“It’s little enough I can do for you, to come to the table,” she says. “No matter how I feel. I realise that when a man works all day he likes to be surrounded by his family at the supper table. I want to please you. I only wish you and Quentin got along better. It would be easier for me.”
“We get along allright,” I says. “I dont mind her staying locked up in her roomallday if she wants to. But I cant have all this whoop-de-do and sulking at mealtimes. I know that’s a lot to ask her, but I’mthat way in my own house. Your house, I meant to say.”
“It’s yours,” Mother says, “You are the head of it now.”
Quentin hadn’t looked up. I helped the plates and she begun to eat.
“Did you get a good piece of meat?” I says. “If you didn’t, I’lltry to find you a better one.” She didn’t say anything.
“I say, did you get a good piece of meat?” I says. “What?” she says. “Yes. It’s allright.”
“Willyou have some more rice?” I says. “No,” she says.
“Better let me give you some more,” I says. “I dont want any more,” she says.
“Not at all,” I says, “You’re welcome.” “Is your headache gone?” Mother says. “Headache?” I says.
“I was afraid you were developing one,” she says. “When you came in this afternoon.” “Oh,” I says. “No, it didn’t show up. We stayed so busy this afternoon I forgot about it.” “Was that why you were late?” Mother says. I could see Quentin listening. I looked at her.
Her knife and fork were still going, but I caught her looking at me, then she looked at her plate again. I says,
“No. I loaned my car to a fellow about three o’clock and I had to wait until he got back with it.” I ate for a while.
“Who was it?” Mother says.
“It was one of those show men,” I says. “It seems his sister’s husband was out riding with some town woman, and he was chasing them.”
Quentin sat perfectly still, chewing.
“You ought not to lend your car to people like that,” Mother says. “You are too generous with it. That’s why I never callon you for it if I can help it.”
“I was beginning to think that myself, for awhile,” I says. “But he got back, all right. He says he found what he was looking for.”
“Who was the woman?” Mother says.
“I’lltellyou later,” I says. “I dont like to talk about such things before Quentin.”
Quentin had quit eating. Every once in a while she’d take a drink of water, then she’d sit there crumbling a biscuit up, her face bent over her plate.
“Yes,” Mother says, “I suppose women who stay shut up like I do have no idea what goes on in this town.”
“Yes,” I says, “They dont.”
“My life has been so different from that,” Mother says. “Thank God I dont know about such wickedness. I dont even want to know about it. I’mnot like most people.”
I didn’t say any more. Quentin sat there, crumbling the biscuit until I quit eating, then she says,
“Can I go now?” without looking at anybody.
“What?” I says. “Sure, you can go. Were you waiting on us?”
She looked at me. She had crumbled all the biscuit, but her hands still went on like they were crumbling it yet and her eyes looked like they were cornered or something and then she started biting her mouth like it ought to have poisoned her, with allthat red lead.
“Grandmother,” she says, “Grandmother—” “Did you want something else to eat?” I says.
“Why does he treat me like this, Grandmother?” she says. “I never hurt him.”
“I want you allto get along with one another,” Mother says, “You are allthat’s left now, and I do want you allto get along better.”
“It’s his fault,” she says, “He wont let me alone, and I have to. If he doesn’t want me here, why wont he let me go back to—”
“That’s enough,” I says, “Not another word.”
“Then why wont he let me alone?” she says. “He—he just—”
“He is the nearest thing to a father you’ve ever had,” Mother says. “It’s his bread you and I eat. It’s only right that he should expect obedience fromyou.”
“It’s his fault,” she says. She jumped up. “He makes me do it. If he would just—” she looked at us, her eyes cornered, kind of jerking her arms against her sides.
“If I would just what?” I says.
“Whatever I do, it’s your fault,” she says. “If I’m bad, it’s because I had to be. You made me. I wish I was dead. I wish we were all dead.” Then she ran. We heard her run up the stairs. Then a door slammed.
“That’s the first sensible thing she ever said,” I says. “She didn’t go to schooltoday,” Mother says.
“How do you know?” I says. “Were you down town?”
“I just know,” she says. “I wish you could be kinder to her.”
“If I did that I’d have to arrange to see her more than once a day,” I says. “You’ll have to make her come to the table every meal. Then I could give her an extra piece of meat every time.”
“There are little things you could do,” she says.
“Like not paying any attention when you ask me to see that she goes to school?” I says. “She didn’t go to school today,” she says. “I just know she didn’t. She says she went for a
car ride with one of the boys this afternoon and you followed her.”
“How could I,” I says, “When somebody had my car allafternoon? Whether or not she was in school today is already past,” I says, “If you’ve got to worry about it, worry about next Monday.”
“I wanted you and she to get along with one another,” she says. “But she has inherited all of the headstrong traits. Quentin’s too. I thought at the time, with the heritage she would already have, to give her that name, too. Sometimes I think she is the judgment of Caddy and Quentin upon me.”
“Good Lord,” I says, “You’ve got a fine mind. No wonder you kept yourself sick all the time.”
“What?” she says. “I dont understand.”
“I hope not,” I says. “A good woman misses a lot she’s better off without knowing.”
“They were both that way,” she says, “They would make interest with your father against me when I tried to correct them. He was always saying they didn’t need controlling, that they already knew what cleanliness and honesty were, which was all that anyone could hope to be taught. And now I hope he’s satisfied.”
“You’ve got Ben to depend on,” I says, “Cheer up.”
“They deliberately shut me out of their lives,” she says, “It was always her and Quentin. They were always conspiring against me. Against you too, though you were too young to realise it. They always looked on you and me as outsiders, like they did your Uncle Maury. I always told your father that they were allowed too much freedom, to be together too much. When Quentin started to school we had to let her go the next year, so she could be with him. She couldn’t bear for any of you to do anything she couldn’t. It was vanity in her, vanity and false pride. And then when her troubles began I knew that Quentin would feelthat he had to do something just as bad. But I didn’t believe that he would have been so selfish as to—I didn’t dreamthat he—”
“Maybe he knew it was going to be a girl,” I says, “And that one more of them would be more than he could stand.”
“He could have controlled her,” she says. “He seemed to be the only person she had any consideration for. But that is a part of the judgment too, I suppose.”
“Yes,” I says, “Too bad it wasn’t me instead of him. You’d be a lot better off.”
“You say things like that to hurt me,” she says. “I deserve it though. When they began to sellthe land to send Quentin to Harvard I told your father that he must make an equalprovision for you. Then when Herbert offered to take you into the bank I said, Jason is provided for now, and when all the expense began to pile up and I was forced to sell our furniture and the rest of the pasture, I wrote her at once because I said she will realise that she and Quentin have had their share and part of Jason’s too and that it depends on her now to compensate him. I said she will do that out of respect for her father. I believed that, then. But I’m just a poor old woman; I was raised to believe that people would deny themselves for their own flesh and blood. It’s my fault. You were right to reproach me.”
“Do you think I need any man’s help to stand on my feet?” I says, “Let alone a woman that cant name the father of her own child.”
“Jason,” she says.
“Allright,” I says. “I didn’t mean that. Of course not.” “If I believed that were possible, after allmy suffering.” “Of course it’s not,” I says. “I didn’t mean it.”
“I hope that at least is spared me,” she says.
“Sure it is,” I says, “She’s too much like both of themto doubt that.” “I couldn’t bear that,” she says.
“Then quit thinking about it,” I says. “Has she been worrying you any more about getting out at night?”
“No. I made her realise that it was for her own good and that she’d thank me
