Ironweed (1984 Pulitzer Prize) - William Kennedy [12]
“Hey,” Rudy said as they stopped. “That’s Sandra.”
“Sandra who?” said Francis.
“Sandra There-ain’t-no-more. She’s only got one name, like Helen. She’s an Eskimo.”
“You dizzy bastard. Everybody’s an Eskimo or a Cherokee.”
“No, that’s the straight poop. She used to work up in Alaska when they were buildin’ roads.”
“She dead?”
Rudy bent down, picked up Sandra’s hand and held it. Sandra pulled it away from him.
“No,” Rudy said, “she ain’t dead.”
“Then you better get up outa there, Sandra,” Francis said, “or the dogs’ll eat your ass off.”
Sandra didn’t move. Her hair streamed out of her inertness, long, yellow-white wisps floating in the dust, her faded and filthy cotton housedress twisted above the back of her knees, revealing stockings so full of holes and runs that they had lost their integrity as stockings. Over her dress she wore two sweaters, both stained and tattered. She lacked a left shoe. Rudy bent over and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Hey Sandra, it’s me, Rudy. You know me?”
“Hnnn,” said Sandra.
“You all right? You sick or anything, or just drunk?”
“Dnnn,” said Sandra.
“She’s just drunk,” Rudy said, standing up. “She can’t hold it no more. She falls over.”
“She’ll freeze there and the dogs’ll come along and eat her ass off,” Francis said.
“What dogs?” Rudy asked.
“The dogs, the dogs. Ain’t you seen them?”
“I don’t see too many dogs. I like cats. I see a lotta cats.”
“If she’s drunk she can’t go inside the mission,” Francis said.
“That’s right,” said Rudy. “She comes in drunk, he kicks her right out. He hates drunk women more’n he hates us.”
“Why the hell’s he preachin’ if he don’t preach to people that need it?”
“Drunks don’t need it,” Rudy said. “How’d you like to preach to a room full of bums like her?”
“She a bum or just on a heavy drunk?”
“She’s a bum.”
“She looks like a bum.”
“She’s been a bum all her life.”
“No,” said Francis. “Nobody’s a bum all their life. She hada been somethin’ once.”
“She was a whore before she was a bum.”
“And what about before she was a whore?”
“I don’t know,” Rudy said. “She just talks about whorin’ in Alaska. Before that I guess she was just a little kid.”
“Then that’s somethin’. A little kid’s somethin’ that ain’t a bum or a whore.”
Francis saw Sandra’s missing shoe in the shadows and retrieved it. He set it beside her left foot, then squatted and spoke into her left ear.
“You gonna freeze here tonight, you know that? Gonna be frost, freezin’ weather. Could even snow. You hear? You oughta get yourself inside someplace outa the cold. Look, I slept the last two nights in the weeds and it was awful cold, but tonight’s colder already than it was either of them nights. My hands is half froze and I only been walkin’ two blocks. Sandra? You hear what I’m sayin’? If I got you a cup of hot soup would you drink it? Could you? You don’t look like you could but maybe you could. Get a little hot soup in, you don’t freeze so fast. Or maybe you wanna freeze tonight, maybe that’s why you’re layin’ in the goddamn dust. You don’t even have any weeds to keep the wind outa your ears. I like them deep weeds when I sleep outside. You want some soup?”
Sandra turned her head and with one eye looked up at Francis.
“Who you?”
“I’m just a bum,” Francis said. “But I’m sober and I can get you some soup.”
“Get me a drink?”
“No, I ain’t got money for that.”
“Then soup.”
“You wanna stand up?”
“No. I’ll wait here.”
“You’re gettin’ all dusty.”
“That’s good.”
“Whatever you say,” Francis said, standing up. “But watch out for them dogs.”
She whimpered as Rudy and Francis left the lot. The night sky was black as a bat and the wind was bringing ice to