly on his sleeve and Jones, contemplating Mr. Rivers, yellowly repeated:

“This is my dance.”

Mr. Rivers looked at him and then looked quickly away.

“Oh, beg pardon. Your dance?”

“Lee!” she said sharply, reaching her hand again. Mr. Rivers met Jones’ stare once more.

“Beg pardon,” he muttered, “I’ll cut in.” He lounged onward. Cecily let her