“Is it Jackson?” Lillian asked.
Catherine did not answer. At that moment, she hated both Lillian and herself. Herself, for feeling like a bitch; Lillian, for loving what she was doing.
“No, I don’t think so,” Lillian said, knowing that it was Jackson, and knowing that Catherine was asking her only as an excuse.
“Lily, can’t you go out there one night? Can’t you sit out there with them one night?”
Lillian looked from Catherine down to the bed. Catherine knew it was no use discussing it, and she went out of the room. She stood in the hall, trying to decide, now, whether or not to go. She wanted to go, she needed to go, but she felt, too, that she ought to be here. She ought to be on the porch with them, sitting between them, talking to both of them, and making them talk to each other. She knew that five minutes after she was gone, one would find an excuse to leave the porch. No, not one; he would. It was always he who left, as though he must, not from hatred as much as a feeling of guilt, get away from her. Was it the boy? Was it Mark? And was that who Della was thinking about all those hours that she was silent? No, she should not go anywhere. She should never even think about going anywhere—but a moment later she was driving out of the yard.
She saw Jackson standing at the gate in front of the house. He must have seen the car come out of the yard. She drove by him slowly, without stopping, because she knew they could see the lights from the house. He must have understood why she did not stop, and he ran to the other side of the car, opened the door as she slowed up, and jumped in.
“One way of killing myself,” he said.
She looked at him, smiled, but did not say anything. When she came out on the highway, she turned the car toward Bayonne.
“Do you want me to drive?” he asked her.
She drove to the side and stopped. He got out, went around to the other side and got under the steering wheel.
“Would you like a beer?” he asked. “I know a place a few miles from here?”
“I wouldn’t mind having one,” she said.
He drove up the highway two or three miles, then turned off on a black tar road. The road was walled in by high weeds and trees on either side.
“A place Brother and I come to sometime,” he said. “Have you been here before?”
“I’ve passed it.”
“Don’t go into such places?”
“I’m sure it’s all right.”
“There are nicer places in Baton Rouge. Some pretty nice places there.”
“Been going to Baton Rouge much?” she asked him.
“Not too much,” he said. “I’ve been there two or three times. And you?”
“It’s been a while.”
“Maybe we’ll go one day?” he said, looking at her briefly, and then out on the road again.
She did not answer him. She felt afraid being with him, and yet she wanted to be with him very much. She sat away from him, as far from him as she could get; yet, she wanted to be right up against him, feeling his arm around her. She thought about the ones at home, and yet, she did not want to think about them at all. She was sure that Raoul had left the porch by now. Where was he? Had he gone to the crib? Was he in the kitchen making coffee? Had he gone across the field with the gun? And where was Della? She would probably sit on the porch a few minutes longer and then leave also. And Lillian would still be lying across the bed with her book—half reading, half thinking, half listening.
Jackson drove off the road and parked in front of the club. It was a very small club with advertisements of cigarettes, soft drinks, and beer nailed against the wall. There were two small, neat white houses to the right of the club, and one, just as small, just as neat, and just as white, across the road from it. The swamps came up within a hundred yards to the left and back of the club.
Jackson and Catherine went inside. Within seemed even smaller. Five tables and a record player filled the entertainment section of the club. There was a small clean bar, and behind the bar was a fat dark woman in a green dress. The woman spoke to them as they came in. After they had sat down, the woman came up to the table to see what they wanted.
“Two beers—please.”
Three other people were in the place—two men and a woman. They looked at Catherine and Jackson when they came in, and started talking again.
The woman brought the beer, and Jackson paid her.
“Aren’t you one of the Carmier girls?” the woman asked Catherine.
“Yes,” Catherine said.
“I thought so,” the woman said. “But hasn’t it been hot, though?”
“It’s been murder,” Catherine said.
“You not just saying it,” the woman said, and left the table.
“You think we shouldn’t have come?” Jackson asked.
“I’m sure it’s all right,” Catherine said. “She recognized me and thought she would ask. She goes to the Catholic church in Bayonne.”
“Do you still go to church?” Jackson asked.
“Yes. Often as I can. Don’t you?”
“Afraid not.”
“You used to go all the time—you and Miss Charlotte.”
“Yes, I know.”
She looked across the table at him, and she did not like the way she was feeling about him. They were silent a long time, and it was uncomfortable for both of them.
“Would you like to dance?” Jackson asked.
Catherine nodded.
“I’m not good at it,” Jackson said. “Warning you before we start.”
She watched him go over to the record player and select a record. He came back to the table and led her out on the floor. The tempo of the music was slow, but she would not get too close to him. She did not want to feel his arms too tight around her; she did not want him to hear the beating of her heart.
The record ended almost as soon as it had begun. They went back to the table and sat down. They could not think of anything to talk about. It was an awful strain for both of them. He asked her to dance again.
