The Complete Stories - Flannery O'Connor [227]
He lifted it gingerly and shook it. Then he fastened it around his waist and jumped up and down, making the metal supporters dance. He began to snap his fingers and turn his hips from side to side. “Gonter rock, rattle and roll,” he sang. “Gonter rock, rattle and roll. Can’t please that woman, to save my doggone soul.” He began to move around, stamping the good foot down and slinging the heavy one to the side. He danced out the door, past the stricken child and down the hall toward the kitchen.
A half hour later Sheppard came home. He dropped his raincoat on a chair in the hall and came as far as the parlor door and stopped. His face was suddenly transformed. It shone with pleasure. Johnson sat, a dark figure, in a highbacked pink upholstered chair. The wall behind him was lined with books from floor to ceiling. He was reading one. Sheppard’s eyes narrowed. It was a volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. He was so engrossed in it that he did not look up. Sheppard held his breath. This was the perfect setting for the boy. He had to keep him here. He had to manage it somehow.
“Rufus!” he said, “it’s good to see you boy!” and he bounded forward with his arm outstretched.
Johnson looked up, his face blank. “Oh hello,” he said. He ignored the hand as long as he was able but when Sheppard did not withdraw it, he grudgingly shook it.
Sheppard was prepared for this kind of reaction. It was part of Johnson’s make-up never to show enthusiasm.
“How are things?” he said. “How’s your grandfather treating you?” He sat down on the edge of the sofa.
“He dropped dead,” the boy said indifferently.
“You don’t mean it!” Sheppard cried. He got up and sat down on the coffee table nearer the boy.
“Naw,” Johnson said, “he ain’t dropped dead. I wisht he had.”
” Well where is he?” Sheppard muttered.
“He’s gone with a remnant to the hills,” Johnson said. “Him and some others. They’re going to bury some Bibles in a cave and take two of different kinds of animals and all like that. Like Noah. Only this time it’s going to be fire, not flood.”
Sheppard’s mouth stretched wryly. “I see,” he said. Then he said, “In other words the old fool has abandoned you?”
“He ain’t no fool,” the boy said in an indignant tone.
“Has he abandoned you or not?” Sheppard asked impatiently.
The boy shrugged.
“Where’s your probation officer?”
“I ain’t supposed to keep up with him,” Johnson said.
He’s supposed to keep up with me.”
Sheppard laughed. “Wait a minute,” he said. He got up and went into the hall and got his raincoat off the chair and took it to the hall closet to hang it up. He had to give himself time to think, to decide how he could ask the boy so that he would stay. He couldn’t force him to stay. It would have to be voluntary. Johnson pretended not to like him. That was only to uphold his pride, but he would have to ask him in such a way that his pride could still be upheld. He opened the closet door and took out a hanger. An old grey winter coat of his wife’s still hung there. He pushed it aside but it didn’t move. He pulled it open roughly and winced as if he had seen the larva inside a cocoon. Norton stood in it, his face swollen and pale, with a drugged look of misery on it. Sheppard stared at him. Suddenly he was confronted with a possibility. “Get out of there,” he said. He caught him by the shoulder and propelled him firmly into the parlor and over to the pink chair where Johnson was sitting with the encyclopedia in his lap. He was going to risk everything in one blow.
“Rufus,” he said, “I’ve got a problem. I need your help.”
Johnson looked up suspiciously.
“Listen,” Sheppard said, “we need another boy in the house.” There was a genuine desperation in his voice. “Norton here has never had to divide anything in his life. He doesn’t know what it means to share. And I need somebody to teach him. How about helping me out? Stay here for a while with us, Rufus. I need your help.”