and fierce.
«You darn fool!» her sister screamed, but Joel did nothing, for his heart was lodged somewhere in
his throat. Then he turned to check Jesus Fever’s reaction, but the old man still snoozed; and strangely
the mule had not bolted with fright.
«That was pretty good, eh?» said Idabel. «I’ll bet you thought the devil was hot on your trail.»
Florabel said: «Not the devil, sister. . . he’s inside you.» And to Joel: «She’ll catch it when I tell
Papa, cause she couldn’t have got up here without us seeing unless she cut through the hollow, and
Papa’s told her and told her about that. She’s all the time snooping around in there hunting sweetgum:
some day a big old moccasin is going to chew off her leg right at the hip, mark my word.»
Idabel had returned carrying a spray of dogwood, and now she smelled the blooms exultantly.
«I’ve already been snake-bit,» she said.
«Yes, that’s the truth,» her sister admitted. «You should’ve seen her leg, Joel Knox. It swelled up
like a watermelon; all her hair fell out; oh, she was dogsick for two months, and Mama and me had to
wait on her hand and foot.»
«It’s lucky she didn’t die,» said Joel.
«I would’ve if I was you and didn’t know how to take care of myself,» said Idabel.
«She was smart, all right,» conceded Florabel. «She just went smack in the chicken yard and
snatched up this rooster and ripped him wide open; never heard such squawking. Hot chicken blood
draws the poison.»
«You ever been snakebit, boy?» Idabel wanted to know.
»No,» he said, feeling somehow in the wrong, «but I was nearly run over by a car once.»
Idabel seemed to consider this. «Run over by a car,» she said, her woolly voice tinged with envy.
«Now you oughtn’t to have told her that,» snapped Florabel. «She’s liable to run straight off and
throw herself in the middle of the highway.»
Below the road and in the shallow woods a close-by creek’s sliding, pebble-tinkling rush
underlined the bellowed comments of hidden frogs. The slow-rolling wagon cleared a slope and started
down again. Idabel picked the petals from the dogwood spray, dripping them in her path, and tossed the
rind aside; she tilted her head and faced the sky and began to hum; then she sang: «When the northwind
doth blow, and we shall have snow, what does the robin do then, poor thing?» Florabel took up the tune:
«He got to the barn, to keep he-self warm, and hide he-self under he wing, poor thing!» It was a lively
song and they sang it over and over till Joel joined to make a trio; their voices pealed clear and sweet, for
all three were sopranos, and Florabel vivaciously strummed a mythical banjo. Then a cloud crossed the
moon and in the black the singing ended.
Florabel jumped off the wagon. «Our house is over in there,» she said, pointing toward what
looked to Joel like an empty wilderness. «Don’t forget. . . come to visit.»
«I will,» he called, but already the tide of darkness had washed the twins from sight.
Sometime later a thought of them echoed, receded, left him suspecting they were perhaps what
he’d first imagined: apparitions. He touched his cheek, the cornhusks, glanced at the sleeping Jesus — the
old man was trance-like but for his body’s rubbery response to the wagon’s jolting — and was reassured.
The guide reins jangled, the hoofbeats of the mule made a sound as drowsy as a fly’s bzzz on a summer
afternoon. A jungle of stars rained down to cover him in blaze, to blind and close his eyes. Arms akimbo,
legs crumpled, lips vaguely parted — he looked as if sleep had struck him with a blow.
Fence posts suddenly loomed; the mule came alive, began to trot, almost to gallop down a
graveled lane over which the wheels spit stone; and Jesus Fever, jarred conscious, tugged at the reins:
«Whoa, John Brown, whoa!» And the wagon presently came to a spiritless standstill.
A woman slipped down the steps leading from a great porch; delirious white wings sucked round
the yellow globe of a kerosene lantern that she carried high. But Joel, scowling at a dream demon, was
unaware when the woman bent so intently towards him and peered into his face by the lamp’s smoky
light.
2
Falling. . . falling. . . falling! a knifelike shaft, an underground corridor, and he was spinning like a
fan blade through metal spirals; at the bottom a yawning-jawed crocodile followed his downward whirl
with hooded eyes: as always, rescue came with wakefulness. The crocodile exploded in sunshine. Joel
blinked and tasted his bitter tongue and did not move; the bed, an immense four-poster with different
rosewood fruits carved crudely on its high headboard, was suffocatingly soft and his body had sunk deep
in its feathery center. Although he’d slept naked, the light sheet covering him felt like a wool blanket.