She danced closer to him this time. She could feel his body hard and strong against her. It was a frightening feeling—a feeling she had never experienced before. She had danced with many men, but none had made her feel this way. Not even Bernard, her child’s father, had given her this feeling. She wanted to get away from Jackson, yet, she wanted him to hold her closer. She wanted the record to hurry and end, and at the same time she wanted it to play on forever. Her hair brushed against his face. He looked at her and smiled. She wanted to smile back, but she was afraid to do so.
The record ended. She turned away, anxious to get back to the table. But after she had sat down, she wished she was dancing again.
“Another beer?” he asked her.
“Might be able to drink a half of one.”
“Two,” Jackson said to the woman behind the bar.
The woman brought him the beer and he paid and she left them.
“What should we drink to?” he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Well, let’s just drink to us,” he said.
They touched glasses and drank. She looked across the table at him. She tried to make it seem casual, but she was looking at him as she had looked at Raoul the night before. He looked toward the bar as Raoul had looked outside, squinted his eyes a little as Raoul had done. He seemed to have forgotten her for a minute, then remembered she was there, and looked at her and smiled.
“Ready to leave?” he asked.
“When you are,” she said.
They went out. She went to the driver’s side of the car, and he opened and closed the door for her. He went to the other side to get in. When she tried to insert the key into the switch, she found that her hand was trembling too much to do so. She knew he was looking at her. She knew he could see her trembling hand, he could hear the violent thumping of her heart. Insert the key, insert the key, she told herself. But the key slipped out of her hand down to the floor. She did not lean over to pick it up. His ey
es were still on her, she could feel them. She raised her head slowly—not wanting to, but being unable to do anything else. He was already beside her. His arms were already pulling her close. Yes, she thought. Yes, darling, please kiss me, kiss me.
“Tomorrow night?” he asked her.
They were going back.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to see.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“I can’t promise anything.”
“You’ll try?”
“Yes. I’ll try.”
When she turned off the highway to go into the quarters, she stopped the car and turned out the lights.
“Yes, it’s best to get out here,” he said.
They were looking at each other. He moved closer and kissed her. But she did not kiss him the way she had done only a few minutes ago.
“Tomorrow?” he asked her again.
She nodded, without saying anything. He got out of the car, and she drove away. When she came up to the house, she noticed a light on in Lillian’s room. The rest of the house was in darkness. Then as she drove across the yard, she saw a light on in the crib. She parked the car and went over there.
“Made it back?” Raoul said.
“Yes.”
Raoul stood in the door with a pitchfork, looking back into the crib. He had begun to sweat, and Catherine could smell the sweat in his clothes mixed with the hot dry odor of the corn and shuck in the crib.
“Raking some of this old corn to the front,” he said.
“Going to start pulling tomorrow?”
“Day after more likely,” he said.
“Need any help?” Catherine asked.
“In that dress?” Raoul said, looking at her. “You can finish it up tomorrow if you want to. If you don’t, just leave it there.”
“I’ll get it.”
Raoul turned his back on her and looked thoughtfully at the pile of corn in front of him. After a while he leaned the fork against the wall and moved farther into the crib. Catherine saw the light moving as Raoul unhooked the lantern from against the wall and came back to the door. She reached for the lantern, but Raoul did not pass it to her.
“I can manage it,” he said. “I’m not that old yet.”
After stepping down to the ground and locking the door, the two of them went across the yard together. Catherine dropped back a step. She wanted to look at him again. If she looked at him and tried to reason with herself, she would not feel so much like a bitch. But as soon as she had dropped back, he became aware of it and began to shorten his stride so she would catch up again. It was something done unconsciously, but naturally. She came up even with him. She felt a desperate urge to take his hand. She had done that often when she was a little girl. She had done it even after she had grown up—whenever she felt troubled or thought he was troubled about something. But he might become suspicious if she did it tonight. He might have become suspicious already when she reached for the lantern.
He opened the gate and they went into the small yard, then into the house. She wanted to stay in the kitchen a minute with him, but she changed her mind and went up the hall to her room. Nelson was not in the bed, and she went across the hall to get him. Della was sitting in the dark by the window. The piece of white cloth she used for fanning away mosquitoes was thrown over her shoulder.
“He’s asleep?” Catherine asked.
Della did not answer, she would not even look at her. Catherine picked the baby up from the bed and went out of the room. After laying him down again, she sat before the dresser and looked at herself in the mirror. I feel like a bitch, she thought. I feel like a selfish and unclean bitch. I won’t see him again. That’s the only answer. But the following night they lay together in a rooming house in Baton Rouge.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
How had she gotten there? Everything had happened so fast. After supper, Raoul said he was going hunting. She knew when he left the house, he would be gone for three or four hours. She had driven the car out of the yard less than half an hour later. She had not wanted to leave the house that night—she had not wanted to see Jackson again. But something—how could she ever explain it? how?—had made her tell Della she was going for a ride in the car. After she had said it, she still would not leave the house for a while. Then as she came out of the yard, she saw him waiting for her. He got under the steering wheel and turned the car toward Baton Rouge. They had gone to a night club and had drunk whiskey and danced. They had danced close together, and they had looked at each other all the time that they were dancing.
