The Complete Stories

by Flannery O'Connor

  “Be careful, Sweetie,” the woman said. “My make-up is in there.”

  It broke upon him then just what was happening.

  The Negro was grinning. He took a swipe at one of her hips.

  “Quit it,” she said, “there’s an old guy watching.”

  They both turned and looked at him.

  “Had-do,” he said and nodded. Then he turned quickly into his own door.

  His daughter was in the kitchen. “Who you think’s rented that apartment over there?” he asked, his face alight.

  She looked at him suspiciously. “Who?” she muttered.

  “A niggerl” he said in a gleeful voice. “A South Alabama nigger if I ever saw one. And got him this high-yeller, high-stepping woman with red hair and they two are going to live next door to you!” He slapped his knee. “Yes siree!” he said. “Damn if they ain’t!” It was the first time since coming up here that he had had occasion to laugh.

  Her face squared up instantly. “All right now you listen to me,” she said. “You keep away from them. Don’t you go over there trying to get friendly with him. They ain’t the same around here and I don’t want any trouble with niggers, you hear me? If you have to live next to them, just you mind your business and they’ll mind theirs. That’s the way people were meant to get along in this world. Everybody can get along if they just mind their business. Live and let live.” She began to wrinkle her nose like a rabbit, a stupid way she had. “Up here everybody minds their own business and everybody gets along. That’s all you have to do.”

  “I was getting along with niggers before you were born,” he said. He went back out into the hall and waited. He was willing to bet the nigger would like to talk to someone who understood him. Twice while he waited, he forgot and in his excitement, spit his tobacco juice against the baseboard. In about twenty minutes, the door of the apartment opened again and the Negro came out. He had put on a tie and a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and Tanner noticed for the first time that he had a small almost invisible goatee. A real swell. He came on without appearing to see there was anyone else in the hall.

  “Haddy, John,” Tanner said and nodded, but the Negro brushed past without hearing and went rattling rapidly down the stairs.

  Could be deaf and dumb, Tanner thought. He went back into the apartment and sat down but each time he heard a noise in the hall, he got up and went to the door and stuck his head out to see if it might be the Negro. Once in the middle of the afternoon, he caught the Negro’s eye just as he was rounding the bend of the stairs again but before he could get out a word, the man was in his own apartment and had slammed the door. He had never known one to move that fast unless the police were after him.

  He was standing in the hall early the next morning when the woman came out of her door alone, walking on high gold-painted heels. He wished to bid her good morning or simply to nod but instinct told him to beware. She didn’t look like any kind of woman, black or white, he had ever seen before and he remained pressed against the wall, frightened more than anything else, and feigning invisibility.

  The woman gave him a flat stare, then turned her head away and stepped wide of him as if she were skirting an open garbage can. He held his breath until she was out of sight. Then he waited patiently for the man.

  The Negro came out about eight o’clock.

  This time Tanner advanced squarely in his path. “Good morning, Preacher,” he said. It had been his experience that if a Negro tended to be sullen, this title usually cleared up his expression.

  The Negro stopped abruptly.

  “I seen you move in,” Tanner said. “I ain’t been up here long myself.

  It ain’t much of a place if you ask me. I reckon you wish you were back in South Alabama.”

  The Negro did not take a step or answer. His eyes began to move. They moved from the top of the black hat, down to the collarless blue shirt, neatly buttoned at the neck, down the faded galluses to the gray trousers and the hightop shoes and up again, very slowly, while some unfathomable dead-cold rage seemed to stiffen and shrink him.

  “I thought you might know somewhere around here we could find us a pond, Preacher,” Tanner said in a voice growing thinner but still with considerable hope in it.

  A seething noise came out of the Negro before he spoke. “I’m not from South Alabama,” he said in a breathless wheezing voice. “I’m from New York City. And I’m not no preacher] I’m an actor.”

  Tanner chortled. “It’s a little actor in most preachers, ain’t it?” he said and winked. “I reckon you just preach on the side.”

  “I don’t preach!” the Negro cried and rushed past him as if a swarm of bees had suddenly come down on him out of nowhere. He dashed down the stairs and was gone.

  Tanner stood here for some time before he went back in the apartment. The rest of the day he sat in his chair and debated whether he would have one more try at making friends with him. Every time he heard a noise on the stairs he went to the door and looked out, but the Negro did not return until late in the afternoon. Tanner was standing in the hall waiting for him when he reached the top of the stairs. “Good evening, preacher,” he said, forgetting that the Negro called himself an actor.

