English Literature

“Good Country People”

By Flannery O’Connor

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Besides the neutral expression that she wore when she was alone, Mrs. Freeman had two others, forward and reverse, that she used for all her human dealings. Her forward expression was steady and driving like the advance of a heavy truck. Her eyes never swerved to left or right but turned as the story turned as if they followed a yellow line down the center of it. She seldom used the other expression because it was not often necessary for her to retract a statement, but when she did, her face came to a complete stop, there was an almost imperceptible movement of her black eyes, during which they seemed to be receding, and then the observer would see that Mrs. Freeman, though she might stand there as real as several grain sacks thrown on top of each other, was no longer there in spirit. As for getting anything across to her when this was the case, Mrs. Hopewell had given it up. She might talk her head off. Mrs. Freeman could never be brought to admit herself wrong to any point. She would stand there and if she could be brought to say anything, it was something like, “Well, I wouldn’t of said it was and I wouldn’t of said it wasn’t” or letting her gaze range over the top kitchen shelf where there was an assortment of dusty bottles, she might remark, “I see you ain’t ate many of them figs you put up last summer.”

They carried on their most important business in the kitchen at breakfast.

Every morning Mrs. Hopewell got up at seven o’clock and lit her gas

heater and Joy’s. Joy was her daughter, a large blonds girl who had an

artificial leg. Mrs. Hopewell thought of her as a child though she was

thirty-two years old and highly educated. Joy would get up while her

mother was eating and lumber into the bathroom and slam the door, and

before long, Mrs. Freeman would arrive at the back door. Joy would hear

her mother call, “Come on in,” and then they would talk for a while in

low voices that were indistinguishable in the bathroom. By the time Joy

came in, they had usually finished the weather report and were on one or

the other of Mrs. Freeman’s daughters, Glynese or Carramae. Joy called

them Glycerin and Caramel. Glynese, a redhead, was eighteen and had

many admirers; Carramae, a blonde, was only fifteen but already married

and pregnant. She could not keep anything on her stomach. Every

morning Mrs. Freeman told Mrs. Hopewell how many times she had

vomited since the last report.

Mrs. Hopewell liked to tell people that Glynese and Carramae were two

of the finest girls she knew and that Mrs. Freeman was a lady and that she

was never ashamed to take her anywhere or introduce her to anybody they

might meet. Then she would tell how she had happened to hire the

Freemans in the first place and how they were a godsend to her and how

she had had them four years. The reason for her keeping them so long

was that they were not trash. They were good country people. She had

telephoned the man whose name they had given as reference and he had

told her that Mr. Freeman was a good farmer but that his wife was the

nosiest woman ever to walk the earth. “She’s got to be into everything,”

the man said. “If she don’t get there before the dust settles, you can bet

she’s dead, that’s all. She’ll want to know all your business. I can stand

him real good,” he had said, “but me nor my wife neither could have

stood that woman one more minute on this place.” That had put Mrs.

Hopewell off for a few days.

She had hired them in the end because there were no other applicants but

she had made up her mind beforehand exactly how she would handle the

woman. Since she was the type who had to be into everything, then, Mrs.

Hopewell had decided, she would not only let her be into everything, she

would see to it that she was into everything – she would give her the

responsibility of everything, she would put her in charge. Mrs. Hopewell

had no bad qualities of her own but she was able to use other people’s in

such a constructive way that she had kept them four years.

Nothing is perfect. This was one of Mrs. Hopewell’s favorite sayings.

Another was: that is life! And still another, the most important, was:

well, other people have their opinions too. She would make these

statements, usually at the table, in a tone of gentle insistence as if no one

held them but her, and the large hulking Joy, whose constant outrage had

obliterated every expression from her face, would stare just a little to the

side of her, her eyes icy blue, with the look of someone who had achieved

blindness by an act of will and means to keep it.

When Mrs. Hopewell said to Mrs. Freeman that life was like that, Mrs.

Freeman would say, “I always said so myself.” Nothing had been arrived

at by anyone that had not first been arrived at by her. She was quicker

than Mr. Freeman. When Mrs. Hopewell said to her after they had been

on the place for a while, “You know, you’re the wheel behind the wheel,”

and winked, Mrs. Freeman had said, “I know it. I’ve always been quick.

It’s some that are quicker than others.”

“Everybody is different,” Mrs. Hopewell said.

“Yes, most people is,” Mrs. Freeman said.

“It takes all kinds to make the world.”

“I always said it did myself.”

The girl was used to this kind of dialogue for breakfast and more of it for

dinner; sometimes they had it for supper too. When they had no guest

they ate in the kitchen because that was easier. Mrs. Freeman always

managed to arrive at some point during the meal and to watch them finish

it. She would stand in the doorway if it were summer but in the winter

she would stand with one elbow on top of the refrigerator and look down

at them, or she would stand by the gas heater, lifting the back of her skirt

slightly. Occasionally she would stand against the wall and roll her head

from side to side. At no time was she in any hurry to leave. All this was

very trying on Mrs. Hopewell but she was a woman of great patience. She

realized that nothing is perfect and that in the Freemans she had good

country people and that if, in this day and age, you get good country

people, you had better hang onto them.

