The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner [85]
‘This is in confidence, you will understand, from one business man to another; we will harvest our own vineyards, eh? And knowing your Mother’s delicate health and that timorousness which such delicately nurtured Southern ladies would naturally feel regarding matters of business, and their charming proneness to divulge unwittingly such matters in conversation, I would suggest that you do not mention it to her at all. On second thought, I advise you not to do so. It might be better to simply restore this sum to the bank at some future date, say, in a lump sum with the other small sums for which I am indebted to her, and say nothing about it at all. It is our duty to shield her from the crass material world as much as possible.
‘Your affectionate Uncle,
‘Maury L. Bascomb.’ ”
“What do you want to do about it?” I says, flipping it across the table.
“I know you grudge what I give him,” she says.
“It’s your money,” I says. “If you want to throw it to the birds even, it’s your business.”
“He’s my own brother,” Mother says. “He’s the last Bascomb. When we are gone there wont be any more of them.”
“That’ll be hard on somebody, I guess,” I says. “All right, all right,” I says. “It’s your money. Do as you please with it. You want me to tell the bank to pay it?”
“I know you begrudge him,” she says. “I realise the burden on your shoulders. When I’m gone it will be easier on you.”
“I could make it easier right now,” I says. “All right, all right, I wont mention it again. Move all bedlam in here if you want to.”
“He’s your own brother,” she says. “Even if he is afflicted.”
“I’ll take your bank book,” I says. “I’ll draw my check today.”
“He kept you waiting six days,” she says. “Are you sure the business is sound? It seems strange to me that a solvent business cannot pay its employees promptly.”
“He’s all right,” I says. “Safe as a bank. I tell him not to bother about mine until we get done collecting every month. That’s why it’s late sometimes.”
“I just couldn’t bear to have you lose the little I had to invest for you,” she says. “I’ve often thought that Earl is not a good business man. I know he doesn’t take you into his confidence to the extent that your investment in the business should warrant. I’m going to speak to him.”
“No, you let him alone,” I says. “It’s his business.”
“You have a thousand dollars in it.”
“You let him alone,” I says. “I’m watching things. I have your power of attorney. It’ll be all right.”
“You dont know what a comfort you are to me,” she says. “You have always been my pride and joy, but when you came to me of your own accord and insisted on banking your salary each month in my name, I thanked God it was you left me if they had to be taken.”
“They were all right,” I says. “They did the best they could, I reckon.”
“When you talk that way I know you are thinking bitterly of your father’s memory,” she says. “You have a right to, I suppose. But it breaks my heart to hear you.”
I got up. “If you’ve got any crying to do,” I says, “you’ll have to do it alone, because I’ve got to get on back. I’ll get the bank book.”
“I’ll get it,” she says.
“Keep still,” I says. “I’ll get it.” I went up stairs and got the bank book out of her desk and went back to town. I went to the bank and deposited the check and the money order and the other ten, and stopped at the telegraph office. It was one point above the opening. I had already lost thirteen points, all because she had to come helling in there at twelve, worrying me about that letter.
“What time did that report come in?” I says.
“About an hour ago,” he says.
“An hour ago?” I says. “What are we paying you for?” I says. “Weekly reports? How do you expect a man to do anything? The whole dam top could blow off and we