Complete Works of William Faulkner

by William Faulkner

  “I was just looking around,” Hawkshaw said.

  Then April came, and he took his two weeks. He shaved himself and packed up that paper suitcase and took the north-bound train.

  “Going on a visit, I reckon,” Maxey said.

  “Up the road a piece,” Hawkshaw said.

  So he went away, in that serge suit and black bow tie. Maxey told me how, two days later, it got out how Hawkshaw had drawn from the bank his year’s savings. He boarded at Mrs Cowan’s and he had joined the church and he spent no money at all. He didn’t even smoke. So Maxey and Matt and I reckon everybody else in Jefferson thought that he had saved up steam for a year and was now bound on one of these private sabbaticals among the fleshpots of Memphis. Mitch Ewing, the depot freight agent, lived at Mrs Cowan’s too. He told how Hawkshaw had bought his ticket only to the junction-point. “From there he can go to either Memphis or Birmingham or New Orleans,” Mitch said.

  “Well, he’s gone, anyway,” Maxey said. “And mark my words, that’s the last you’ll see of that fellow in this town.”

  And that’s what everybody thought until two weeks later. On the fifteenth day Hawkshaw came walking into the shop at his regular time, like he hadn’t even been out of town, and took off his coat and begun to hone his razors. He never told anybody where he had been. Just up the road a piece.

  Sometimes I thought I would tell them. I would make Jefferson and find him there behind that chair. He didn’t change, grow any older in the face, any more than that Reed girl’s hair changed, for all the gum and dye she put on it. But there he would be, back from his vacation “up the road a piece,” saving his money for another year, going to church on Sunday, keeping that sack of peppermints for the children that came to him to be barbered, until it was time to take that paper suitcase and his year’s savings and go back to Division to pay on the mortgage and clean up the house.

  Sometimes he would be gone when I got to Jefferson, and Maxey would tell me about him cutting that Reed girl’s hair, snipping and snipping it and holding the mirror up for her to see like she was an actress. “He dont charge her,” Matt Fox said. “He pays the quarter into the register out of his own pocket.”

  “Well, that’s his business,” Maxey said. “All I want is the quarter. I dont care where it comes from.”

  Five years later maybe I would have said, “Maybe that’s her price.” Because she got in trouble at last. Or so they said. I dont know, except that most of the talk about girls, women, is envy or retaliation by the ones that dont dare to and the ones that failed to. But while he was gone one April they were whispering how she had got in trouble at last and had tried to doctor herself with turpentine and was bad sick.

  Anyhow, she was off the streets for about three months; some said in a hospital in Memphis, and when she came into the shop again she took Matt’s chair, though Hawkshaw’s was empty at the time, like she had already done before to devil him, maybe. Maxey said she looked like a painted ghost, gaunt and hard, for all her bright dress and such, sitting there in Matt’s chair, filling the whole shop with her talking and her laughing and her perfume and her long, naked-looking legs, and Hawkshaw making out he was busy at his empty chair.

  Sometimes I thought I would tell them. But I never told anybody except Gavin Stevens. He is the district attorney, a smart man: not like the usual pedagogue lawyer and office holder. He went to Harvard, and when my health broke down (I used to be a bookkeeper in a Gordonville bank and my health broke down and I met Stevens on a Memphis train when I was coming home from the hospital) it was him that suggested I try the road and got me my position with this company. I told him about it two years ago. “And now the girl has gone bad on him, and he’s too old to hunt up another one and raise her,” I said. “And some day he’ll have the place paid out and those Alabama Starnes can come and take it, and he’ll be through. Then what do you think he will do?”

  “I dont know,” Stevens said.

  “Maybe he’ll just go off and die,” I said.

  “Maybe he will,” Stevens said.

  “Well,” I said, “he wont be the first man to tilt at windmills.”

  “He wont be the first man to die, either,” Stevens said.

  III

  So last week I went on to Division. I got there on a Wednesday. When I saw the house, it had just been painted. The storekeeper told me that the payment Hawkshaw had made was the last one; that Starnes’ mortgage was clear. “Them Alabama Starnes can come and take it now,” he said.