She had had plenty of experience with trash. Before the Freemans she had

averaged one tenant family a year. The wives of these farmers were not

the kind you would want to be around you for very long. Mrs. Hopewell,

who had divorced her husband long ago, needed someone to walk over

the fields with her; and when Joy had to be impressed for these services,

her remarks were usually so ugly and her face so glum that Mrs. Hopewell

would say, “If you can’t come pleasantly, I don’t want you at all,” to which

the girl, standing square and rigid-shouldered with her neck thrust

slightly forward, would reply, “If you want me, here I am – LIKE I AM.”

Mrs. Hopewell excused this attitude because of the leg (which had been

shot off in a hunting accident when Joy was ten). It was hard for Mrs.

Hopewell to realize that her child was thirty-two now and that for more

than twenty years she had had only one leg. She thought of her still as a

child because it tore her heart to think instead of the poor stout girl in her

thirties who had never danced a step or had any normal good times. Her

name was really Joy but as soon as she was twenty-one and away from

home, she had had it legally changed. Mrs. Hopewell was certain that she

had thought and thought until she had hit upon the ugliest name in any

language. Then she had gone and had the beautiful name, Joy, changed

without telling her mother until after she had done it. Her legal name was

Hulga.

When Mrs. Hopewell thought the name, Hulga, she thought of the broad

blank hull of a battleship. She would not use it. She continued to call her

Joy to which the girl responded but in a purely mechanical way.

Hulga had learned to tolerate Mrs. Freeman who saved her from taking

walks with her mother. Even Glynese and Carramae were useful when

they occupied attention that might otherwise have been directed at her.

At first she had thought she could not stand Mrs. Freeman for she had

found it was not possible to be rude to her. Mrs. Freeman would take on

strange resentments and for days together she would be sullen but the

source of her displeasure was always obscure; a direct attack, a positive

leer, blatant ugliness to her face – these never touched her. And without

warning one day, she began calling her Hulga.

She did not call her that in front of Mrs. Hopewell who would have been

incensed but when she and the girl happened to be out of the house

together, she would say something and add the name Hulga to the end of

it, and the big spectacled Joy-Hulga would scowl and redden as if her

privacy had been intruded upon. She considered the name her personal

affair. She had arrived at it first purely on the basis of its ugly sound and

then the full genius of its fitness had struck her. She had a vision of the

name working like the ugly sweating Vulcan who stayed in the furnace

and to whom, presumably, the goddess had to come when called. She saw

it as the name of her highest creative act. One of her major triumphs was

that her mother had not been able to turn her dust into Joy, but the greater

one was that she had been able to turn it herself into Hulga. However,

Mrs. Freeman’s relish for using the name only irritated her. It was as if

Mrs. Freeman’s beady steel-pointed eyes had penetrated far enough

behind her face to reach some secret fact. Something about her seemed to

fascinate Mrs. Freeman and then one day Hulga realized that it was the

artificial leg. Mrs. Freeman had a special fondness for the details of secret

infections, hidden deformities, assaults upon children. Of diseases, she

preferred the lingering or incurable. Hulga had heard Mrs. Hopewell give

her the details of the hunting accident, how the leg had been literally

blasted off, how she had never lost consciousness. Mrs. Freeman could

listen to it any time as if it had happened an hour ago.

When Hulga stumped into the kitchen in the morning (she could walk

without making the awful noise but she made it – Mrs. Hopewell was

certain – because it was ugly-sounding), she glanced at them and did not

speak. Mrs. Hopewell would be in her red kimono with her hair tied

around her head in rags. She would be sitting at the table, finishing her

breakfast and Mrs. Freeman would be hanging by her elbow outward

from the refrigerator, looking down at the table. Hulga always put her

eggs on the stove to boil and then stood over them with her arms folded,

and Mrs. Hopewell would look at her – a kind of indirect gaze divided

between her and Mrs. Freeman – and would think that if she would only

keep herself up a little, she wouldn’t be so bad looking. There was

nothing wrong with her face that a pleasant expression wouldn’t help.

Mrs. Hopewell said that people who looked on the bright side of things

would be beautiful even if they were not.

Whenever she looked at Joy this way, she could not help but feel that it

would have been better if the child had not taken the Ph.D. It had

certainly not brought her out any and now that she had it, there was no

more excuse for her to go to school again. Mrs. Hopewell thought it was

nice for girls to go to school to have a good time but Joy had “gone

through.” Anyhow, she would not have been strong enough to go again.

