The sound and the fury
house and set down,” she says. “Dont you go up stairs and git um started
again, now.”
“What’s the matter?” I says.
“Quentin come in a while ago and says you been follerin her around all
evenin and den Miss Cahline jumped on her. Whyn’t you let her alone?
Cant you live in de same house wid you own blood niece widout quoilin?”
“I cant quarrel with her,” I says, “because I haven’t seen her since
this morning. What does she say I’ve done now? made her go to school?
That’s pretty bad,” I says.
“Well, you tend to yo business and let her alone,” Dilsey says, “I’ll
take keer of her ef you’n Miss Cahline’ll let me. Go on in dar now and
behave yoself twell I get supper on.”
“Ef I jes had a quarter,” Luster says, “I could go to dat show.”
“En ef you had wings you could fly to heaven,” Dilsey says. “I dont want
to hear another word about dat show.”
“That reminds me,” I says, “I’ve got a couple of tickets they gave me.”
I took them out of my coat.
“You fixin to use um?” Luster says.
“Not me,” I says. “I wouldn’t go to it for ten dollars.”
“Gimme one of um, Mr Jason,” he says.
“I’ll sell you one,” I says. “How about it?”
“I aint got no money,” he says.
“That’s too bad,” I says. I made to go out.
“Gimme one of um, Mr Jason,” he says. “You aint gwine need um bofe.”
“Hush yo mouf,” Dilsey says, “Dont you know he aint gwine give nothing
away?”
“How much you want fer hit?” he says.
“Five cents,” I says.
“I aint got dat much,” he says.
“How much you got?” I says.
“I aint got nothing,” he says.
“All right,” I says. I went on.
“Mr Jason,” he says.
“Whyn’t you hush up?” Dilsey says. “He jes teasin you. He fixin to use
dem tickets hisself. Go on, Jason, and let him lone.”
“I dont want them,” I says. I came back to the stove. “I came in here to
burn them up. But if you want to buy one for a nickel?” I says, looking
at him and opening the stove lid.
“I aint got dat much,” he says.
“All right,” I says. I dropped one of them in the stove.
“You, Jason,” Dilsey says, “Aint you shamed?”
“Mr Jason,” he says, “Please, suh. I’ll fix dem tires ev’ry day fer a
mont’.”
“I need the cash,” I says. “You can have it for a nickel.”
“Hush, Luster,” Dilsey says. She jerked him back. “Go on,” she says,
“Drop hit in. Go on. Git hit over with.”
“You can have it for a nickel,” I says.
“Go on,” Dilsey says. “He aint got no nickel. Go on. Drop hit in.”
“All right,” I says. I dropped it in and Dilsey shut the stove.
“A big growed man like you,” she says. “Git on outen my kitchen. Hush,”
she says to Luster. “Dont you git Benjy started. I’ll git you a quarter
fum Frony tonight and you kin go tomorrow night. Hush up, now.”
I went on into the living room. I couldn’t hear anything from upstairs.
I opened the paper. After awhile Ben and Luster came in. Ben went to the
dark place on the wall where the mirror used to be, rubbing his hands on
it and slobbering and moaning. Luster begun punching at the fire.
“What’re you doing?” I says. “We dont need any fire tonight.”
“I trying to keep him quiet,” he says. “Hit always cold Easter,” he
says.
“Only this is not Easter,” I says. “Let it alone.”
He put the poker back and got the cushion out of Mother’s chair and gave
it to Ben, and he hunkered down in front of the fireplace and got quiet.
I read the paper. There hadn’t been a sound from upstairs when Dilsey
came in and sent Ben and Luster on to the kitchen and said supper was
ready.
“All right,” I says. She went out. I sat there, reading the paper. After
a while I heard Dilsey looking in at the door.
“Whyn’t you come on and eat?” she says.
“I’m waiting for supper,” I says.
“Hit’s on the table,” she says. “I done told you.”
“Is it?” I says. “Excuse me. I didn’t hear anybody come down.”
“They aint comin,” she says. “You come on and eat, so I can take
something up to them.”
“Are they sick?” I says. “What did the doctor say it was? Not Smallpox,
I hope.”
“Come on here, Jason,” she says, “So I kin git done.”
“All right,” I says, raising the paper again. “I’m waiting for supper
now.”
I could feel her watching me at the door. I read the paper.
“Whut you want to act like this fer?” she says. “When you knows how much
bother I has anyway.”
“If Mother is any sicker than she was when she came down to dinner, all
right,” I says. “But as long as I am buying food for people younger than
I am, they’ll have to come down to the table to eat it. Let me know when
supper’s ready,” I says, reading the paper again. I heard her climbing
the stairs, dragging her feet and grunting and groaning like they were
straight up and three feet apart. I heard her at Mother’s door, then I
heard her calling Quentin, like the door was locked, then she went back
to Mother’s room and then Mother went and talked to Quentin. Then they
came down stairs. I read the paper.
Dilsey came back to the door. “Come on,” she says, “fo you kin think up
some mo devilment. You just tryin yoself tonight.”
I went to the diningroom. Quentin was sitting with her head bent. She
had painted her face again. Her nose looked like a porcelain insulator.
“I’m glad you feel well enough to come down,” I says to Mother.
“It’s little enough I can do for you, to come to the table,” she says.
“No matter how I feel. I realise that when a man works all day he likes
to be surrounded by his family at the supper table. I want to please
you. I only wish you and Quentin got along better. It would be easier
for me.”
