Flannery O'Connor Complete Short Stories

by Flannery O'Connor

  “Who wit ol’ Hezuh?” one of the women asked.

  “Jus’ Nancy.”

  “Oughter be somebody else down there,” his mother said softly.

  Reba moaned. “Anybody go out gonna git sprung on befo’ they gits there. It around here, I say. It gittin’ closer an’ closer. It gonna git me sho.”

  He could smell it strong.

  “How it gonna git in here? Yawl jus’ frettin’ for nothin’.”

  That was Thin Minnie. Nothin’ could git her. She’d had a spell on her since when she was small—put there by a conjer woman.

  “It come in easy ef it wanter,” Reba snorted. “It tear up that cat hole an’ come through.”

  “We could be down to Nancy’s by then,” Minnie sniffed.

  “Yawl could,” the old woman muttered.

  Him an’ her couldn’t, he knew. But he’d stay an’ fight it. You see that blin’ boy there? He the one kill the wildcat!

  Reba started groaning.

  “Hush that!” his mother ordered.

  The groaning turned into singing—low in her throat.

  “Lord, Lord,

  Gonna see yo’ pilgrim today.

  Lord, Lord,

  Gonna see yo’ . . .”

  “Hush!” his mother hissed. “What that I hear?”

  Gabriel leaned forward in the silence; stiff, ready.

  It was a thump, thump and maybe a snarl, away, muffled, and then a shriek, far away, then louder and louder, closer and closer, over the edge of the hill into the yard and up on the porch. The cabin was shaking with the weight of a body against the door. There was the feel of a rush inside the room and the scream was let in. Nancy!

  “It got him!” she screamed. “Got him, sprung in through the winder, got him in the throat. Hezuh,” she wailed, “ol’ Hezuh.”

  Later in the night the men returned, carrying a rabbit and two squirrels.

  III

  Old Gabriel crept back through the darkness to his bed. He could sit in the chair a while or he could lie down. He eased down in the bed and pushed his nose into the feel and smell of the quilt. They won’t no use to do that. He could smell the other jus’ the same. He had been smellin’ it, been smellin’ it ever since they started talkin’ about it. There it was one evenin’—different from all the smells around, different from niggers’ and cows’ an’ ground smells. Wildcat. Tull Williams seen it jump on a bull.

  Gabriel sat up suddenly. It was nearer. He got out the bed and pushed to the door. He had bolted that one; the other must be open. A breeze was coming in and he walked in it until he felt the night air full in his face. This one was open. He slammed it shut and pushed the bolt in. What was the use to do that? Ef the cat aimed on comin’ in, it could git there. He went back to the chair and sat down. It come in east ef it wanta. There were little drafts all around him. By the door there was a hole the hound could git under; that cat could gnaw it through an’ be in befo’ he got out. Maybe ef he sat by the back do’, he could git away quicker. He got up and dragged his chair after him across the room. The smell was near. Maybe he’d count. He could count to a thousand. Won’t no nigger for five miles could count that fur. He started counting.

  Mose an’ Luke wouldn’t be back for six hours yet. Tomorrow night they wouldn’t go; but the cat was gonna git him tonight. Lemme go wit you boys an’ smell him out for you. I the onliest one kin smell ’round here.

  They’d lose him in the woods, they’d said. Huntin’ wildcats won’t no business for him.

  I ain’t afraid er no wildcat er no woods neither. Lemme go wit you boys, lemme go.

  Ain’t no reason to be ’fraid to stay here by yosef, they’d laughed.

  Ain’t nothin’ gonna git you. We take you up the road to Mattie’s ef you scaird.

  Mattie’s! Take him to Mattie’s! Settin’ wit the women. What yawl think I is? I ain’t afraid er no wildcat. But it comin’, boys; an’ it ain’t gonna be in no woods—it gonna be here. Yawl wastin’ yo’ time in the woods. Stay here an’ you ketch it.

  He suppose to be countin’. Where he lef off at? Five hunnert an’ five, five hunnert an’ six . . . Mattie’s! What they think he is? Five hunnert an’ two, five hunnert an’. . . .