The doctors had told Mrs. Hopewell that with the best of care, Joy might

see forty-five. She had a weak heart. Joy had made it plain that if it had

not been for this condition, she would be far from these red hills and good

country people. She would be in a university lecturing to people who

knew what she was talking about. And Mrs. Hopewell could very well

picture here there, looking like a scarecrow and lecturing to more of the

same. Here she went about all day in a six-year-old skirt and a yellow

sweat shirt with a faded cowboy on a horse embossed on it. She thought

this was funny; Mrs. Hopewell thought it was idiotic and showed simply

that she was still a child. She was brilliant but she didn’t have a grain of

sense. It seemed to Mrs. Hopewell that every year she grew less like other

people and more like herself – bloated, rude, and squint-eyed. And she

said such strange things! To her own mother she had said – without

warning, without excuse, standing up in the middle of a meal with her

face purple and her mouth half full – “Woman! Do you ever look inside?

Do you ever look inside and see what you are not? God!” she had cried

sinking down again and staring at her plate, “Malebranche was right: we

are not our own light. We are not our own light!” Mrs. Hopewell had no

idea to this day what brought that on. She had only made the remark,

hoping Joy would take it in, that a smile never hurt anyone. The girl had

taken the Ph.D. in philosophy and this left Mrs. Hopewell at a complete

loss. You could say, “My daughter is a nurse,” or “My daughter is a school

teacher,” or even, “My daughter is a chemical engineer.” You could not

say, “My daughter is a philosopher.” That was something that had ended

with the Greeks and Romans. All day Joy sat on her neck in a deep chair,

reading. Sometimes she went for walks but she didn’t like dogs or cats or

birds or flowers or nature or nice young men. She looked at nice young

men as if she could smell their stupidity.

One day Mrs. Hopewell had picked up one of the books the girl had just

put down and opening it at random, she read, “Science, on the other hand,

has to assert its soberness and seriousness afresh and declare that it is

concerned solely with what-is. Nothing – how can it be for science

anything but a horror and a phantasm? If science is right, then one thing

stands firm: science wishes to know nothing of nothing. Such is after all

the strictly scientific approach to Nothing. We know it by wishing to

know nothing of Nothing.” These words had been underlined with a

blue pencil and they worked on Mrs. Hopewell like some evil incantation

in gibberish. She shut the book quickly and went out of the room as if

she were having a chill.

This morning when the girl came in, Mrs. Freeman was on Carramae.

“She thrown up four times after supper,” she said, “and was up twict in

the night after three o’clock. Yesterday she didn’t do nothing but ramble

in the bureau drawer. All she did. Stand up there and see what she could

run up on.”

“She’s got to eat,” Mrs. Hopewell muttered, sipping her coffee, while she

watched Joy’s back at the stove. She was wondering what the child had

said to the Bible salesman. She could not imagine what kind of a

conversation she could possibly have had with him.

He was a tall gaunt hatless youth who had called yesterday to sell them a

Bible. He had appeared at the door, carrying a large black suitcase that

weighted him so heavily on one side that he had to brace himself against

the door facing. He seemed on the point of collapse but he said in a

cheerful voice, “Good morning, Mrs. Cedars!” and set the suitcase down

on the mat. He was not a bad-looking young man though he had on a

bright blue suit and yellow socks that were not pulled up far enough. He

had prominent face bones and a streak of sticky-looking brown hair

falling across his forehead.

“I’m Mrs. Hopewell,” she said.

“Oh!” he said, pretending to look puzzled but with his eyes sparkling, “I

saw it said ‘The Cedars’ on the mailbox so I thought you was Mrs.

Cedars!” and he burst out in a pleasant laugh. He picked up the satchel

and under cover of a pant, he fell forward into her hall. It was rather as if

the suitcase had moved first, jerking him after it. “Mrs. Hopewell!” he

said and grabbed her hand. “I hope you are well!” and he laughed again

and then all at once his face sobered completely. He paused and gave her

a straight earnest look and said, “Lady, I’ve come to speak of serious

things.”

“Well, come in,” she muttered, none too pleased because her dinner was

almost ready. He came into the parlor and sat down on the edge of a

straight chair and put the suitcase between his feet and glanced around

the room as if he were sizing her up by it. Her silver gleamed on the two

sideboards; she decided he had never been in a room as elegant as this.

“Mrs. Hopewell,” he began, using her name in a way that sounded almost

intimate, “I know you believe in Chrustian service.”

“Well, yes,” she murmured.

“I know,” he said and paused, looking very wise with his head cocked on

one side, “that you’re a good woman. Friends have told me.”

Mrs. Hopewell never liked to be taken for a fool. “What are you selling?”

she asked.

“Bibles,” the young man said and his eye raced around the room before he

added, “I see you have no family Bible in your parlor, I see that is the one

lack you got!”

Mrs. Hopewell could not say, “My daughter is an atheist and won’t let me

keep the Bible in the parlor.” She said, stiffening slightly, “I keep my

Bible by my bedside.” This was not the truth. It was in the attic

somewhere.

“Lady,” he said, “the word of God ought to be in the parlor.”

“Well, I think that’s a matter of taste,” she began, “I think…”

“Lady,” he said, “for a Chrustian, the word of God ought to be in every

room in the house besides in his heart. I know you’re a Chrustian because

I can see it in every line of your face.”