  “Anyway, Hawkshaw did what he promised her, promised Mrs Starnes,” I said.

  “Hawkshaw?” he said. “Is that what they call him? Well, I’ll be durned. Hawkshaw. Well, I’ll be durned.”

  It was three months before I made Jefferson again. When I passed the barber shop I looked in without stopping. And there was another fellow behind Hawkshaw’s chair, a young fellow. “I wonder if Hawk left his sack of peppermints,” I said to myself. But I didn’t stop. I just thought, ‘Well, he’s gone at last,’ wondering just where he would be when old age got him and he couldn’t move again; if he would probably die behind a chair somewhere in a little three-chair country shop, in his shirt sleeves and that black tie and those serge pants.

  I went on and saw my customers and had dinner, and in the afternoon I went to Stevens’ office. “I see you’ve got a new barber in town,” I said.

  “Yes,” Stevens said. He looked at me a while, then he said, “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?” I said. Then he quit looking at me.

  “I got your letter,” he said, “that Hawkshaw had paid off the mortgage and painted the house. Tell me about it.”

  So I told him how I got to Division the day after Hawkshaw had left. They were talking about him on the porch of the store, wondering just when those Alabama Starnes would come in. He had painted the house himself, and he had cleaned up the two graves; I dont reckon he wanted to disturb Starnes by cleaning his. I went up to see them. He had even scrubbed the headstones, and he had set out an apple shoot over the girl’s grave. It was in bloom, and what with the folks all talking about him, I got curious too, to see the inside of that house. The storekeeper had the key, and he said he reckoned it would be all right with Hawkshaw.

  It was clean inside as a hospital. The stove was polished and the woodbox filled. The storekeeper told me Hawkshaw did that every year, filled the woodbox before he left. “Those Alabama kinsfolk will appreciate that,” I said. We went on back to the parlor. There was a melodeon in the corner, and a lamp and a Bible on the table. The lamp was clean, the bowl empty and clean too; you couldn’t even smell oil on it. That wedding license was framed, hanging above the mantel like a picture. It was dated April 4, 1905.

  “Here’s where he keeps that mortgage record,” the storekeeper (his name is Bidwell) said. He went to the table and opened the Bible. The front page was the births and deaths, two columns. The girl’s name was Sophie. I found her name in the birth column, and on the death side it was next to the last one. Mrs Starnes had written it. It looked like it might have taken her ten minutes to write it down. It looked like this:

  Sofy starnes Dide april 16 th 1905

  Hawkshaw wrote the last one himself; it was neat and well written, like a bookkeeper’s hand:

  Mrs Will Starnes. April 23, 1916.

  “The record will be in the back,” Bidwell said.

  We turned to the back. It was there, in a neat column, in Hawkshaw’s hand. It began with April 16, 1917, $200.00. The next one was when he made the next payment at the bank: April 16, 1918, $200.00; and April 16, 1919, $200.00; and April 16, 1920, $200.00; and on to the last one: April 16, 1930, $200.00. Then he had totaled the column and written under it:

  “Paid in full. April 16, 1930.”

  It looked like a sentence written in a copy book in the old-time business colleges, like it had flourished, the pen had, in spite of him. It didn’t look like it was written boastful; it just flourished somehow, the end of it, like it
had run out of the pen somehow before he could stop it.

  “So he did what he promised her he would,” Stevens said.

  “That’s what I told Bidwell,” I said.

  Stevens went on like he wasn’t listening to me much.

  “So the old lady could rest quiet. I guess that’s what the pen was trying to say when it ran away from him: that now she could lie quiet. And he’s not much over forty-five. Not so much anyway. Not so much but what, when he wrote ‘Paid in full’ under that column, time and despair rushed as slow and dark under him as under any garlanded boy or crownless and crestless girl.”

  “Only the girl went bad on him,” I said. “Forty-five’s pretty late to set out to find another. He’ll be fifty-five at least by then.”

