Reivers, The - William Faulkner [54]
"Sit down," Miss Reba said. "Jesus, the trouble you're already in when you get back to Jefferson, and you still got time to count pennies." She looked at Ned. "What did you say your name was?"
Ned told her again. "You wants to know about that mule. Ask Boon Hogganbeck about him."
"Dont you ever make him call you mister?" she said to Boon.
"I always does," Ned said. "Mister Boon Hogganbeck. Ask him about that mule."
She turned to Miss Corrie. "Is Sam in town tonight?"
"Yes," Miss Corrie said. "Can you get hold of him now?"
"Yes," Miss Corrie said.
Miss Reba turned to Boon. "You get out of here. Take a walk for a couple of hours. Or go over to Birdie Watts's if you want. Only, for Christ's sake dont get drunk. What the hell do you think Corrie eats and pays her rent with while you're down there in that Missippi swamp stealing automobiles and kidnapping children? air?"
"I aint going nowhere," Boon said. "God damn it," he said to Ned, "go get that horse."
"I dont need to entertain him," Miss Corrie said. "I can use the telephone." It was not smug nor coy: it was just serene. She was much too big a girl, there was much too much of her, for smugness or coyness. But she was exactly right for serenity.
"You sure?" Miss Reba said. "Yes," Miss Corrie said. "Then get at it," Miss Reba said.
"Come here," Boon said. Miss Corrie stopped. "Come here, I said," Boon said. She approached then, just outside Boon's reach; I noticed suddenly that she wasn't looking at Boon at all: she was looking at me. Which was perhaps why Boon, still sitting, was able to reach suddenly and catch her arm before she could evade him, drawing her toward him, she struggling belatedly, as a girl that big would have to, still watching me.
"Turn loose," she said. "I've got to telephone."
"Sure, sure," Boon said, "plenty of time for that," drawing her on; until, with that counterfeit composure, that desperate willing to look at once forceful and harmless, with which you toss the apple in your hand (or any other piece of momentary distraction) toward the bull you suddenly find is also on your side of the fence, she leaned briskly down and kissed him, pecked him quickly on the top of the head, already drawing back. But again too late, his hand dropping and already gripping one cheek of her bottom, in sight of us all, she straining back and looking at me again with something dark and beseeching in her eyes—shame, grief, I dont know what—while the blood rushed slowly into her big girl's face that was not really plain at all except at first. But only a moment; she was still going to be a lady. She even struggled like a lady. But she was simply too big, too strong for even anyone as big and strong as Boon to hold with just one hand, with no more grip than that; she was free.
"Aint you ashamed of yourself," she said.
"Cant you save that long enough for her to make one telephone call even?" Miss Reba said to Boon. "If you're going to run fevers over her purity, why the hell dont you set her up in a place of her own where she can keep pure and still eat?" Then to Miss Corrie: "Go on and telephone. It's already nine oclock."
Already late for all we had to do. The place had begun to wake up—"jumping," as you say nowadays. But decorously: no uproar either musical or simply convivial; Mr Binford's ghost still reigned, still adumbrated his callipy-gian grottoes since only two of the ladies actually knew he was gone and the customers had not missed him yet; we had heard the bell and Minnie's voice faintly at the front door and the footsteps of the descending nymphs themselves had penetrated from the stairs; and even as Miss Corrie stood with the knob in her hand, the chink of glasses interspersed in orderly frequence the bass rumble of the entertained and the shriller pipes of