  The Negro stopped and gripped the banister rail. A tremor racked him from his head to his crotch. Then he began to come forward slowly. When he was close enough he lunged and grasped Tanner by both shoulders. “I don’t take no crap,” he whispered, “off no wool-hat red-neck son-of-a-bitch peckerwood old bastard like you.” He caught his breath. And then his voice came out in the sound of an exasperation so profound that it rocked on the verge of a laugh. It was high and piercing and weak, “And I’m not no preacher! I’m not even no Christian. I don’t believe that crap. There ain’t no Jesus and there ain’t no God.”

  The old man felt his heart inside him hard and tough as an oak knot. “And you ain’t black,” he said. “And I ain’t white!”

  The Negro slammed him against the wall. He yanked the black hat down over his eyes. Then he grabbed his shirt front and shoved him backwards to his open door and knocked him through it. From the kitchen the daughter saw him blindly hit the edge of the inside hall door and fall reeling into the living room.

  For days his tongue appeared to be frozen in his mouth. When it unthawed it was twice its normal size and he could not make her understand him. What he wanted to know was if the government check had come because he meant to buy a bus ticket with it and go home. After a few days, he made her understand. “It came,” she said, “and it’ll just pay the first two weeks’ doctor-bill and please tell me how you’re going home when you can’t talk or walk or think straight and you got one eye crossed yet? Just please tell me that?”

  It had come to him then slowly just what his present situation was. At least he would have to make her understand that he must be sent home to be buried. They could have him shipped back in a refrigerated car so that he would keep for the trip. He didn’t want any undertaker up here messing with him. Let them get him off at once and he would come in on the early morning train and they could wire Hooten to get Coleman and Coleman would do the rest; she would not even have to go herself. After a lot of argument, he wrung the promise from her. She would ship him back.

  After that he slept peacefully and improved a little. In his dreams he could feel the cold early morning air of home coming in through the cracks of the pine box. He could see Coleman waiting, red-eyed, on the station platform and Hooten standing there with his green eyeshade and black alpaca sleeves. If the old fool had stayed at home where he belonged, Hooten would be thinking, he wouldn’t be arriving on the 6:03 in no box. Coleman had turned the borrowed mule and cart so that they could slide the box off the platform onto the open end of the wagon. Everything was ready and the two of them, shutmouthed, inched the loaded coffin toward the wagon. From inside he began to scratch on the wood. They let go as if it had caught fire.

  They stood looking at each other, then at the box.

 
“That him,” Coleman said. “He in there his self.”

  “Naw,” Hooten said, “must be a rat got in there with him.”

  “That him. This here one of his tricks.”

  “If it’s a rat he might as well stay.”

  “That him. Git a crowbar.”

  Hooten went grumbling off and got the crowbar and came back and began to pry open the lid. Even before he had the upper end pried open, Coleman was jumping up and down, wheezing and panting from excitement. Tanner gave a thrust upward with both hands and sprang up in the box. “Judgement Day! Judgement Day!” he cried. “Don’t you two fools know it’s Judgement Day?”

  Now he knew exactly what her promises were worth. He would do as well to trust to the note pinned in his coat and to any stranger who found him dead in the street or in the boxcar or wherever. There was nothing to be looked for from her except that she would do things her way. She came out of the kitchen again, holding her hat and coat and rubber boots.

  “Now listen,” she said, “I have to go to the store, Don’t you try to get up and walk around while I’m gone. You’ve been to the bathroom and you shouldn’t have to go again. I don’t want to find you on the floor when I get back.”

  You won’t find me atall when you get back, he said to himself.This was the last time he would see her Hat dumb face. He felt guilty. She had been good to him and he had been nothing but a nuisance to her.

  “Do you want you a glass of milk before I go?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. Then he drew breath and said, “You got a nice place here. It’s a nice part of the country. I’m sorry if I’ve give you a lot of trouble getting sick. It was my fault trying to be friendly with that nigger.” And I’m a damned liar besides, he said to himself to kill the outrageous taste such a statement made in his mouth.

  For a moment she stared as if he were losing his mind. Then she seemed to think better of it. “Now don’t saying something pleasant like that once in a while make you feel better?”, he asked and sat down on the sofa.

  His knees itched to unbend. Git on, git on, he fumed silently. Make haste and go.