She stood up and said, “Well, young man, I don’t want to buy a Bible and

I smell my dinner burning.”

He didn’t get up. He began to twist his hands and looking down at them,

he said softly, “Well lady, I’ll tell you the truth – not many people want to

buy one nowadays and besides, I know I’m real simple. I don’t know how

to say a thing but to say it. I’m just a country boy.” He glanced up into

her unfriendly face. “People like you don’t like to fool with country

people like me!”

“Why!” she cried, “good country people are the salt of the earth! Besides,

we all have different ways of doing, it takes all kinds to make the world

go ‘round. That’s life!”

“You said a mouthful,” he said.

“Why, I think there aren’t enough good country people in the world!” she

said, stirred. “I think that’s what’s wrong with it!”

His face had brightened. “I didn’t intraduce myself,” he said. “I’m

Manley Pointer from out in the country around Willohobie, not even from

a place, just from near a place.”

“You wait a minute,” she said. “I have to see about my dinner.” She went

out to the kitchen and found Joy standing near the door where she had

been listening.

“Get rid of the salt of the earth,” she said, “and let’s eat.”

Mrs. Hopewell gave her a pained look and turned the heat down under

the vegetables. “I can’t be rude to anybody,” she murmured and went

back into the parlor.

He had opened the suitcase and was sitting with a Bible on each knee.

“I appreciate your honesty,” he said. “You don’t see any more real honest

people unless you go way out in the country.”

“I know,” she said, “real genuine folks!” Through the crack in the door

she heard a groan.

“I guess a lot of boys come telling you they’re working their way through

college,” he said, “but I’m not going to tell you that. Somehow,” he said,

“I don’t want to go to college. I want to devote my life to Chrustian

service. See,” he said, lowering his voice, “I got this heart condition. I

may not live long. When you know it’s something wrong with you and

you may not live long, well then, lady…” He paused, with his mouth

open, and stared at her.

He and Joy had the same condition! She knew that her eyes were filling

with tears but she collected herself quickly and murmured, “Won’t you

stay for dinner? We’d love to have you!” and was sorry the instant she

heard herself say it.

“Yes mam,” he said in an abashed voice. “I would sher love to do that!”

Joy had given him one look on being introduced to him and then

throughout the meal had not glanced at him again. He had addressed

several remarks to her, which she had pretended not to hear. Mrs.

Hopewell could not understand deliberate rudeness, although she lived

with it, and she felt she had always to overflow with hospitality to make

up for Joy’s lack of courtesy. She urged him to talk about himself and he

did. He said he was the seventh child of twelve and that his father had

been crushed under a tree when he himself was eight years old. He had

been crushed very badly, in fact, almost cut in two and was practically not

recognizable. His mother had got along the best she could by hard

working and she had always seen that her children went to Sunday School

and that they read the Bible every evening. He was now nineteen years

old and he had been selling Bibles for four months. In that time he had

sold seventy-seven Bibles and had the promise of two more sales. He

wanted to become a missionary because he thought that was the way you

could do most for people. “He who losest his life shall find it,” he said

simply and he was so sincere, so genuine and earnest that Mrs. Hopewell

would not for the world have smiled. He prevented his peas from sliding

onto the table by blocking them with a piece of bread which he later

cleaned his plate with. She could see Joy observing sidewise how he

handled his knife and fork and she saw too that every few minutes, the

boy would dart a keen appraising glance at the girl as if he were trying to

attract her attention.

After dinner Joy cleared the dishes off the table and disappeared and Mrs.

Hopewell was left to talk with him. He told her again about his

childhood and his father’s accident and about various things that had

happened to him. Every five minutes or so she would stifle a yawn. He

sat for two hours until finally she told him she must go because she had

an appointment in town. He packed his Bibles and thanked her and

prepared to leave, but in the doorway he stopped and wring her hand and

said that not on any of his trips had he met a lady as nice as her and he

asked if he could come again. She had said she would always be happy to

see him.

Joy had been standing in the road, apparently looking at something in the

distance, when he came down the steps toward her, bent to the side with

his heavy valise. He stopped where she was standing and confronted her

directly. Mrs. Hopewell could not hear what he said but she trembled to

think what Joy would say to him. She could see that after a minute Joy

said something and that then the boy began to speak again, making an

excited gesture with his free hand. After a minute Joy said something else

at which the boy began to speak once more. Then to her amazement, Mrs.

Hopewell saw the two of them walk off together, toward the gate. Joy had

walked all the way to the gate with him and Mrs. Hopewell could not

imagine what they had said to each other, and she had not yet dared to

ask.

Mrs. Freeman was insisting upon her attention. She had moved from the

refrigerator to the heater so that Mrs. Hopewell had to turn and face her in

order to seem to be listening. “Glynese gone out with Harvey Hill again

last night,” she said. “She had this sty.”

“Hill,” Mrs. Hopewell said absently, “is that the one who works in the

garage?”

