The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner [90]
Dilsey said she was in the house. I went on into the hall and listened, but I didn’t hear anything. I went up stairs, but just as I passed her door she called me.
“I just wanted to know who it was,” she says. “I’m here alone so much that I hear every sound.”
“You dont have to stay here,” I says. “You could spend the whole day visiting like other women, if you wanted to.” She came to the door.
“I thought maybe you were sick,” she says. “Having to hurry through your dinner like you did.”
“Better luck next time,” I says. “What do you want?”
“Is anything wrong?” she says.
“What could be?” I says. “Cant I come home in the middle of the afternoon without upsetting the whole house?”
“Have you seen Quentin?” she says.
“She’s in school,” I says.
“It’s after three,” she says. “I heard the clock strike at least a half an hour ago. She ought to be home by now.”
“Ought she?” I says. “When have you ever seen her before dark?”
“She ought to be home,” she says. “When I was a girl——”
“You had somebody to make you behave yourself,” I says. “She hasn’t.”
“I cant do anything with her,” she says. “I’ve tried and I’ve tried.”
“And you wont let me, for some reason,” I says. “So you ought to be satisfied.” I went on to my room. I turned the key easy and stood there until the knob turned. Then she says,
“Jason.”
“What,” I says.
“I just thought something was wrong.”
“Not in here,” I says. “You’ve come to the wrong place.”
“I dont mean to worry you,” she says.
“I’m glad to hear that,” I says. “I wasn’t sure. I thought I might have been mistaken. Do you want anything?”
After a while she says, “No. Not any thing.” Then she went away. I took the box down and counted out the money and hid the box again and unlocked the door and went out. I thought about the camphor, but it would be too late now, anyway. And I’d just have one more round trip. She was at her door, waiting.
“You want anything from town?” I says.
“No,” she says. “I dont mean to meddle in your affairs. But I dont know what I’d do if anything happened to you, Jason.”
“I’m all right,” I says. “Just a headache.”
“I wish you’d take some aspirin,” she says. “I know you’re not going to stop using the car.”
“What’s the car got to do with it?” I says. “How can a car give a man a headache?”
“You know gasoline always made you sick,” she says. “Ever since you were a child. I wish you’d take some aspirin.”
“Keep on wishing it,” I says. “It wont hurt you.”
I got in the car and started back to town. I had just turned onto the street when I saw a ford coming helling toward me. All of a sudden it stopped. I could hear the wheels sliding and it slewed around and backed and whirled and just as I was thinking what the hell they were up to, I saw that red tie. Then I recognised her face looking back through the window. It whirled into the alley. I saw it turn again, but when I got to the back street it was just disappearing, running like hell.
I saw red. When I recognised that red tie, after all I had told her, I forgot about everything. I never thought about my head even until I came to the first forks and had to stop. Yet we spend money and spend money on roads and dam if it isn’t like trying to drive over a sheet of corrugated iron roofing. I’d like to know how a man could be expected to keep up with even a wheelbarrow. I think too much of my car; I’m not going to hammer it to pieces like it was a ford. Chances were they had stolen it, anyway, so why should they give a dam. Like I say blood always tells. If you’ve got blood like that in you, you’ll do anything.