  He sat stiff in the chair with his hands gripped tight to the stick across his knees. It won’t gonna git him like he was a woman. His shirt was stuck wet to him, making him smell higher. The men had come back later in the night with a rabbit and two squirrels. He began to remember the other wildcat and he remembered as if he had been in Hezuh’s cabin instead of with the women. He wondered was he Hezuh. He was Gabrul. It won’t gonna git him like Hezuh. He was gonna hit it. He was gonna pull it off. He was gonna . . . how he gonna do all that? He hadn’t been able to wring a chicken’s neck for fo’ years. It was gonna git him. Won’t nothin’ to do but wait. The smell was near. Won’t nothin’ for old people to do but wait. It was gonna git him tonight. The teeth would be hot an’ the claws cold. The claws would sink in soft, an’ the teeth would cut sharp an’ scrape his bones inside.

  Gabriel felt the sweat on himself. It kin smell me good’s I kin smell it, he thought. I settin’ here smellin’ an’ it comin’ here smellin’. Two hunnert an’ fo’; where he lef off at? Fo’ hunnert an’ five. . . .

  There was a sudden scratching by the chimney. He sat forward, tense, tight-throated. “Come on,” he whispered, “I here. I waitin’.” He couldn’t move. He couldn’t make himself move. There was another scratching. It was the pain he didn’t want. But he didn’t want the waiting either. “I here,” he—there was another, just a small noise and then a flutter. Bats. His grip on the stick loosened. He should have known that won’t it. It won’t no farther than the barn yet. What ail his nose? What ail him? Won’t no nigger for hunnert miles could smell like he could. He heard the scratching again, coming differently, coming from the corner of the house where the cat hole was. Pick . . . pick . . . pick. That was a bat. He knowd that was a bat. Pick . . . pick. “Here I is,” he whispered. Won’t no bat. He braced his feet to get up. Pick. “Lord waitin’ on me,” he whispered. “He don’t want me with my face tore open. Why don’t you go on, Wildcat, why you want me?” He was on his feet now. “Lord don’t want me with no wildcat marks.” He was moving toward the cat hole. Across on the riverbank the Lord was waiting on him with a troupe of angels and golden vestments for him to put on and when he came, he’d put on the vestments and stand there with the Lord and the angels, judging life. Won’t no nigger for fifty miles fitter to judge than him. Pick. He stopped. He smelled it right outside, nosing the hole. He had to climb onto something! What he going toward it for? He had to get on something high! There was a shelf nailed over the chimney and he turned wildly and fell against a chair and shoved it up to the fireplace. He caught hold of the shelf and pulled himself onto the chair and sprang up and backwards and felt the narrow shelf board under him for an instant and then felt it sag and jerked his feet up and felt it crack somewhere from the wall. His stomach flew inside him and stopped hard and the shelf board fell across his feet and the rung of the chair hit against his head and then, after a second of stillness, he heard a low, gasping animal cry wail over two hills and fade past him; then snarls, tearing short, furious, through the pain wails. Gabriel sat stiff on the floor.

  “Cow,” he breathed finally. “Cow.”

  Gradually he felt his muscles loosen. It got to her befo’ him. It would go on off now, but it would be back tomorrer night. He rose shaking from the chair and stumbled to his bed. The cat had been a half mile away. He won’t sharp like he used to be. They shouldn’t leave old people by theyselves. He done tole ’em they won’t gonna ketch nothin’ off in no woods. Tomorrer night it would come back. Tomorrer night they would stay here an’ kill it. Now he want to sleep. He done tole ’em they couldn’t get no wildcat in no woods. He the one tole ’em where it gonna be. They’d a listened to him, th
ey’d done had it by now. When he die he want to be sleepin’ in a bed; didn’t want to be on no floor with a wildcat stuck in his face. Lord waitin’.

  When he woke up, the darkness was full of morning things. He heard Mose and Luke at the stove and smelled the side meat in the skillet. He reached for his snuff and filled his lip. “What yawl ketch?” he asked trenchantly.

  “Ain’t caught nothin’ las’ night.” Luke put the plate in his hands. “Here yo’ side meat. How you bust that shelf?”

  “Ain’t busted no shelf,” old Gabriel muttered. “Wind to’ it down and waked me up in the middle of the night. It been due to fall. You ain’t never built nothin’ yet stayed together.”

  “We sot a trap,” Mose said. “We git that cat tonight.”