“Nome, he’s the one that goes to chiropractor school,” Mrs. Freeman said.

“She had this sty. Been had it two days. So she says when he brought her

in the other night he says, ‘Lemme get rid of that sty for you,’ and she

says, ‘How?’ and he says, ‘You just lay yourself down acrost the seat of

that car and I’ll show you.’ So she done it and he popped her neck. Kept

on a-popping it several times until she made him quit. This morning,”

Mrs. Freeman said, “she ain’t got no sty. She ain’t got no traces of a sty.”

“I never heard of that before,” Mrs. Hopewell said.

“He ast her to marry him before the Ordinary,” Mrs. Freeman went on,

“and she told him she wasn’t going to be married in no office.”

“Well, Glynese is a fine girl,” Mrs. Hopewell said. “Glynese and

Carramae are both fine girls.”

“Carramae said when her and Lyman was married Lyman said it sure felt

sacred to him. She said he said he wouldn’t take five hundred dollars for

being married by a preacher.”

“How much would he take?” the girl asked from the stove.

“He said he wouldn’t take five hundred dollars,” Mrs. Freeman repeated.

“Well we all have work to do,” Mrs. Hopewell said.

“Lyman said it just felt more sacred to him,” Mrs. Freeman said. “The

doctor wants Carramae to eat prunes. Says instead of medicine. Says

them cramps is coming from pressure. You know where I think it is?”

“She’ll be better in a few weeks,” Mrs. Hopewell said.

“In the tube,” Mrs. Freeman said. “Else she wouldn’t be as sick as she is.”

Hulga had cracked her two eggs into a saucer and was bringing them to

the table along with a cup of coffee that she had filled too full. She sat

down carefully and began to eat, meaning to keep Mrs. Freeman there by

questions if for any reason she showed an inclination to leave. She could

perceive her mother’s eye on her. The first round-about question would

be about the Bible salesman and she did not wish to bring it on. “How

did he pop her neck?” she asked.

Mrs. Freeman went into a description of how he had popped her neck.

She said he owned a ’55 Mercury but that Glynese said she would rather

marry a man with only a ’36 Plymouth who would be married by a

preacher. The girl asked what if he had a ’32 Plymouth and Mrs. Freeman

said what Glynese had said was a ’36 Plymouth.

Mrs. Hopewell said there were not many girls with Glynese’s common

sense. She said what she admired in those girls was their common sense.

She said that reminded her that they had had a nice visitor yesterday, a

young man selling Bibles. “Lord,” she said, “he bored me to death but he

was so sincere and genuine I couldn’t be rude to him. He was just good

country people, you know,” she said, “—just the salt of the earth.”

“I seen him walk up,” Mrs. Freeman said, “and then later – I seen him

walk off,” and Hulga could feel the slight shift in her voice, the slight

insinuation, that he had not walked off alone, had he? Her face remained

expressionless but the color rose into her neck and she seemed to swallow

it down with the next spoonful of egg. Mrs. Freeman was looking at her

as if they had a secret together.

“Well, it takes all kinds of people to make the world go ‘round,” Mrs.

Hopewell said. “It’s very good we aren’t all alike.”

“Some people are more alike than others,” Mrs. Freeman said.

Hulga got up and stumped, with about twice the noise that was necessary,

into her room and locked the door. She was to meet the Bible salesman at

ten o’clock at the gate. She had thought about it half the night. She had

started thinking of it as a great joke and then she had begun to see

profound implications in it. She had lain in bed imagining dialogues for

them that were insane on the surface but that reached below the depths

that no Bible salesman would be aware of. Their conversation yesterday

had been of this kind.

He had stopped in front of her and had simply stood there. His face was

bony and sweaty and bright, with a little pointed nose in the center of it,

and his look was different from what it had been at the dinner table. He

was gazing at her with open curiosity, with fascination, like a child

watching a new fantastic animal at the zoo, and he was breathing as if he

had run a great distance to reach her. His gaze seemed somehow familiar

but she could not think where she had been regarded with it before. For

almost a minute he didn’t say anything. Then on what seemed an insuck

of breath, he whispered, “You ever ate a chicken that was two days old?”

The girl looked at him stonily. He might have just put this question up

for consideration at the meeting of a philosophical association. “Yes,” she

presently replied as if she had considered it from all angles.

“It must have been mighty small!” he said triumphantly and shook all

over with little nervous giggles, getting very red in the face, and subsiding

finally into his gaze of complete admiration, while the girl’s expression

remained exactly the same.

“How old are you?” he asked softly.

She waited some time before she answered. Then in a flat voice she said,

“Seventeen.”

His smiles came in succession like waves breaking on the surface of a

little lake. “I see you got a wooden leg,” he said. “I think you’re real

brave. I think you’re real sweet.”

The girl stood blank and solid and silent.

“Walk to the gate with me,” he said. “You’re a brave sweet little thing and

I liked you the minute I seen you walk in the door.”

Hulga began to move forward.