Love me? he asked with his eyes.
Yes, she said with her eyes.
They had danced very slowly and close, and she could feel the whiskey making her giddy.
If I wanted you very much? he said with his eyes. If I wanted you more than anything …?
Yes, she had said with her eyes. Yes.
They had danced very slowly and close and she had laid her head on his shoulder. Then they had gone back to the table and sat down, and they had looked questioningly across the table at each other. Then he had gone over to the bar and begun talking with a man. The man had looked twice over his shoulder at her—not the way most men look at you, but the way a few can—tenderly, understanding. She had not known what they were talking about at the bar until later, and when she found out she was not embarrassed or angry. When they were leaving, the man had looked at her and nodded as you might nod to a young bride, and outside she had told Jackson that she thought the man was very nice.
“He thinks you’re very beautiful. He asked me why did we have to go to a place to be with each other.”
“Is that what you all were talking about?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell him?”
“We had no place else to go.”
“He was very nice.”
They had gotten into the car and driven away, and the woman who met them at the door had not asked any unnecessary questions, but had led them down the hall to the room. She had never been inside one of these rooms, but it looked no different from any other. It was the way you came there and the way you left which made all the difference.
He lay on his side, propped up by one arm, looking down at her. She raised her hand and passed it over his face. Everything had gone so well; everything had gone so very well. And I won’t ever be with you again, she thought. This is our first and last time. Never again. He leaned forward and kissed her. It was light and tender.
“What is the matter?”
She was crying.
“Nothing.”
“No, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
He lay on his side, looking down at her.
“My life?” he whispered. “Are you my life?”
He was both anxious and afraid to know the answer.
“Don’t answer now,” he said. “Take your time.” Then he said, “I’ll give you a minute.”
A weary little smile came on her face. He kissed her again.
I will never see you after tonight, she thought.
“Have you ever been surrounded by a brick wall?” he asked her. “One where there’s no light at all? No kind of light?”
“No.”
“I was before I met you.”
She looked at him a moment, and looked away. He knew what she was thinking about, and he turned her face to him again.
“Yes,” he said. “I was surrounded by a brick wall. It was over my head. In order to see anything at all, I had to stand on tiptoe, to strain. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She did not. She did not want to understand. But she told him she did.
“You’re like the light. Your hair, your face; your smile, your body, You’re light. You’re life.”
Her hand brushed against his chin, but she drew it away quickly.
“I don’t want to give up, do you understand? I don’t want to ever give up! There are so many people who have gone up there—who have come from all over t
he world up there—and not being able to find what was promised them, they’ve given up. I don’t want to be one of those people.”
He lay beside her, his face in the pillow against her hair.
“I saw the wall rising, but I fought it. But it kept rising, kept rising, and still I fought it. So many times, I almost gave up. So many times. But I kept fighting it. That’s why I left, that’s why I came here. I had to get away—at least for a while. I don’t believe in being walled in. I don’t believe in it. I’d rather die than to live in hatred and fear. Do you know what I mean?” He raised up on his arm and looked at her. She was crying bitterly. “What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” But she could not control her tears.
He took her in his arms and passed his hand over her face.
“Please don’t, Cathy. Please don’t.”
She cried harder, and he held her close and kissed her hair. Then she turned to him, pleading—but pleading what for? To be loved, kissed, to be taken? Or was she pleading for him to leave her, to never see her again? He brought her closer and kissed her hard on the mouth, and she clung to him with the desperation of a person drowning. Yet at the next moment she was pushing him away, and at the same time, hoping that he would never leave.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
She must go to him again. She must feel his kisses again. She must feel his hand on her body again. She wanted to feel the muscles in his strong hard back as he lay heavily upon her.
Catherine sat at the window, looking out into the yard. It was the next day—the sun was going down, and the sound of insects filled the hot, dusty air. She was waiting for Raoul to come home so they would eat and then she would leave. But it seemed that today, of all days, Raoul was taking longer to come from the field. She wanted to go into the kitchen, but she knew how Della would look at her—at the unclean bitch that she was. But was she? The man at the bar had not thought so. The man at the bar had understood and had said yes.
The sun slipped farther and farther behind the trees, then it was completely gone. Raoul still had not come in. She strained her ears, listening for the tractor. Nothing. Dusk had set in now. Fireflies filled the air; still no Raoul. She wondered—she stood up; maybe something had happened to him. Maybe he was hurt, suffering back there alone. He would not call for help to black or white. He was too proud for that. She started walking the floor. Maybe something was wrong—then maybe not. She went to the window and listened for the tractor. Nothing. She turned from the window, biting her finger and walking the floor. She went back to the window again—nothing. She ran out of the room. Della was sitting at the table when she came into the kitchen.
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