The Complete Stories - Flannery O'Connor [215]
“Loathsome,” the boy murmured.
“Another time,” the barber continued, “somebody went out there and put a dead cat in his well. Somebody was always doing something to see if they could make him turn loose a little money. Another time…”
Calhoun began fighting his way out of the bib as if it were a net he was caught in. When he was free of it, hŤ thrust his hand in his pocket and brought out a dollar which he flung on the startled barber’s shelf. Then he made for the door, letting it slam behind him in judgment on the place.
The walk back to his aunts’ did not calm him. The colors of the azaleas had deepened with the approach of sundown and the trees rustled protectively over the old houses. No one here had a thought for Singleton, who lay on a cot in a filthy ward at Quincy. The boy felt now in a concrete way the force of his innocence, and he thought that to do justice to all the man had suffered, he would have to write more than a simple article. He would have to write a novel; he would have to show, not say, how primary injustice operated. Preoccupied with this, he went four doors past his aunts’ house and had to turn and go back.
His Aunt Bessie met him at the door and drew him into the hall. “Told you we’d have a sweet surprise [or you!” she said, pulling him by the arm into the parlor.
On the sofa sat a rangy-looking girl in a lime-green dress. “You remember Mary Elizabeth,” his Aunt Mattie said, “—the cute little trick you took to the picture show once when you were here.” Through his rage he recognized the girl who had been reading under the tree. “Mary Elizabeth is home for the spring holidays,” his Aunt Mattie said. “Mary Elizabeth is a real scholar, aren’t you, Mary Elizabeth?”
Mary Elizabeth scowled, indicating she was, indifferent to whether she was a real scholar or not. She gave him a Iook which told him plainly she expected to enjoy this no more than he did.
His Aunt Mattie gripped the knob of her cane and began to lift herself from her chair. “We’re going to have supper early,” the other one said, “because Mary Elizabeth is going to take you to the beauty contest and it begins at seven.”
“Great,” the boy said in a tone that would be lost on them but he hoped not on Mary Elizabeth.
Throughout the meal he ignored the girl completely. His repartee with his aunts was markedly cynical but they did not have sense enough to understand his allusions and laughee like idiots at everything he said. Twice they called him “Babyboy” and the girl smirked. Otherwise she did nothing to suggest she was enjoying herself. Her round face was still childish behind her glasses. Retarded, Calhoun thought.
When the meal was over and they were on the way to the beauty contest, they continued to say nothing to each other. The girl, who was several inches taller than he, walked slight]y n advance of him as if she would like to lose him on the way, but after two blocks she stopped abruptly and began to rummage in a huge grass bag she carried. She took out a pencil and held it between her teeth while she continued to rummage. After a minute she brought up from the bottom of the bag two tickets and a stenographer’s note pad. With these out, she closed the pocketbook and walked on.
“Are you going to take notes;” Calhoun inquired in a tone heavy with irony.
The girl looked around as if trying to identify the speaker. “Yes,” she said, “I’m going to take notes.”
“You appreciate this sort of thing?” Calhoun asked in the same tone. “You enjoy it?”
“It makes me vomit,” she said, “I’m going to finish it off with one swift literary kick.”
The boy looked at her blankly.
“Don’t let me interfere with your pleasure in it,” she said, “but this whole place is false and rotten to the core.” Her voice came with a hiss of indignation. “They prostitute azaleas!”
Calhoun was astounded. After