“Whut you done to him?” Dilsey said. “Why cant you let him lone dis mawnin, of all times?”
“I aint doin nothin to him,” Luster said. “Mr Jason skeered him, dat’s whut hit is. He aint kilt Miss Quentin, is he?”
“Hush, Benjy,” Dilsey said. He hushed. She went to the window and looked out. “Is it quit rainin?” she said.
“Yessum,” Luster said. “Quit long time ago.”
“Den y’allgo out do’s awhile,” she said. “I jes got Miss Cahline quiet now.” “Is we gwine to church?” Luster said.
“I let you know bout dat when de time come. You keep himaway fumde house twell I calls you.”
“Kin we go to de pastuh?” Luster said.
“Allright. Only you keep himaway fumde house. I done stood allI kin.” “Yessum,” Luster said. “Whar Mr Jason gone, mammy?”
“Dat’s some mo of yo business, aint it?” Dilsey said. She began to clear the table. “Hush, Benjy. Luster gwine take you out to play.”
“Whut he done to Miss Quentin, mammy?” Luster said. “Aint done nothin to her. You allgit on outen here?”
“I bet she aint here,” Luster said.
Dilsey looked at him. “How you know she aint here?”
“Me and Benjy seed her clamb out de window last night. Didn’t us, Benjy?” “You did?” Dilsey said, looking at him.
“We sees her doin hit ev’y night,” Luster said, “Clamb right down dat pear tree.” “Dont you lie to me, nigger boy,” Dilsey said.
“I aint lyin. Ask Benjy ef I is.”
“Whyn’t you say somethin about it, den?”
“’Twarn’t none o my business,” Luster said. “I aint gwine git mixed up in white folks’ business. Come on here, Benjy, les go out do’s.”
They went out. Dilsey stood for awhile at the table, then she went and cleared the breakfast things from the diningroom and ate her breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen. Then she removed her apron and hung it up and went to the foot of the stairs and listened for a moment. There was no sound. She donned the overcoat and the hat and went across to her cabin.
The rain had stopped. The air now drove out of the southeast, broken overhead into blue patches. Upon the crest of a hill beyond the trees and roofs and spires of town sunlight lay like a pale scrap of cloth, was blotted away. Upon the air a bell came, then as if at a signal, other bells took up the sound and repeated it.
The cabin door opened and Dilsey emerged, again in the maroon cape and the purple gown, and wearing soiled white elbow-length gloves and minus her headcloth now. She came into the yard and called Luster. She waited awhile, then she went to the house and around it to the cellar door, moving close to the wall, and looked into the door. Ben sat on the steps. Before him Luster squatted on the damp floor. He held a saw in his left hand, the blade sprung a little by pressure of his hand, and he was in the act of striking the blade with the worn wooden mallet with which she had been making beaten biscuit for more than thirty years. The saw gave forth a single sluggish twang that ceased with lifeless alacrity, leaving the blade in a thin clean curve between Luster’s hand and the floor. Still, inscrutable, it bellied.
“Dat’s de way he done hit,” Luster said. “I jes aint foun de right thing to hit it wid.” “Dat’s whut you doin, is it?” Dilsey said. “Bring me dat mallet,” she said.
“I aint hurt hit,” Luster said.
“Bring hit here,” Dilsey said. “Put dat saw whar you got hit first.”
He put the saw away and brought the mallet to her. Then Ben wailed again, hopeless and prolonged. It was nothing. Just sound. It might have been all time and injustice and sorrow become vocalfor an instant by a conjunction of planets.
“Listen at him,” Luster said, “He been gwine on dat way ev’y since you sont us outen de house. I dont know whut got in to himdis mawnin.”
“Bring himhere,” Dilsey said.
“Come on, Benjy,” Luster said. He went back down the steps and took Ben’s arm. He came obediently, wailing, that slow hoarse sound that ships make, that seems to begin before the sound itself has started, seems to cease before the sound itself has stopped.
“Run and git his cap,” Dilsey said. “Dont make no noise Miss Cahline kin hear. Hurry, now. We already late.”
“She gwine hear himanyhow, ef you dont stop him.” Luster said.
