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

a terrible old woman paused, saying:

“Was he wounded?”

Gilligan waked from his dream. “Look at his face,” he said fretfully; “he fell off of a chair on to an old woman he was talking to and done that.”

“What insolence,” said the woman, glaring at Gilligan. “But can’t something be done for him? He looks sick to me.”

“Yes, ma’am. Something can be done for him. What we are doing now⁠—letting him alone.”

She and Gilligan stared at each other, then she looked at Cadet Lowe, young and belligerent and disappointed. She looked back to Gilligan. She said from the ruthless humanity of money:

“I shall report you to the conductor. That man is sick and needs attention.”

“All right, ma’am. But you tell the conductor that if he bothers him now, I’ll knock his goddam head off.”

The old woman glared at Gilligan from beneath a quiet, modish black hat and a girl’s voice said:

“Let them alone, Mrs. Henderson. They’ll take care of him all right.”

She was dark. Had Gilligan and Lowe ever seen an Aubrey Beardsley, they would have known that Beardsley would have sickened for her: he had drawn her so often dressed in peacock hues, white and slim and depraved among meretricious trees and impossible marble fountains. Gilligan rose.

“That’s right, miss. He is all right sleeping here with us. The porter is looking after him⁠—” wondering why he should have to explain to her⁠—“and we are taking him home. Just leave him be. And thank you for your interest.”

“But something ought to be done about it,” the old woman repeated futilely. The girl led her away and the train ran swaying in afternoon. (Sure, it was afternoon. Cadet Lowe’s wrist watch said so. It might be any state under the sun, but it was afternoon. Afternoon or evening or morning or night, far as the officer was concerned. He slept.)

Damned old bitch, Gilligan muttered, careful not to wake him.

“Look how you’ve got his arm,” the girl said, returning. She moved his withered hand from his thigh. (His hand, too, seeing the scrofulous indication of his bones beneath the blistered skin.) “Oh, his poor terrible face,” she said, shifting the pillow under his head.

“Be quiet, ma’am,” Gilligan said.

She ignored him. Gilligan, expecting to see him wake, admitted defeat and she continued:

“Is he going far?”

“Lives in Georgia,” Gilligan said. He and Cadet Lowe seeing that she was not merely passing their section, rose. Lowe remarking her pallid distinction, her black hair, the red scar of her mouth, her slim dark dress, knew an adolescent envy of the sleeper. She ignored Lowe with a brief glance. How impersonal she was, how self-contained. Ignoring them.

“He can’t get home alone,” she stated with conviction. “Are you all going with him?”

“Sure,” Gilligan assured her. Lowe wished to say something, something that would leave him fixed in her mind: something to reveal himself to her. But she glanced at the glasses, the bottle that Lowe feeling a fool yet clasped.

“You seem to be getting along pretty well, yourselves,” she said.

“Snake medicine, miss. But won’t you have some?”

Lowe, envying Gilligan’s boldness, his presence of mind, watched her mouth. She looked down the car.

“I believe I will, if you have another glass.”

“Why, sure. General, ring the bell.” She sat down beside Mahon and Gilligan and Lowe sat again. She seemed⁠ ⁠… she was young: she probably liked dancing, yet at the same time she seemed not young⁠—as if she knew everything. (She is married, and about twenty-five, thought Gilligan.) (She is about nineteen, and she is not in love, Lowe decided.) She looked at Lowe.

“What’s your outfit, soldier?”

“Flying Cadet,” answered Lowe with slow patronage, “Air Service.” She was a kid: she only looked old.

“Oh. Then of course you are looking after him. He’s an aviator, too, isn’t he?”

“Look at his wings,” Lowe answered. “British. Royal Air Force. Pretty good boys.”

“Hell,” said Gilligan, “he ain’t no foreigner.”

“You don’t have to be a foreigner to be with the British or French. Look at Lufbery. He was with the French until we come in.”

The girl looked at him and Gilligan, who had never heard of Lufbery, said: “Whatever he is, he’s all right. With us, anyway. Let him be whatever he wants.”

The girl said: “I am sure he is.”

The porter appeared. “Cap’m’s all right?” he whispered, remarking her without surprise as is the custom of his race.

“Yes,” she told him, “he’s all right.”

Cadet Lowe thought I bet she can dance and she added: “He couldn’t be in better hands than these gentlemen.” How keen she is! thought Gilligan. She has known disappointment. “I wonder if I could have a drink on your car?”

The porter examined her and then he said: “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get some fresh ginger ale. You going to look after him?”

“Yes, for a while.”

He leaned down to her. “I’m from Gawgia, too. Long time ago.”

“You are? I’m from Alabama.”

“That’s right. We got to look out for our own folks, ain’t we? I’ll get you a glass right away.”

The officer still slept and the porter returning hushed and anxious, they sat drinking and talking with muted voices. New York was Ohio, and Ohio became a series of identical cheap houses with the same man entering gate after gate, smoking and spitting. Here was Cincinnati and under the blanched flash of her hand he waked easily.

“Are we in?” he asked. On her hand was a plain gold band. No engagement ring. (Pawned it, maybe, thought Gilligan. But she did not look poor.)

“General, get the Lootenant’s hat.”

Lowe climbed over Gilligan’s knees and Gilligan said:

“Here’s an old friend of ours, Loot. Meet Mrs. Powers.”

She took his hand, helping him to his feet, and the porter appeared.

“Donald Mahon,” he said, like a parrot. Cadet Lowe assisted by the porter returned with cap and stick and a trench coat and two kit bags. The porter helped him into the coat.

“I’ll get yours, ma’am,” said Gilligan, but the porter circumvented him. Her coat was rough and heavy and light of color. She wore it carelessly and Gilligan and Cadet Lowe gathered up