The whisper of a dress warned him that someone was in the room. And another sound, dry and
wind-rushed, very much like the beat of bird wings; it was this sound, he realized while rolling over,
which had wakened him.
An expanse of pale yellow wall separated two harshly sunlit windows which faced the bed.
Between these windows stood the woman. She did not notice Joel, for she was staring across the room
at an ancient bureau: there, on top a lacquered box, was a bird, a bluejay perched so motionless it
looked like a trophy. The woman turned and closed the only open window; then, with prissy little sidling
steps, she started forward.
Joel was wide awake, but for an instant it seemed as if the bluejay and its pursuer were a curious
fragment of his dream. His stomach muscles tightened as he watched her near the bureau and the bird’s
innocent agitation: it hopped around bobbing its blue-brilliant head; suddenly, just as she came within
striking distance, it fluttered its wings and flew across the bed and lighted on a chair where Joel had flung
his clothes the night before. And remembrance of the night flooded over him: the wagon, the twins, and
the little Negro in the derby hat. And the woman, his father’s wife: Miss Amy, as she was called. He
remembered entering the house, and stumbling through an odd chamber of a hall where the walls were
alive with the tossing shadows of candleflames; and Miss Amy, her finger pressed against her lips, leading
him with robber stealth up a curving, carpeted stairway and along a second corridor to the door of this
room; all a sleepwalker’s pattern of jigsaw incidents; and so, as Miss Amy stood by the bureau regarding
the bluejay on its new perch, it was more or less the same as seeing her for the first time. Her dress was
of an almost transparent grey material; on her left hand, for no clear reason, she wore a matching grey
silk glove, and she kept the hand cupped daintily, as if it were crippled. A wispy streak of white
zigzagged through the dowdy plaits of her brownish, rather colorless hair. She was slight, and
fragile-boned, and her eyes were like two raisins embedded in the softness of her narrow face.
Instead of following the bird directly, as before, she tiptoed over to a fireplace at the opposite
end of the huge room, and, artfully twisting her hand, seized hold of an iron poker. The bluejay hopped
down the arm of the chair, pecking at Joel’s discarded shirt. Miss Amy pursed her lips, and took five
rapid, lilting, ladylike steps. . .
The poker caught the bird across the back, and pinioned it for the fraction of a moment; breaking
loose, it flew wildly to the window and cawed and flapped against the pane, at last dropping to the floor
where it scrambled along dazedly, scraping the rug with its outspread wings.
Miss Amy trapped it in a corner, and scooped it up against her breast.
Joel pressed his face into the pillow, knowing that she would look in his direction, if only to see
how the racket had affected him. He listened to her footsteps cross the room, and the gentle closing of
the door.
He dressed in the same clothes he’d worn the previous day: a blue shirt, and bedraggled linen
trousers. He could not find his suitcase anywhere, and wondered whether he’d left it in the wagon. He
combed his hair, and doused his face with water from a washbasin that sat on a marble-topped table
beside the rosewood four-poster. The rug, which was bald in spots and of an intricately oriental design,
felt grimy and rough under his bare feet. The stifling room was musty; it smelled of old furniture and the
burned-out fires of wintertime; gnat-like motes of dust circulated in the sunny air, and Joel left a dusty
imprint on whatever he touched: the bureau, the chiffonier, the washstand. This room had not been used
in many years certainly; the only fresh things here were the bedsheets, and even these had a yellowed
look.
He was lacing up his shoes when he spied the bluejay feather. It was floating above his head, as if
held by a spider’s thread. He plucked it out of the air, carried it to the bureau, and deposited it in the
lacquered box, which was lined with red plush; it also occurred to him that this would be a good place to
store Sam Radclif’s bullet. Joel loved any kind of souvenir, and it was his nature to keep and catalogue
trifles. He’d had many grand collections, and it pained him sorely that Ellen persuaded him to leave them
in New Orleans. There had been magazine photos and foreign coins, books and no-two-alike rocks, and
a wonderful conglomeration he’d labeled simply Miscellany: the feather and bullet would’ve made good
items for that. But maybe Ellen would mail his stuff on, or maybe he could start all over again, maybe. . .
There was a rap at the door.
It was his father, of that he
