The Complete Stories - Flannery O'Connor [114]
“And me and you,” the old man said, stooping to drag his hoe under a feed rack, “is still here.”
She caught exactly what he meant her to catch in his tone. Bars of sunlight fell from the cracked ceiling across his back and cut him in three distinct parts. She watched his long hands clenched around the hoe and his crooked old profile pushed close to them. You might have been here before I was, she said to herself, but it’s mighty likely I’ll be here when you’re gone. “I’ve spent half my life fooling with worthless people,” she said in a severe voice, “but now I’m through.”
“Black and white,” he said, “is the same.”
“I am through,” she repeated and gave her dark smock that she had thrown over her shoulders like a cape a quick snatch at the neck. She had on a broad-brimmed black straw hat that had cost her twenty dollars twenty years ago and that she used now for a sunhat. “Money is the root of all evil,” she said. “The Judge said so every day. He said he deplored money. He said the reason you niggers were so uppity was because there was so much money in circulation.”
The old Negro had known the Judge. “Judge say he long for the day when he be too poor to pay a nigger to work,” he said. “Say when that day come, the world be back on its feet.”
She leaned forward, her hands on her hips and her neck stretched and said, “Well that day has almost come am and here and I’m telling each and everyone of you: you better look sharp. I don’t have to put up with foolishness any more. I have somebody now who has to work!”
The old man knew when to answer and when not. At length he said, “We seen them come and we seen them go.”
“However, the Shortleys were not the worst by far,” she said. “I well remember those Carrits.”
“They was before them Collinses,” he said.
“No, before the Ringfields.”
“Sweet Lord, them Ringfields!” he murmured.
“None of that kind want to work,” she said.
“We seen them come and we seen them go,” he said as if this were a refrain. “But we ain’t never had one before.” he said, bending himself up until he faced her, “like what we got now.” He was cinnamon-colored with eyes that were so blurred with age that they seemed to be hung behind cobwebs.
She gave him an intense stare and held it until, lowering his hands on the hoe, he bent down again and dragged a pile of shavings alongside the wheelbarrow. She said stiffly, “He can wash out that barn in the time it took Mr. Shortley to make up his mind he had to do it.”
“He from Pole,” the old man muttered.
“From Poland.”
“In Pole it ain’t like it is here,” he said. “They got different ways of doing,” and he began to mumble unintelligibly.
“What are you saying?” she said. “If you have anything to say about him, say it and say it aloud.”
He was silent, bending his knees precariously and edging the rake along the underside of the trough.
“If you know anything he’s done that he shouldn’t, I expect you to report it to me,” she said.
“It warn’t like it was what he should ought or oughtn’t,” he muttered. “It was like what nobody else don’t do.”
“You don’t have anything against him,” she said shortly, “and he’s here to stay.”
“We ain’t never had one like him before is all,” he murmured and gave his polite laugh.
“Times are changing,” she said. “Do you know what’s happening to this world? It’s swelling up. It’s getting so full of people that only the smart thrifty energetic ones are going to survive,” and she tapped the words, smart, thrifty, and energetic out on the palm of her hand. Through the far end of the stall she could see down the road to where the Displaced Person was standing in the open barn door with the green hose in his hand. There was a certain stiffness about his figure that seemed to make it necessary for her to approach him slowly, even in her thoughts.