  Stevens looked at me then. “I didn’t think you had heard,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “That is, I looked in the barber shop when I passed. But I knew he would be gone. I knew all the time he would move on, once he had that mortgage cleared. Maybe he never knew about the girl, anyway. Or likely he knew and didn’t care.”

  “You think he didn’t know about her?”

  “I dont see how he could have helped it. But I dont know. What do you think?”

  “I dont know. I dont think I want to know. I know something so much better than that.”

  “What’s that?” I said. He was looking at me. “You keep on telling me I haven’t heard the news. What is it I haven’t heard?”

  “About the girl,” Stevens said. He looked at me.

  “On the night Hawkshaw came back from his last vacation, they were married. He took her with him this time.”

  That Evening Sun

  I

  MONDAY IS NO different from any other weekday in Jefferson now. The streets are paved now, and the telephone and electric companies are cutting down more and more of the shade trees — the water oaks, the maples and locusts and elms — to make room for iron poles bearing clusters of bloated and ghostly and bloodless grapes, and we have a city laundry which makes the rounds on Monday morning, gathering the bundles of clothes into bright-colored, specially-made motor cars: the soiled wearing of a whole week now flees apparitionlike behind alert and irritable electric horns, with a long diminishing noise of rubber and asphalt like tearing silk, and even the Negro women who still take in white people’s washing after the old custom, fetch and deliver it in automobiles.

  But fifteen years ago, on Monday morning the quiet, dusty, shady streets would be full of Negro women with, balanced on their steady, turbaned heads, bundles of clothes tied up in sheets, almost as large as cotton bales, carried so without touch of hand between the kitchen door of the white house and the blackened washpot beside a cabin door in Negro Hollow.

  Nancy would set her bundle on the top of her head, then upon the bundle in turn she would set the black straw sailor hat which she wore winter and summer. She was tall, with a high, sad face sunken a little where her teeth were missing. Sometimes we would go a part of the way down the lane and across the pasture with her, to watch the balanced bundle and the hat that never bobbed nor wavered, even when she walked down into the ditch and up the other side and stooped through the fence. She would go down on her hands and knees and crawl through the gap, her head rigid, uptilted, the bundle steady as a rock or a balloon, and rise to her feet again and go on.

  Sometimes the husbands of the washing women would fetch and deliver the clothes, but Jesus never did that for Nancy, even before father told him to stay away from our house, even when Dilsey was sick and Nancy would come to cook for us.

  And then about half the time we’d have to go down the lane to Nancy’s cabin and tell her to come on and cook breakfast. We would stop at the ditch, because father told us to not have anything to do with Jesus — he was a short black man, with a razor scar down his face — and we would throw rocks at Nancy’s house until she came to the door, leaning her head around it without any clothes on.

  “What yawl mean, chunking my house?” Nancy said. “What you little devils mean?”

  “Father says for you to come on and get breakfast,” Caddy said. “Father says it’s over a half an hour now, and you’ve got to come this minute.”

  “I aint studying no breakfast,” Nancy said. “I going to get my sleep out.”

  “I bet you’re drunk,” Jason said. “Father says you’re drunk. Are you drunk, Nancy?”

  “Who says I is?” Nancy said. “I got to get my sleep out. I aint studying no breakfast.”

  So after a while we quit chunking the cabin and went back home. When she finally came, it was too late for me to go to school. So we thought it was whisky until that day they arrested her again and they were taking her to jail and they passed Mr Stovall. He was the cashier in the bank and a deacon in the Baptist church, and Nancy began to say:

  “When you going to pay me, white man? When you going to pay me, white man? It’s been three times now since you paid me a cent—” Mr Stovall knocked her down, but she kept on saying, “When you going to pay me, white man? It’s been three times now since—” until Mr Stovall kicked her in the mouth with his heel and the marshal caught Mr Stovall back, and Nancy lying in the street, laughing. She turned her head and spat out some blood and teeth and said, “It’s been three times now since he paid me a cent.”