“What’s your name?” he asked, smiling down on the top of her head.

“Hulga,” she said.

“Hulga,” he murmured, “Hulga. Hulga. I never heard of anybody name

Hulga before. You’re shy, aren’t you, Hulga?” he asked.

She nodded, watching his large red hand on the handle of the giant valise.

“I like girls that wear glasses,” he said. “I think a lot. I’m not like these

people that a serious thought don’t ever enter their heads. It’s because I

may die.”

“I may die too,” she said suddenly and looked up at him. His eyes were

very small and brown, glittering feverishly.

“Listen,” he said, “don’t you think some people was meant to meet on

account of what all they got in common and all? Like they both think

serious thoughts and all?” He shifted the valise to his other hand so that

the hand nearest her was free. He caught hold of her elbow and shook it a

little. “I don’t work on Saturday,” he said. “I like to walk in the woods

and see what Mother Nature is wearing. O’er the hills and far away.

Picnics and things. Couldn’t we go on a picnic tomorrow? Say yes,

Hulga,” he said and gave her a dying look as if he felt his insides about to

drop out of him. He had even seemed to sway slightly toward her.

During the night she had imagined that she seduced him. She imagined

that the two of them walked on the place until they came to the storage

barn beyond the two back fields and there, she imagined, that things came

to such a pass that she very easily seduced him and that then, of course,

she had to reckon with his remorse. True genius can get an idea across

even to an inferior mind. She imagined that she took his remorse in hand

and changed it into a deeper understanding of life. She took all his shame

away and turned it into something useful.

She set off for the gate at exactly ten o’clock, escaping without drawing

Mrs. Hopewell’s attention. She didn’t take anything to eat, forgetting that

food is usually taken on a picnic. She wore a pair of slacks and a dirty

white shirt, and as an afterthought, she had put some Vapex on the collar

of it since she did not own any perfume. When she reached the gate no

one was there.

She looked up and down the empty highway and had the furious feeling

that she had been tricked, that he only meant to make her walk to the gate

after the idea of him. Then suddenly he stood up, very tall, from behind a

bush on the opposite embankment. Smiling, he lifted his hat which was

new and wide-brimmed. He had not worn it yesterday and she wondered

if he had bought it for the occasion. It was toast-colored with a red and

white band around it and was slightly too large for him. He stepped from

behind the bush still carrying the black valise. He had on the same suit

and the same yellow socks sucked down in his shoes from walking. He

crossed the highway and said, “I knew you’d come!”

The girl wondered acidly how he had known this. She pointed to the

valise and asked, “Why did you bring your Bibles?”

He took her elbow, smiling down on her as if he could not stop. “You can

never tell when you’ll need the word of God, Hulga,” he said. She had a

moment in which she doubted that this was actually happening and then

they began to climb the embankment. They went down into the pasture

toward the woods. The boy walked lightly by her side, bouncing on his

toes. The valise did not seem to be heavy today; he even swung it. They

crossed half the pasture without saying anything and then, putting his

hand easily on the small of her back, he asked softly, “Where does your

wooden leg join on?”

She turned an ugly red and glared at him and for an instant the boy

looked abashed. “I didn’t mean you no harm,” he said. “I only meant

you’re so brave and all. I guess God takes care of you.”

“No,” she said, looking forward and walking fast, “I don’t even believe in

God.”

At this he stopped and whistled. “No!” he exclaimed as if he were too

astonished to say anything else.

She walked on and in a second he was bouncing at her side, fanning with

his hat. “That’s very unusual for a girl,” he remarked, watching her out of

the corner of his eye. When they reached the edge of the wood, he put his

hand on her back again and drew her against him without a word and

kissed her heavily.

The kiss, which had more pressure than feeling behind it, produced that

extra surge of adrenalin in the girl that enables one to carry a packed trunk

out of a burning house, but in her, the power went at once to the brain.

Even before he released her, her mind, clear and detached and ironic

anyway, was regarding him from a great distance, with amusement but

with pity. She had never been kissed before and she was pleased to

discover that it was an unexceptional experience and all a matter of the

mind’s control. Some people might enjoy drain water if they were told it

was vodka. When the boy, looking expectant but uncertain, pushed her

gently away, she turned and walked on, saying nothing as if such

business, for her, were common enough.

He came along panting at her side, trying to help her when he saw a root

that she might trip over. He caught and held back the long swaying

blades of thorn vine until she had passed beyond them. She led the way

and he came breathing heavily behind her. Then they came out on a

sunlit hillside, sloping softly into another one a little smaller. Beyond,

they could see the rusted top of the old barn where the extra hay was

stored.

The hill was sprinkled with small pink weeds. “Then you ain’t saved?”

he asked suddenly, stopping.

The girl smiled. It was the first time she had smiled at him at all. “In my

economy,” she said, “I’m saved and you are damned but I told you I didn’t

believe in God.”

