Flannery O'Connor Complete Short Stories

by Flannery O'Connor

  “That day ain’t coming for me,” Tanner said shortly.

  “Done come for you,” the doctor said. “Ain’t come for the rest of them.”

  Tanner’s gaze drove on past the farthest blue edge of the tree line into the pale empty afternoon sky. “I got a daughter in the north,” he said. “I don’t have to work for you.”

  The doctor took his watch from his watch pocket and looked at it and put it back. He gazed for a moment at the back of his hands. He appeared to have measured and to know secretly the time it would take everything to change finally upside down. “She don’t want no old daddy like you,” he said. “Maybe she say she do, but that ain’t likely. Even if you rich,” he said, “they don’t want you. They got they own ideas. The black ones they rares and they pitches. I made mine,” he said, “and I ain’t done none of that.” He looked again at Tanner. “I be back here next week,” he said, “and if you still here, I know you going to work for me.” He remained there a moment, rocking on his heels, waiting for some answer. Finally he turned and started beating his way back through the overgrown path.

  Tanner had continued to look across the field as if his spirit had been sucked out of him into the woods and nothing was left on the chair but a shell. If he had known it was a question of this—sitting here looking out of this window all day in this no-place, or just running a still for a nigger, he would have run the still for the nigger. He would have been a nigger’s white nigger any day. Behind him he heard the daughter come in from the kitchen. His heart accelerated but after a second he heard her plump herself down on the sofa. She was not yet ready to go. He did not turn and look at her.

  She sat there silently a few moments. Then she began. “The trouble with you is,” she said, “you sit in front of that window all the time where there’s nothing to look out at. You need some inspiration and an out-let. If you would let me pull your chair around to look at the TV, you would quit thinking about morbid stuff, death and hell and judgment. My Lord.”

  “The Judgment is coming,” he muttered. “The sheep’ll be separated from the goats. Them that kept their promises from them that didn’t. Them that did the best they could with what they had from them that didn’t. Them that honored their father and their mother from them that cursed them. Them that . . .”

  She heaved a mammoth sigh that all but drowned him out. “What’s the use in me wasting my good breath?” she asked. She rose and went back in the kitchen and began knocking things about.

  She was so high and mighty! At home he had been living in a shack but there was at least air around it. He could put his feet on the ground. Here she didn’t even live in a house. She lived in a pigeon-hutch of a building, with all stripes of foreigner, all of them twisted in the tongue. It was no place for a sane man. The first morning here she had taken him sightseeing and he had seen in fifteen minutes exactly how it was. He had not been out of the apartment since. He never wanted to set foot again on the underground railroad or the steps that moved under you while you stood still or any elevator to the thirty-fourth floor. When he was safely back in the apartment again, he had imagined going over it with Coleman. He had to turn his head every few seconds to make sure Coleman was behind him. Keep to the inside or these people’ll knock you down, keep right behind me or you’ll get left, keep your hat on, you damn idiot, he had said, and Coleman had come on with his bent running shamble, panting and muttering, What we doing here? Where you get this fool idea coming here?

  I come to show you it was no kind of place. Now you know you were well off where you were.

  I knowed it before, Coleman said. Was you didn’t know it.

  When he had been here a week, he had got a postcard from Coleman that had been written for him by Hooten at the railroad station. It was written in green ink and said, “This is Coleman—X—howyou boss.” Under it Hooten had written from himself, “Quit frequenting all those nitespots and come on home, you scoundrel, yours truly. W. P. Hooten.” He had sent Coleman a card in return, care of Hooten, that said, “This place is alrite if you like it. Yours truly, W. T. Tanner.” Since the daughter had to mail the card, he had not put on it that he was returning as soon as his pension check came. He had not intended to tell her but to leave her a note. When the check came, he would hire himself a taxi to the bus station and be on his way. And it would have made her as happy as it made him. She had found his company dour and her duty irksome. If he had sneaked out, she would have had the pleasure of having tried to do it and to top that off, the pleasure of his ingratitude.

  As for him, he would have returned to squat on the doctor’s land and to take his orders from a nigger who chewed ten-cent cigars. And to think less about it than formerly. Instead he had been done in by a nigger actor, or one who called himself an actor. He didn’t believe the nigger was any actor.

  There were two apartments on each floor of the building. He had been with the daughter three weeks when the people in the next hutch moved out. He had stood in the hall and watched the moving-out and the next day he had watched a moving-in. The hall was narrow and dark and he stood in the corner out of the way, offering only a suggestion every now and then to the movers that would have made their work easier for them if they had paid any attention. The furniture was new and cheap so he decided the people moving in might be a newly married couple and he would just wait around until they came and wish them well. After a while a large Negro in a light blue suit came lunging up the stairs, carrying two canvas suitcases, his head lowered against the strain. Behind him stepped a young tan-skinned woman with bright copper-colored hair. The Negro dropped the suitcases with a thud in front of the door of the next apartment.

  “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 nigger!” 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 high-top 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, shut-mouthed, 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. “Judgment Day! Judgment Day!” he cried. “Don’t you two fools know it’s Judgment 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 flat 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?” she 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 ha
ve 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 into its hat and coat. She drew on a pair of green knitted gloves. “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.