  That was how she lost her teeth, and all that day they told about Nancy and Mr Stovall, and all that night the ones that passed the jail could hear Nancy singing and yelling. They could see her hands holding to the window bars, and a lot of them stopped along the fence, listening to her and to the jailer trying to make her stop. She didn’t shut up until almost daylight, when the jailer began to hear a bumping and scraping upstairs and he went up there and found Nancy hanging from the window bar. He said that it was cocaine and not whisky, because no nigger would try to commit suicide unless he was full of cocaine, because a nigger full of cocaine wasn’t a nigger any longer.

  The jailer cut her down and revived her; then he beat her, whipped her. She had hung herself with her dress. She had fixed it all right, but when they arrested her she didn’t have on anything except a dress and so she didn’t have anything to tie her hands with and she couldn’t make her hands let go of the window ledge. So the jailer heard the noise and ran up there and found Nancy hanging from the window, stark naked, her belly already swelling out a little, like a little balloon.

  When Dilsey was sick in her cabin and Nancy was cooking for us, we could see her apron swelling out; that was before father told Jesus to stay away from the house. Jesus was in the kitchen, sitting behind the stove, with his razor scar on his black face like a piece of dirty string. He said it was a watermelon that Nancy had under her dress.

  “It never come off of your vine, though,” Nancy said.

  “Off of what vine?” Caddy said.

  “I can cut down the vine it did come off of,” Jesus said.

  “What makes you want to talk like that before these chillen?” Nancy said. “Whyn’t you go on to work? You done et. You want Mr Jason to catch you hanging around his kitchen, talking that way before these chillen?”

  “Talking what way?” Caddy said. “What vine?”

  “I cant hang around white man’s kitchen,” Jesus said. “But white man can hang around mine. White man can come in my house, but I cant stop him. When white man want to come in my house, I aint got no house. I cant stop him, but he cant kick me outen it. He cant do that.”

  Dilsey was still sick in her cabin.” Father told Jesus to stay off our place. Dilsey was still sick. It was a long time. We were in the library after supper.

  “Isn’t Nancy through in the kitchen yet?” mother said. “It seems to me that she has had plenty of time to have finished the dishes.”

  “Let Quentin go and see,” father said. “Go and see if Nancy is through, Quentin. Tell her she can go on home.”

  I went to the kitchen. Nancy was through. The dishes were put away and the fire was out. Nancy was sitting in a chair, clos
e to the cold stove. She looked at me.

  “Mother wants to know if you are through,” I said.

  “Yes,” Nancy said. She looked at me. “I done finished.” She looked at me.

  “What is it?” I said. “What is it?”

  “I aint nothing but a nigger,” Nancy said. “It aint none of my fault.”

  She looked at me, sitting in the chair before the cold stove, the sailor hat on her head. I went back to the library. It was the cold stove and all, when you think of a kitchen being warm and busy and cheerful. And with a cold stove and the dishes all put away, and nobody wanting to eat at that hour.

  “Is she through?” mother said.

  “Yessum,” I said.

  “What is she doing?” mother said.

  “She’s not doing anything. She’s through.”

  “I’ll go and see,” father said.

  “Maybe she’s waiting for Jesus to come and take her home,” Caddy said.

  “Jesus is gone,” I said. Nancy told us how one morning she woke up and Jesus was gone.

  “He quit me,” Nancy said. “Done gone to Memphis, I reckon. Dodging them city po-lice for a while, I reckon.”

  “And a good riddance,” father said. “I hope he stays there.”

  “Nancy’s scaired of the dark,” Jason said.

  “So are you,” Caddy said.

  “I’m not,” Jason said.

  “Scairy cat,” Caddy said.

  “I’m not,” Jason said.

  “You, Candace!” mother said. Father came back.

  “I am going to walk down the lane with Nancy,” he said. “She says that Jesus is back.”

  “Has she seen him?” mother said.

  “No. Some Negro sent her word that he was back in town. I wont be long.”

  “You’ll leave me alone, to take Nancy home?” mother said. “Is her safety more precious to you than mine?”