Nothing seemed to destroy the boy’s look of admiration. He gazed at her

now as if the fantastic animal at the zoo had put its paw through the bars

and given him a loving poke. She thought he looked as if he wanted to

kiss her again and she walked on before he had the chance.

“Ain’t there somewheres we can sit down sometime?” he murmured, his

voice softening toward the end of the sentence.

“In that barn,” she said.

They made for it rapidly as if it might slide away like a train. It was a

large two-story barn, cook and dark inside. The boy pointed up the ladder

that led into the loft and said, “It’s too bad we can’t go up there.”

“Why can’t we?” she asked.

“Yer leg,” he said reverently.

The girl gave him a contemptuous look and putting both hands on the

ladder, she climbed it while he stood below, apparently awestruck. She

pulled herself expertly through the opening and then looked down at him

and said, “Well, come on if your coming,” and he began to climb the

ladder, awkwardly bringing the suitcase with him.

“We won’t need the Bible,” she observed.

“You never can tell,” he said, panting. After he had got into the loft, he

was a few seconds catching his breath. She had sat down in a pile of

straw. A wide sheath of sunlight, filled with dust particles, slanted over

her. She lay back against a bale, her face turned away, looking out the

front opening of the barn where hay was thrown from a wagon into the

loft. The two pink-speckled hillsides lay back against a dark ridge of

woods. The sky was cloudless and cold blue. The boy dropped down by

her side and put one arm under her and the other over her and began

methodically kissing her face, making little noises like a fish. He did not

remove his hat but it was pushed far enough back not to interfere. When

her glasses got in his way, he took them off of her and slipped them into

his pocket.

The girl at first did not return any of the kisses but presently she began to

and after she had put several on his cheek, she reached his lips and

remained there, kissing him again and again as if she were trying to draw

all the breath out of him. His breath was clear and sweet like a child’s and

the kisses were sticky like a child’s. He mumbled about loving her and

about knowing when he first seen her that he loved her, but the

mumbling was like the sleepy fretting of a child being put to sleep by his

mother. Her mind, throughout this, never stopped or lost itself for a

second to her feelings. “You ain’t said you loved me none,” he whispered

finally, pulling back from her. “You got to say that.”

She looked away from him off into the hollow sky and then down at a

black ridge and then down farther into what appeared to be two green

swelling lakes. She didn’t realize he had taken her glasses but this

landscape could not seem exceptional to her for she seldom paid any close

attention to her surroundings.

“You got to say it,” he repeated. “You got to say you love me.”

She was always careful how she committed herself. “In a sense,” she

began, “if you use the word loosely, you might say that. But it’s not a

word I use. I don’t have illusions. I’m one of those people who see

through to nothing.”

The boy was frowning. “You got to say it. I said it and you got to say it,”

he said.

The girl looked at him almost tenderly. “You poor baby,” she murmured.

“It’s just as well you don’t understand,” and she pulled him by the neck,

face-down, against her. “We are all damned,” she said, “but some of us

have taken off our blindfolds and see that there’s nothing to see. It’s a

kind of salvation.”

The boy’s astonished eyes looked blankly through the ends of her hair.

“Okay,” he almost whined, “but do you love me or don’tcher?”

“Yes,” she said and added, “in a sense. But I must tell you something.

There mustn’t be anything dishonest between us.” She lifted his head

and looked him in the eye. “I am thirty years old,” she said. “I have a

number of degrees.”

The boy’s look was irritated but dogged. “I don’t care,” he said. “I don’t

care a thing about what all you done. I just want to know if you love me

or don’tcher?” and he caught her to him and wildly planted her face with

kisses until she said, “Yes, yes.”

“Okay then,” he said, letting her go. “Prove it.”

She smiled, looking dreamily out on the shifty landscape. She had

seduced him without even making up her mind to try. “How?” she asked,

feeling that he should be delayed a little.

He leaned over and put his lips to her ear. “Show me where your wooden

leg joins on,” he whispered.

The girl uttered a sharp little cry and her face instantly drained of color.

The obscenity of the suggestion was not what shocked her. As a child she

had sometimes been subject to feelings of shame but education had

removed the last traces of that as a good surgeon scrapes for cancer; she

would no more have felt it over what he was asking than she would have

believed in his Bible. But she was as sensitive about the artificial leg as a

peacock about his tail. No one ever touched it but her. She took care of it

as someone else would his soul, in private and almost with her own eyes

turned away. “No,” she said.

“I known it,” he muttered, sitting up. “You’re just playing me for a

sucker.”

“On no no!” she cried. “It joins on at the knee. Only at the knee. Why do

you want to see it?”

The boy gave her a long penetrating look. “Because,” he said, “it’s what

makes you different. You ain’t like anybody else.”

She sat staring at him. There was nothing about her face or her round

freezing-blue eyes to indicate that this had moved her; but she felt as if

her heart had stopped and left her mind to pump her blood. She decided

that for the first time in her life she was face to face with real innocence.

This boy, with an instinct that came from beyond wisdom, had touched

the truth about her. When after a minute, she said in a hoarse high voice,

“All right,” it was like surrendering to him completely. It was like losing

her own life and finding it again, miraculously, in his.