“We get along all right,” I says. “I dont mind her staying locked up in
her room all day if she wants to. But I cant have all this whoop-de-do
and sulking at mealtimes. I know that’s a lot to ask her, but I’m that
way in my own house. Your house, I meant to say.”
“It’s yours,” Mother says, “You are the head of it now.”
Quentin hadn’t looked up. I helped the plates and she begun to eat.
“Did you get a good piece of meat?” I says. “If you didn’t, I’ll try to
find you a better one.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I say, did you get a good piece of meat?” I says.
“What?” she says. “Yes. It’s all right.”
“Will you have some more rice?” I says.
“No,” she says.
“Better let me give you some more,” I says.
“I dont want any more,” she says.
“Not at all,” I says, “You’re welcome.”
“Is your headache gone?” Mother says.
“Headache?” I says.
“I was afraid you were developing one,” she says. “When you came in this
afternoon.”
“Oh,” I says. “No, it didn’t show up. We stayed so busy this afternoon I
forgot about it.”
“Was that why you were late?” Mother says. I could see Quentin
listening. I looked at her. Her knife and fork were still going, but I
caught her looking at me, then she looked at her plate again. I says,
“No. I loaned my car to a fellow about three o’clock and I had to wait
until he got back with it.” I ate for a while.
“Who was it?” Mother says.
“It was one of those show men,” I says. “It seems his sister’s husband
was out riding with some town woman, and he was chasing them.”
Quentin sat perfectly still, chewing.
“You ought not to lend your car to people like that,” Mother says. “You
are too generous with it. That’s why I never call on you for it if I can
help it.”
“I was beginning to think that myself, for awhile,” I says. “But he got
back, all right. He says he found what he was looking for.”
“Who was the woman?” Mother says.
“I’ll tell you later,” I says. “I dont like to talk about such things
before Quentin.”
Quentin had quit eating. Every once in a while she’d take a drink of
water, then she’d sit there crumbling a biscuit up, her face bent over
her plate.
“Yes,” Mother says, “I suppose women who stay shut up like I do have no
idea what goes on in this town.”
“Yes,” I says, “They dont.”
“My life has been so different from that,” Mother says. “Thank God I
dont know about such wickedness. I dont even want to know about it. I’m
not like most people.”
I didn’t say any more. Quentin sat there, crumbling the biscuit until I
quit eating, then she says,
“Can I go now?” without looking at anybody.
“What?” I says. “Sure, you can go. Were you waiting on us?”
She looked at me. She had crumbled all the biscuit, but her hands still
went on like they were crumbling it yet and her eyes looked like they
were cornered or something and then she started biting her mouth like it
ought to have poisoned her, with all that red lead.
“Grandmother,” she says, “Grandmother—”
“Did you want something else to eat?” I says.
“Why does he treat me like this, Grandmother?” she says. “I never hurt
him.”
“I want you all to get along with one another,” Mother says, “You are
all that’s left now, and I do want you all to get along better.”
“It’s his fault,” she says, “He wont let me alone, and I have to. If he
doesn’t want me here, why wont he let me go back to—”
“That’s enough,” I says, “Not another word.”
“Then why wont he let me alone?” she says. “He—he just—”
“He is the nearest thing to a father you’ve ever had,” Mother says.
“It’s his bread you and I eat. It’s only right that he should expect
obedience from you.”
“It’s his fault,” she says. She jumped up. “He makes me do it. If he
would just—” she looked at us, her eyes cornered, kind of jerking her
arms against her sides.
“If I would just what?” I says.
“Whatever I do, it’s your fault,” she says. “If I’m bad, it’s because I
had to be. You made me. I wish I was dead. I wish we were all dead.”
Then she ran. We heard her run up the stairs. Then a door slammed.
“That’s the first sensible thing she ever said,” I says.
“She didn’t go to school today,” Mother says.
“How do you know?” I says. “Were you down town?”
“I just know,” she says. “I wish you could be kinder to her.”
“If I did that I’d have to arrange to see her more than once a day,” I
says. “You’ll have to make her come to the table every meal. Then I
could give her an extra piece of meat every time.”
“There are little things you could do,” she says.
“Like not paying any attention when you ask me to see that she goes to
school?” I says.
“She didn’t go to school today,” she says. “I just know she didn’t. She
says she went for a car ride with one of the boys this afternoon and you
followed her.”
“How could I,” I says, “When somebody had my car all afternoon? Whether
or not she was in school today is already past,” I says, “If you’ve got
to worry about it, worry about next Monday.”
“I wanted you and she to get along with one another,” she says. “But she
has inherited all of the headstrong traits. Quentin’s too. I thought at
the time, with the heritage she would already have, to give her that
name, too. Sometimes I think she is the judgment of Caddy and Quentin
upon me.”
“Good Lord,” I says, “You’ve got a fine mind. No wonder you kept
yourself sick all the time.”
“What?” she says. “I dont understand.”
“I hope not,” I says. “A good woman misses a lot she’s better off
without knowing.”
“They were both that way,” she says, “They would make interest with your
father against me when I tried to correct them. He was always saying
they didn’t need controlling, that they already knew what cleanliness
and honesty were, which was all that anyone could hope to be taught. And
now I hope he’s satisfied.”
“You’ve got Ben to depend on,” I says, “Cheer up.”
“They deliberately shut me out of their lives,” she says, “It was always
her and Quentin. They were always conspiring against me. Against you
too, though you were too young to realise it. They always looked on you
and me as outsiders, like they did your Uncle Maury. I always told your
father that they were allowed too much freedom, to be together too much.
When Quentin started to school we had to let her go the next year, so