“They ain’t quit doing it as long as I’m doing it,” he said.
“People have quit doing it,” she repeated. “What do you do it for?”
“I’m not clean,” he said.
She stood staring at him, unmindful of the broken dishes at her feet. “I know it,” she said after a minute, “you got blood on that night shirt and on the bed. You ought to get you a washwoman…”
“That’s not the kind of clean,” he said.
“There’s only one kind of clean, Mr. Motes,” she muttered. She looked down and observed the dishes he had made her break and the mess she would have to get up and she left for the hall closet and returned in a minute with the dust pan and broom. “It’s easier to bleed than sweat, Mr. Motes,” she said in the voice of High Sarcasm. “You must believe in Jesus or you wouldn’t do these foolish things. You must have been lying to me when you named your fine church. I wouldn’t be surprised if you weren’t some kind of a agent of the pope or got some connection with something funny.”
“I ain’t treatin’ with you,” he said and lay back down, coughing.
“You got nobody to take care of you but me,” she reminded him.
Her first plan had been to marry him and then have him committed to the state institution for the insane, but gradually her plan had become to marry him and keep him. Watching his face had become a habit with her; she wanted to penetrate the darkness behind it and see for herself what was there. She had the sense that she had tarried long enough and that she must get him now while he was weak, or not at all. He was so weak from the influenza that he tottered when he walked; winter had already begun and the wind slashed at the house from every angle, making a sound like sharp knives swirling in the air.
“Nobody in their right mind would like to be out on a day like this,” she said, putting her head suddenly into his room in the middle of the morning on one of the coldest days of the year. “Do you hear that wind, Mr. Motes? It’s fortunate for you that you have this warm place to be and someone to take care of you.” She made her voice more than usually soft. “Every blind and sick man is not so fortunate,” she said, “as to have somebody that cares about him.” She came in and sat down on the straight chair that was just at the door. She sat on the edge of it, leaning forward with her legs apart and her hands braced on her knees. “Let me tell you, Mr. Motes,” she said, “few men are as fortunate as you but I can’t keep climbing these stairs. It wears me out. I’ve been thinking what we could do about it.”
He had been lying motionless on the bed but he sat up suddenly as if he were listening, almost as if he had been alarmed by the tone of her voice. “I know you wouldn’t want to give up your room here,” she said, and waited for the effect of this. He turned his face toward her; she could tell she had his attention. “I know you like it here and wouldn’t want to leave and you’re a sick man and need somebody to take care of you as well as being blind,” she said and found herself breathless and her heart beginning to flutter. He reached to the foot of the bed and felt for his clothes that were rolled up there. He began to put them on hurriedly over his night shirt. “I been thinking how we could arrange it so you would have a home and somebody to take care of you and I wouldn’t have to climb these stairs, what you dressing for today, Mr. Motes? You don’t want to go out in this weather.
“I been thinking,” she went on, watching him as he went on with what he was doing, “and I see there’s only one thing for you and me to do. Get married. I wouldn’t do it under any ordinary condition but I would do it for a blind man and a sick one. If we don’t help each other, Mr. Motes, there’s nobody to help us,” she said. “Nobody. The world is a empty place.”
The suit that had been glare-blue when it was bought was a softer shade now. The panama hat was wheat-colored. He kept it on the floor by his shoes when he was not wearing it. He reached for it and put it on and then he began to put on his shoes that were still lined with rocks.
“Nobody ought to be without a place of their own to be,” she said, “and I’m willing to give you a home here with me, a place where you can always stay, Mr. Motes, and never worry yourself about.”
His cane was on the floor near where his shoes had been. He felt for it and then stood up and began to walk slowly toward her. “I got a place for you in my heart, Mr. Motes,” she said and felt it shaking like a bird cage; she didn’t know whether he was coming toward her to embrace her or not. He passed her, expressionless, out the door and into the hall. “Mr. Motes!” she said, turning sharply in the chair, “I can’t allow you to stay here under no other circumstances. I can’t climb these stairs. I don’t want a thing,” she said, “but to help you. You don’t have anybody to look after you but me. Nobody to care if you live or die but me! No other place to be but mine!”
He was feeling for the first step with his cane.
“Or were you planning to find you another rooming house?” she asked in a voice getting higher. “Maybe you were planning to go to some other city!”
“That’s not where I’m going,” he said. “There’s no other house nor no other city.”
“There’s nothing, Mr. Motes,” she said, “and time goes forward, it don’t go backward and unless you take what’s offered you, you’ll find yourself out in the cold pitch black and just how far do you think you’ll get?”
He felt for each step with his cane before he put his foot on it. When he reached the bottom, she called down to him. “You needn’t to return to a place you don’t value, Mr. Motes. The door won’t be open to you. You can come back and get your belongings and then go on to wherever you think you’re going.” She stood at the top of the stairs for a long time. “He’ll be back,” she muttered. “Let the wind cut into him a little.”
* * *
That night a driving icy rain came up and lying in her bed, awake at midnight, Mrs. Flood, the landlady, began to weep. She wanted to run out into the rain and cold and hunt him and find him huddled in some half-sheltered place and bring him back and say, Mr. Motes, Mr. Motes, you can stay here forever, or the two of us will go where you’re going, the two of us will go. She had had a hard life, without pain and without pleasure, and she thought that now that she was coming to the last part of it, she deserved a friend. If she was going to be blind when she was dead, who better to guide her than a blind man? Who better to lead the blind than the blind, who knew what it was like?