Very gently, he began to roll the slack leg up. The artificial limb, in a

white sock and brown flat shoe, was bound in a heavy material like

canvas and ended in an ugly jointure where it was attached to the stump.

The boy’s face and his voice were entirely reverent as he uncovered it and

said, “Now show me how to take it off and on.”

She took it off for him and put it back on again and then he took it off

himself, handling it as tenderly as if it were a real one. “See!” he said

with a delighted child’s face. “Now I can do it myself!”

“Put it back on,” she said. She was thinking that she would run away

with him and that every night he would take the leg off and every

morning put it back on again. “Put it back on,” she said.

“Not yet,” he murmured, setting it on its foot out of her reach. “Leave it

off for awhile. You got me instead.”

She gave a little cry of alarm but he pushed her down and began to kiss

her again. Without the leg she felt entirely dependent on him. Her brain

seemed to have stopped thinking altogether and to be about some other

function that it was not very good at. Different expressions raced back

and forth over her face. Every now and then the boy, his eyes like two

steel spikes, would glance behind him where the leg stood. Finally she

pushed him off and said, “Put it back on me now.”

“Wait,” he said. He leaned the other way and pulled the valise toward

him and opened it. It had a pale blue spotted lining and there were only

two Bibles in it. He took one of these out and opened the cover of it. It

was hollow and contained a pocket flask of whiskey, a pack of cards, and

a small blue box with printing on it. He laid these out in front of her one

at a time in an evenly-spaced row, like one presenting offerings at the

shrine of a goddess. He put the blue box in her hand. THIS PRODUCT

TO BE USED ONLY FOR THE PREVENTION OF DISEASE, she read,

and dropped it. The boy was unscrewing the top of the flask. He stopped

and pointed, with a smile, to the deck of cards. It was not an ordinary

deck but one with an obscene picture on the back of each card. “Take a

swig,” he said, offering her the bottle first. He held it in front of her, but

like one mesmerized, she did not move.

Her voice when she spoke had an almost pleading sound. “Aren’t you,”

she murmured, “aren’t you just good country people?”

The boy cocked his head. He looked as if he were just beginning to

understand that she might be trying to insult him. “Yeah,” he said,

curling his lip slightly, “but it ain’t held me back none. I’m as good as

you any day in the week.”

“Give me my leg,” she said.

He pushed it farther away with his foot. “Come on now, let’s begin to

have us a good time,” he said coaxingly. “We ain’t got to know one

another good yet.”

“Give me my leg!” she screamed and tried to lunge for it but he pushed

her down easily.

“What’s the matter with you all of a sudden?” he asked, frowning as he

screwed the top on the flask and put it quickly back inside the Bible.

“You just a while ago said you didn’t believe in nothing. I thought you

was some girl!”

Her face was almost purple. “You’re a Christian!” she hissed. “You’re a

fine Christian! You’re just like them all – say one thing and do another.

You’re a perfect Christian, you’re…”

The boy’s mouth was set angrily. “I hope you don’t think,” he said in a

lofty indignant tone, “that I believe in that crap! I may sell Bibles but I

know which end is up and I wasn’t born yesterday and I know where I’m

going!”

“Give me my leg!” she screeched. He jumped up so quickly that she

barely saw him sweep the cards and the blue box back into the Bible and

throw the Bible into the valise. She saw him grab the leg and then she

saw it for an instant slanted forlornly across the inside of the suitcase with

a Bible at either side of its opposite ends. He slammed the lid shut and

snatched up the valise and swung it down the hole and then stepped

through himself. When all of him had passed but his head, he turned and

regarded her with a look that no longer had any admiration in it. “I’ve

gotten a lot of interesting things,” he said. “One time I got a woman’s

glass eye this way. And you needn’t to think you’ll catch me because

Pointer ain’t really my name. I use a different name at every house I call

at and don’t stay nowhere long. And I’ll tell you another thing, Hulga,”

he said, using the name as if he didn’t think much of it, “you ain’t so

smart. I been believing in nothing ever since I was born!” and then the

toast-colored hat disappeared down the hole and the girl was left, sitting

on the straw in the dusty sunlight. When she turned her churning face

toward the opening, she saw his blue figure struggling successfully over

the green speckled lake.

Mrs. Hopewell and Mrs. Freeman, who were in the back pasture, digging

up onions, saw him emerge a little later from the woods and head across

the meadow toward the highway. “Why, that looks like that nice dull

young man that tried to sell me a Bible yesterday,” Mrs. Hopewell said,

squinting. “He must have been selling them to the Negroes back in there.

He was so simple,” she said, “but I guess the world would be better off if

we were all that simple.”

Mrs. Freeman’s gaze drove forward and just touched him before he

disappeared under the hill. Then she returned her attention to the evil-

smelling onion shoot she was lifting from the ground. “Some can’t be that

simple,” she said. “I know I never could.”

25

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