  “Yawl sho will, boys,” Gabriel said. “It’ll be right here tonight. Ain’t it done kill a cow a half a mile from here las’ night?”

  “That don’t mean it comin’ this way,” Luke said.

  “It comin’ this way,” Gabriel said.

  “How many wildcats you killed, Granpaw?”

  Gabriel stopped; the plate of side meat tremored in his hand. “I knows what I knows, boy.”

  “We git it soon. We sot a trap over in Ford’s Woods. It been around there. We goin’ up in a tree over the trap every night an’ wait ’til we gits it.”

  Their forks were scraping back and forth over their tin plates like knife teeth against stone.

  “You wants sommo’ side meat, Granpaw?”

  Gabriel put his fork down on the quilt. “No, boy,” he said, “no mo’ side meat.” The darkness was hollow around him and through its depth, animal cries wailed and mingled with the beats pounding in his throat.

  The Crop

  Miss Willerton always crumbed the table. It was her particular household accomplishment and she did it with great thoroughness. Lucia and Bertha did the dishes and Garner went into the parlor and did the Morning Press crossword puzzle. That left Miss Willerton in the dining room by herself and that was all right with Miss Willerton. Whew! Breakfast in that house was always an ordeal. Lucia insisted that they have a regular hour for breakfast just like they did for other meals. Lucia said a regular breakfast made for other regular habits, and with Garner’s tendency to upsets, it was imperative that they establish some system in their eating. This way she could also see that he put the Agar-Agar on his Cream of Wheat. As if, Miss Willerton thought, after having done it for fifty years, he’d be capable of doing anything else. The breakfast dispute always started with Garner’s Cream of Wheat and ended with her three spoonfuls of pineapple crush. “You know your acid, Willie,” Miss Lucia would always say, “you know your acid”; and then Garner would roll his eyes and make some sickening remark and Bertha would jump and Lucia would look distressed and Miss Willerton would taste the pineapple crush she had already swallowed.

  It was a relief to crumb the table. Crumbing the table gave one time to think, and if Miss Willerton were going to write a story, she had to think about it first. She could usually think best sitting in front of her typewriter, but this would do for the time being. First, she had to think of a subject to write a story about. There were so many subjects to write stories about that Miss Willerton never could think of one. That was always the hardest part of writing a story, she always said. She spent more time thinking of something to write about than she did writing. Sometimes she discarded subject after subject and it usually took her a week or two to decide finally on something. Miss Willerton got out the silver crumber and the crumb-catcher and started stroking the table. I wonder, she mused, if a baker would make a good subject? Foreign bakers were very picturesque, she thought. Aunt Myrtile Filmer had left her four color-tints of French bakers in mushroom-looking hats. They were great tall fellows—blond and. . . .

  “Willie!” Miss Lucia screamed, entering the dining room with the saltcellars. “For heaven’s sake, hold the catcher under the crumber or you’ll have those crumbs on the rug. I’ve Bisseled it four times in the last week and I am not going to do it again.”

  “You have not Bisseled it on account of any crumbs I have spilled,” Miss Willerton said tersely. “I always pick up the crumbs I drop,” and she added, “I drop relatively few.”

  “And wash the crumber before you put it up this time,” Miss Lucia returned.

  Miss Willerton drained the crumbs into her hand and threw them out the window. She took the catcher and crumber to the kitchen and ran them under the cold-water faucet. She dried them and stuck them back in the drawer. That was over. Now she could get to the typewriter. She could stay there until dinnertime.

  Miss Willerton sat down at her typewriter and let out her breath. Now! What had she been thinking about? Oh. Bakers. Hmmm. Bakers. No, bakers wouldn’t do. Hardly colorful enough. No social tension connected with bakers. Miss Willerton sat staring through her typewriter. A S D F G—her eyes wandered over the keys. Hmmm. Teachers? Miss Willerton wondered. No. Heavens no. Teachers always made Miss Willerton feel peculiar. Her teachers at Willowpool Seminary had been all right but they were women. Willowpool Female Seminary, Miss Willerton remembered. She didn’t like the phrase, Willowpool Female Seminary—it sounded biological. She always just said she was a graduate of Willowpool. Men teachers made Miss Willerton feel as if she were going to mispronounce something. Teachers weren’t timely anyhow. They weren’t even a social problem.

