The Complete Stories - Flannery O'Connor [166]
“If it had been my boys,” he would have said, “they would have cut off their right arm before they would have allowed their maw to…”
“If your boys had any pride, Mr. Greenleaf,” she would like to say to him some day, “there are many things that they would not allow their mother to do.”
The next morning as soon as Mr. Greenleaf came to the back door, she told him there was a stray bull on the place and that she wanted him penned up at once.
“Done already been here three days,” he said, addressing his right foot which he held forward, turned slightly as if he were trying to look at the sole. He was standing at the bottom of the three back steps while she leaned out the kitchen door, a small woman with pale near-sighted eyes and grey hair that rose on top like the crest of some disturbed bird.
“Three days!” she said in the restrained screech that had become habitual with her.
Mr. Greenleaf, looking into the distance over the near pasture, removed a package of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and let one fall into his hand. He put the package back and stood for a while looking at the cigarette. “I put him in the bull pen but he torn out of there,” he said presently. “I didn’t see him none after that.” He bent over the cigarette and lit it and then turned his head briefly in her direction. The upper part of his face sloped gradually into the lower which was long and narrow, shaped like a rough chalice. He had deep-set fox-colored eyes shadowed under a grey felt hat that he wore slanted forward following the line of his nose. His build was insignificant.
“Mr. Greenleaf,” she said, “get that bull up this morning before you do anything else. You know he’ll ruin the breeding schedule. Get him up and keep him up and the next time there’s a stray bull on this place, tell me at once. Do you understand?”
“Where you want him put at?” Mr. Greenleaf asked.
“I don’t care where you put him,” she said. “You are supposed to have some sense. Put him where he can’t get out. Whose bull is he?”
For a moment Mr. Greenleaf seemed to hesitate between silence and speech. He studied the air to the left of him. “He must be somebody’s bull,” he said after a while.
“Yes, he must!” she said and shut the door with a precise little slam.
She went into the dining room where the two boys were eating breakfast and sat down on the edge of her chair at the head of the table. She never ate breakfast but she sat with them to see that they had what they wanted. “Honestly!” she said, and began to tell about the bull, aping Mr. Greenleaf saying, “It must be somebody’s bull.”
Wesley continued to read the newspaper folded beside his plate but Scofield interrupted his eating from time to time to look at her and laugh. The two boys never had the same reaction to anything. They were as different, she said, as night and day. The only thing they did have in common was that neither of them cared what happened on the place. Scofield was a business type and Wesley was an intellectual.
Wesley, the younger child, had had rheumatic fever when he was seven and Mrs. May thought that this was what had caused him to be an intellectual. Scofield, who had never had a day’s sickness in his life, was an insurance salesman. She would not have minded his selling insurance if he had sold a nicer kind but he sold the kind that only Negroes buy. He was what Negroes call a “policy man.” He said there was more money in nigger-insurance than any other kind, and before company, he was very loud about it. He would shout, “Mamma don’t like to hear me say it but I’m the best nigger-insurance salesman in this county!”
Scofield was thirty-six and he had a broad pleasant smiling face but he was not married.