  “It’s great to have you here,” she said. “I wouldn’t have you any other place. My own daddy.” She gave him a big smile and hoisted her right leg up and began to pull on her boot. “I wouldn’t wish a dog out on a day like this,” she said, “but I got to go. You can sit here and hope I don’t slip and break my neck.” She stamped the booted foot on the floor and then began to tackle the other one.

  He turned his eyes to the window. The snow was beginning to stick and freeze to the outside pane. When he looked at her again, she was standing there like a big doll stuffed in its hat and coat. She drew on a pair of green knitted glaves. “Okay,” she said, “I’m gone. You sure you don’t want anything?”

  “No,” he said, “go ahead on.”

  “Well so long then,” she said.

  He raised the hat enough to reveal a bald palely speckled head. The hall door closed behind her. He began to tremble with excitement. He reached behind him and drew the coat into his lap. When he got it on, he waited until he had stopped panting, then he gripped the arms of the chair and pulled himself up. His body felt like a great heavy bell whose clapper swung from side to side but made no noise. Once up, he remained standing a moment, swaying until he got his balance. A sensation of terror and defeat swept over him. He would never make it. He would never get there dead or alive. He pushed one foot forward and did not fall and his confidence returned. “The Lord is my shepherd,” he muttered, “I shall not want.” He began moving toward the sofa where he would have support. He reached it. He was on his way.

  By the time he got to the door, she would be down the four flights of steps and out of the building. He got past the sofa and crept along by the wall, keeping his hand on it for support. Nobody was going to bury him here. He was as confident as if the woods of home lay at the bottom of the stairs. He reached the front door of the apartment and opened it and peered into the hall. This was the first time he had looked into it since the actor had knocked him down. It was dank-smelling and empty. The thin piece of linoleum stretched its moldy length to the door of the other apartment, which was closed. “Nigger actor,” he said.

  The head of the stairs was ten or twelve feet from where he stood and he bent his attention to getting there without creeping around the long way with a hand on the wall. He held his arms a little way out from his sides and pushed forward directly. He was halfway there when all at once his legs disappeared, or felt as if they had. He looked down, bewildered, for they were still there. He fell forward and grasped the banister post with both hands. Hanging there, he gazed for what seemed the longest time he had ever looked at anything down the steep unlighted steps; then he closed his eyes and pitched forward. He landed upside down in the middle of the flight.

  He felt presently the tilt of the box as they took it off the train and got it on the baggage wagon. He made no noise yet. The train jarred and slid away. In a moment the baggage wagon was rumbling under him, carrying him back to the station side. He heard footsteps rattling closer and closer to him and he supposed that a crowd was gathering. Wait until they see this, he thought.

  “That him,” Coleman said, “one of his tricks.”

  “It’s a damm rat in there,” Hooten said.

  “It’s him. Git the crowbar.”

  In a moment a shaft of greenish light fell on him. He pushed through it and cried in a weak voice, “Judgement Day! Judgement Day! You idiots didn’t know it was Judgement Day, did you?”

  “Coleman?” he murmured.

  The Negro bending over him had a large surly mouth and sullen eyes.

  “Ain’t any coal man, either,” he said. This must be the wrong station, Tanner thought. Those fools put me off too soon. Who is this nigger? It ain’t even daylight here.

  At the Negro’s side was another face, a woman’s—pale, topped with a pile of copper-glinting hair and twisted as if she had just stepped in a pile of dung.

  “Oh,” Tanner said, “it’s you.”

  The actor leaned closer and grasped him by the front of his shirt. “Judgement day,” he said in a mocking voice. “Ain’t no judgement day, old man. Cept this. Maybe this here judgement day for you.”

  Tanner tried to catch hold of a banister-spoke to raise himself but his hand grasped air. The two faces, the black one and the pale one, appeared to be wavering. By an effort of will he kept them focused before him while he lifted his hand, as light as a breath, and said in his jauntiest voice, “Hep me up, Preacher. I’m on my way home!”

  His daughter found him when she came in from the grocery store. His hat had been pulled down over his face and his head and arms thrust between the spokes of the banister; his feet dangled over the stairwell like those of a man in the stocks. She tugged at him frantically and then flew for the police. They cut him out with a saw and said he had been dead about an hour.

  She buried him in New York City, but after she had done it she could not sleep at night. Night after night she turned and tossed and very definite lines began to appear in her face, so she had him dug up and shipped the body to Corinth. Now she rests well at night and her good looks have mostly returned.