  Social problem. Social problem. Hmmm. Sharecroppers! Miss Willerton had never been intimately connected with sharecroppers but, she reflected, they would make as arty a subject as any, and they would give her that air of social concern which was so valuable to have in the circles she was hoping to travel! “I can always capitalize,” she muttered, “on the hookworm.” It was coming to her now! Certainly! Her fingers plinked excitedly over the keys, never touching them. Then suddenly she began typing at great speed.

  “Lot Motun,” the typewriter registered, “called his dog.” “Dog” was followed by an abrupt pause. Miss Willerton always did her best work on the first sentence. “First sentences,” she always said, “came to her—like a flash! Just like a flash!” she would say and snap her fingers, “like a flash!” And she built her story up from them. “Lot Motun called his dog” had been automatic with Miss Willerton, and reading the sentence over, she decided that not only was “Lot Motun” a good name for a sharecropper, but also that having him call his dog was an excellent thing to have a sharecropper do. “The dog pricked up its ears and slunk over to Lot.” Miss Willerton had the sentence down before she realized her error—two “Lots” in one paragraph. That was displeasing to the ear. The typewriter grated back and Miss Willerton applied three x’s to “Lot.” Over it she wrote in pencil, “him.” Now she was ready to go again. “Lot Motun called his dog. The dog pricked up its ears and slunk over to him.” Two dogs, too, Miss Willerton thought. Ummm. But that didn’t affect the ears like two “Lots,” she decided.

  Miss Willerton was a great believer in what she called “phonetic art.” She maintained that the ear was as much a reader as the eye. She liked to express it that way. “The eye forms a picture,” she had told a group at the United Daughters of the Colonies, “that can be painted in the abstract, and the success of a literary venture” (Miss Willerton liked the phrase, ‘literary venture’) “depends on the abstract created in the mind and the tonal quality” (Miss Willerton also liked ‘tonal quality’) “registered in the ear.” There was something biting and sharp about “Lot Motun called his dog”; followed by “the dog pricked up its ears and slunk over to him,” it gave the paragraph just the send-off it needed.

  “He pulled the animal’s short, scraggy ears and rolled over with it in the mud.” Perhaps, Miss Willerton mused, that would be overdoing it. But a sharecropper, she knew, might reasonably be expected to roll over in the mud. Once she had read a novel dealing with that kind of people in which they had done just as bad and, throughout three-four
ths of the narrative, much worse. Lucia found it in cleaning out one of Miss Willerton’s bureau drawers and after glancing at a few random pages took it between thumb and index finger to the furnace and threw it in. “When I was cleaning your bureau out this morning, Willie, I found a book that Garner must have put there for a joke,” Miss Lucia told her later. “It was awful, but you know how Garner is. I burned it.” And then, tittering, she added, “I was sure it couldn’t be yours.” Miss Willerton was sure it could be none other’s than hers but she hesitated in claiming the distinction. She had ordered it from the publisher because she didn’t want to ask for it at the library. It had cost her $3.75 with the postage and she had not finished the last four chapters. At least, she had got enough from it, though, to be able to say that Lot Motun might reasonably roll over in the mud with his dog. Having him do that would give more point to the hookworm, too, she decided. “Lot Motun called his dog. The dog pricked up its ears and slunk over to him. He pulled the animal’s short, scraggy ears and rolled over with it in the mud.”

  Miss Willerton settled back. That was a good beginning. Now she would plan her action. There had to be a woman, of course. Perhaps Lot could kill her. That type of woman always started trouble. She might even goad him on to kill her because of her wantonness and then he would be pursued by his conscience maybe.

  He would have to have principles if that were going to be the case, but it would be fairly easy to give him those. Now how was she going to work that in with all the love interest there’d have to be, she wondered. There would have to be some quite violent, naturalistic scenes, the sadistic sort of thing one read of in connection with that class. It was a problem. However, Miss Willerton enjoyed such problems. She liked to plan passionate scenes best of all, but when she came to write them, she always began to feel peculiar and to wonder what the family would say when they read them. Garner would snap his fingers and wink at her at every opportunity; Bertha would think she was terrible; and Lucia would say in that silly voice of hers, “What have you been keeping from us, Willie? What have you been keeping from us?” and titter like she always did. But Miss Willerton couldn’t think about that now; she had to plan her characters.