Uncollected Stories of William Faulkner (71 page)

But who is this Sam Jackson? I had heard a reference to him, but upon mentioning his name to an old moonshiner who seemed to know and revere the family, he hushed up like a clam, and when I insisted, became quite angry with me. All I could get from him was the remark that it was a “dam lie.”

I received most of this information from people at Herman Jackson’s funeral the other day. Herman, you know, was a queer boy with a passion for education. Old man Jackson didn’t believe in education. But the boy Herman was crazy to learn to read, and Al, who seems to be a cultured man, helped the boy invent a way of making pearl buttons from fish scales. Herman saved his money, and was at last admitted into the university. Of course he had to earn his way doing odd jobs. He was for a while a fish grader at the fish market, but he depended mostly on his pearl buttons. People in his boarding house objected to the smell, but on seeing the boy laboring long into the night glueing fish scales together with fish glue, they felt kind of sorry for him.

At last, at the age of eighteen he learned to read and he established a record. He read Sir Walter Scott’s complete works in twelve and one half days. For two days afterward he seemed to be dazed—could not remember who he was. So a schoolmate wrote his name on a card which Herman carried in his hand, showing it to anyone who asked his name.

Then on the third day he went into convulsions, passing from convulsion to convulsion and dying after days of terrible agony. Al, they say, was quite sad over this, feeling that he was somehow to blame.

The Benevolent Order of Carp, assisted by his college fraternity, R.O.E., buried him with honors; and his funeral is said to have
been one of the largest ever held in the fish-herding circles. Al Jackson was not present: he could not bear it. But he is reported to have said: “I only hope that the country which I love, the business to which I have devoted my best years, will show a like appreciation of my passing away.”

If you can ever arrange for me to meet this splendid man, please do so, and I will be obligated to you.

Wm Faulkner         

He had been married while quite young by a rather plain-faced girl whom he was trying to seduce, and now, at thirty-two, he was a widower. His marriage had driven him into work as drouth drives the fish down the streams into the large waters, and things had gone hard with them during the time in which he shifted from position to position and business to business be[fore] finally and inevitably gravitating into the women’s clothing section of a large department store.

Here he felt that he had at last come into his own (he always got along much better with women than with men) and his restored faith in himself enabled him to rise with comfortable ease to the coveted position of wholesale buyer. He knew women’s clothes and, interested in women, it was his belief that his knowledge of the things they liked gave him a grasp which no other man had on the psychology of women. But he merely speculated upon this. He remained faithful to his wife, although she was bed-ridden: an invalid.

And then when success was in his grasp and life became smooth at last for them, his wife died. He had become habituated to marriage, attached to her, and re-adjustment came but slowly. Yet in time he became accustomed to the novelty of mature liberty. He had been married so young that freedom was an unexplored field to him. He took pleasure in his snug bachelor’s rooms, in his solitary routine of days: of walking home in the dusk, examining the soft bodies of girls on the streets, knowing that if he cared to take one, there was none to say No to him. His only worry was his thinning hair.

But at last, celibacy began to oppress him.

His friend and prospective host sitting with a cigar on the balcony, saw him as he turned the corner under the light and with an exclamation he sprang to his feet, kicking his chair over. Ducking quickly into the room he snapped the table lamp off and leaped upon a couch, feigning sleep.

Walking dapperly, swinging his light stick:

“How they like for a man to be bold with them. Let’s see, she would have one suit of black underwear.… first I’ll act indifferent, like I dont specially want to be with her, or as if I dont particularly care to dance tonight. Drop a remark about coming only because I had promised—that there is another woman I had rather have seen. They like a man that has other women. She’ll say ‘Please take me to dance’ and I’ll say ‘Oh, I dont know if I want to dance tonight’ And she’ll say ‘Wont you take me?’ kind of leaning against me—let’s see—yes, she’ll take my hand, soft-talking me, well, I wont respond, wont seem to hear her. She’ll keep on teasing and then I’ll put my arm around her and raise her face in the dark cab and kiss her, coldly and dignified, as if I didn’t care whether I did or not, and I’ll say ‘Do you really want to dance tonight?’ and she’ll say ‘Oh, I dont know. I’d rather just ride around—with you’ And I’ll say ‘No, let’s dance a while’

“Well, we’ll dance and I’ll caress her back with my hand. She’ll be watching me but I wont look at her—” he broke suddenly from his revery, finding that he had passed his friend’s house. He retraced his steps, craning his neck toward the darkened windows.