As soon as it was daylight, she went out in the rain and searched the five or six blocks he knew and went from door to door, asking for him, but no one had seen him. She came back and called the police and described him and asked for him to be picked up and brought back to her to pay his rent. She waited all day for them to bring him in the squad car, or for him to come back of his own accord, but he didn’t come. The rain and wind continued and she thought he was probably drowned in some alley by now. She paced up and down in her room, walking faster and faster, thinking of his eyes without any bottom in them and of the blindness of death.
Two days later, two young policemen cruising in a squad car found him lying in a drainage ditch near an abandoned construction project. The driver drew the squad car up to the edge of the ditch and looked into it for some time. “Ain’t we been looking for a blind one?” he asked.
The other consulted a pad. “Blind and got on a blue suit and ain’t paid his rent,” he said.
“Yonder he is,” the first one said, and pointed into the ditch. The other moved up closer and looked out of the window too.
“His suit ain’t blue,” he said.
“Yes it is blue,” the first one said. “Quit pushing up so close to me. Get out and I’ll show you it’s blue.” They got out and walked around the car and squatted down on the edge of the ditch. They both had on tall new boots and new policemen’s clothes; they both had yellow hair with sideburns, and they were both fat, but one was much fatter than the other.
“It might have uster been blue,” the fatter one admitted.
“You reck
on he’s daid?” the first one asked.
“Ast him,” the other said.
“No, he ain’t daid. He’s moving.”
“Maybe he’s just unconscious,” the fatter one said, taking out his new billy. They watched him for a few seconds. His hand was moving along the edge of the ditch as if it were hunting something to grip. He asked them in a hoarse whisper where he was and if it was day or night.
“It’s day,” the thinner one said, looking at the sky. “We got to take you back to pay your rent.”
“I want to go on where I’m going,” the blind man said.
“You got to pay your rent first,” the policeman said. “Ever’ bit of it!”
The other, perceiving that he was conscious, hit him over the head with his new billy. “We don’t want to have no trouble with him,” he said. “You take his feet.”
He died in the squad car but they didn’t notice and took him on to the landlady’s. She had them put him on her bed and when she had pushed them out the door, she locked it behind them and drew up a straight chair and sat down close to his face where she could talk to him. “Well, Mr. Motes,” she said, “I see you’ve come home!”
His face was stern and tranquil. “I knew you’d come back,” she said. “And I’ve been waiting for you. And you needn’t to pay any more rent but have it free here, any way you like, upstairs or down. Just however you want it and with me to wait on you, or if you want to go on somewhere, we’ll both go.”
She had never observed his face more composed and she grabbed his hand and held it to her heart. It was resistless and dry. The outline of a skull was plain under his skin and the deep burned eye sockets seemed to lead into the dark tunnel where he had disappeared. She leaned closer and closer to his face, looking deep into them, trying to see how she had been cheated or what had cheated her, but she couldn’t see anything. She shut her eyes and saw the pin point of light but so far away that she could not hold it steady in her mind. She felt as if she were blocked at the entrance of something. She sat staring with her eyes shut, into his eyes, and felt as if she had finally got to the beginning of something she couldn’t begin, and she saw him moving farther and farther away, farther and farther into the darkness until he was the pin point of light.
BOOKS BY FLANNERY O’CONNOR
NOVELS
Wise Blood
The Violent Bear It Away
STORIES
A Good Man Is Hard to Find
Everything That Rises Must Converge
with an introduction by Robert Fitzgerald
The Complete Stories of Flannery O’Connor
edited and with an introduction
by Robert Giroux
NON-FICTION
Mystery and Manners
edited and with an introduction
by Robert and Sally Fitzgerald
The Habit of Being
edited and with an introduction
by Sally Fitzgerald
AUTHOR’S NOTE TO THE SECOND EDITION
WISE BLOOD has reached the age of ten and is still alive. My critical powers are just sufficient to determine this, and I am gratified to be able to say it. The book was written with zest and, if possible, it should be read that way. It is a comic novel about a Christian malgré lui, and as such, very serious, for all comic novels that are any good must be about matters of life and death. Wise Blood was written by an author congenitally innocent of theory, but one with certain preoccupations. That belief in Christ is to some a matter of life and death has been a stumbling block for readers who would prefer to think it a matter of no great consequence. For them Hazel Motes’ integrity lies in his trying with such vigor to get rid of the ragged figure who moves from tree to tree in the back of his mind. For the author Hazel’s integrity lies in his not being able to. Does one’s integrity ever lie in what he is not able to do? I think that usually it does, for free will does not mean one will, but many wills conflicting in one man. Freedom cannot be conceived simply. It is a mystery and one which a novel, even a comic novel, can only be asked to deepen.
—1962
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
18 West 18th Street, New York 10011
Copyright © 1949, 1952, 1962 by Flannery O’Connor, renewed © 1990 by the Estate of Mary Flannery O’Connor
All rights reserved
Originally published in 1952 by Harcourt, Brace & Co.
Published in 1962 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux
This paperback edition, 2007
Library of Congress Control Number: 2006937221
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-0-374-53063-1
Paperback ISBN-10: 0-374-53063-7
www.fsgbooks.com
eISBN 9781466829060
First eBook edition: September 2012
Wise Blood Page 15