“He stop when we git off de place,” Dilsey said. “He smellin hit. Dat’s whut hit is.” “Smellwhut, mammy?” Luster said.
“You go git dat cap,” Dilsey said. Luster went on. They stood in the cellar door, Ben one step below her. The sky was broken now into scudding patches that dragged their swift shadows up out of the shabby garden, over the broken fence and across the yard. Dilsey stroked Ben’s head, slowly and steadily, smoothing the bang upon his brow. He wailed quietly, unhurriedly. “Hush,” Dilsey said, “Hush, now. We be gone in a minute. Hush, now.” He wailed quietly and steadily.
Luster returned, wearing a stiff new straw hat with a coloured band and carrying a cloth cap. The hat seemed to isolate Luster’s skull, in the beholder’s eye as a spotlight would, in all its individual planes and angles. So peculiarly individual was its shape that at first glance the hat appeared to be on the head of someone standing immediately behind Luster. Dilsey looked at the hat.
“Whyn’t you wear yo old hat?” she said. “Couldn’t find hit,” Luster said.
“I bet you couldn’t. I bet you fixed hit last night so you couldn’t find hit. You fixin to ruin dat un.”
“Aw, mammy,” Luster said, “Hit aint gwine rain.”
“How you know? You go git dat old hat en put dat new un away.” “Aw, mammy.”
“Den you go git de umbreller.” “Aw, mammy.”
“Take yo choice,” Dilsey said. “Git yo old hat, er de umbreller. I dont keer which.” Luster went to the cabin. Ben wailed quietly.
“Come on,” Dilsey said, “Dey kin ketch up wid us. We gwine to hear de singin.” They went around the house, toward the gate. “Hush,” Dilsey said from time to time as they went down the drive. They reached the gate. Dilsey opened it. Luster was coming down the drive behind them, carrying the umbrella. A woman was with him. “Here dey come,” Dilsey said. They passed out the gate. “Now, den,” she said. Ben ceased. Luster and his mother overtook them. Frony wore a dress of bright blue silk and a flowered hat. She was a thin woman, with a flat, pleasant face.
“You got six weeks’ work right dar on yo back,” Dilsey said. “Whut you gwine do ef hit rain?”
“Git wet, I reckon,” Frony said. “I aint never stopped no rain yit.” “Mammy always talkin bout hit gwine rain,” Luster said.
“Ef I dont worry bout y’all, I dont know who is,” Dilsey said. “Come on, we already late.” “Rev’un Shegog gwine preach today,” Frony said.
“Is?” Dilsey said. “Who him?”
“He fumSaint Looey,” Frony said. “Dat big preacher.”
“Huh,” Dilsey said, “Whut dey needs is a man kin put de fear of God into dese here triflin young niggers.”
“Rev’un Shegog gwine preach today,” Frony said. “So dey tells.”
They went on along the street. Along its quiet length white people in bright clumps moved churchward, under the windy bells, walking now and then in the randomand tentative sun. The wind was gusty, out of the southeast, chilland raw after the warmdays.
“I wish you wouldn’t keep on bringin himto church, mammy,” Frony said. “Folks talkin.” “Whut folks?” Dilsey said.
“I hears em,” Frony said.
“And I knows whut kind of folks,” Dilsey said, “Trash white folks. Dat’s who it is. Thinks he aint good enough fer white church, but nigger church aint good enough fer him.”
“Dey talks, jes de same,” Frony said.
“Den you send umto me,” Dilsey said. “Tell umde good Lawd dont keer whether he smart er not. Dont nobody but white trash keer dat.”
A street turned oil at right angles, descending, and became a dirt road. On either hand the land dropped more sharply; a broad flat dotted with small cabins whose weathered roofs were on a levelwith the crown of the road. They were set in smallgrassless plots littered with broken things, bricks, planks, crockery, things of a once utilitarian value. What growth there was consisted of rank weeds and the trees were mulberries and locusts and sycamores—trees that partook also of the foul desiccation which surrounded the houses; trees whose very burgeoning seemed to be the sad and stubborn remnant of September, as if even spring had passed themby, leaving themto feed upon the rich and unmistakable smell of negroes in which they grew.
Fromthe doors negroes spoke to themas