“Morrison!” he sang.

No reply.

“Oh, Mor—rison!”

The dark windows were inscrutable as two fates. He knocked on the door, then stepped back to finish his aria. Beside the door was another entrance. Light streamed across a half-length lattice, like a saloon door, and beyond it a typewriter was being thumped viciously. He knocked upon the blind, tentatively.

“Hello” a voice boomed above the clacking machine. He pondered briefly then knocked again, louder.

“Come in, damn you. Do you think this is a bathroom?” the voice said, drowning the typewriter.

He opened the blind. The huge collarless man at the typewriter raised a leonine head, regarding him fretfully.

“Well?” The typewriter ceased.

“Pardon me: I’m looking for Morrison.”

“Next floor,” the other snapped, poising his hands. “Good night.”

“But he doesn’t answer. Do you know if he is in tonight?”

“I do not.”

He pondered again, diffidently. “I wonder how I could find out? I’m pressed for time—”

“How in hell do I know? Go up and see, or stand out there and call him.”

“Thanks, I’ll go up.”

“Well, go up then.” The typewriter clashed pianissimo.

“May I go through this way?” he ventured mildly, politely.

“Yes, yes. Go anywhere. But for God’s sake dont bother me.”

He murmured thanks, sidling past the large frenzied one. The whole room trembled to the big man’s heavy hands and the typewriter leaped and clattered like a mad thing. He mounted dark stairs, his friend heard him stumble, and groaned. I’ll have your blood for this! he swore and the thundering oblivious typewriter beneath him. The door opened and the caller hissed Morrison! into the dark room. He swore again under his breath. The couch complained to his movement and he said:

“Wait there until I turn on the light. You’ll break everything I’ve got, blundering around in the dark.”

The guest sighed with relief. “Well, well, I had just about given you up and gone away when that man below you kindly let me come through his place.”

The light came on under the other’s hand.

“Oh, you were asleep, weren’t you? So sorry to have disturbed you. But I want your advice.”

He put his hat and stick on a table, knocking from it a vase of flowers. With amazing agility he caught the vase before it crashed, but not before the contents had liberally splashed him. He replaced the vase and quickly fell to mopping at his sleeves and coat front with a handkerchief. “Ah, the devil,” he ejaculated with exasperation, “and this suit fresh from the presser, too!”

His host looked on with suppressed vindictive glee, offering him a chair. “Too bad,” he commiserated insincerely. “But she wont notice it: she’ll probably be interested in you.”

He looked up, flattered but a little dubious of the other’s tone. He smoothed his palms over his thinning hair.

“Do you think so? But, listen,” he continued with swift optimism—, “I have decided where I failed before. Boldness and indifference: that is what I have always overlooked. Listen,—” with enthusiasm, “tonight I will turn the trick. But I want your advice.”

The other groaned again and reclined upon the couch.

He continued: “Now, I’ll act as though there was another woman had phoned me, and that I met this one only because I had promised: make her jealous to begin with, see? Now, I’ll act like I dont care to dance and when she begs me to, I’ll kiss her, quite indifferent, see?”

“Yes?” his friend murmured, yawning.

“So we’ll go and dance, and I’ll pet her a little but I wont look at her—like I was thinking of someone else. She’ll be intrigued, and she’ll say ‘What are you thinking about so hard?’ And I’ll say ‘Why do you want to know?’ and she’ll beg me to tell her, all the time dancing close to me, and I’ll say ‘I’d rather tell you what you are thinking of’ and she’ll say ‘What?’ right quick. And I’ll say ‘You are thinking about me.’ Now what do you think of that? What do you reckon she’ll say then?”

“Probably tell you you’ve got a swelled head.”

The caller’s face fell. “Do you think she will?”

“Dont know. You’ll find out, though.”

“No, I dont believe she will. I kind of thought she’d think I knew a lot about women.” He mused deeply for a space. Then he burst out again: “If she does I’ll say ‘Perhaps so. But I am tired of this place. Let’s go.’ She wont want to but I’ll be firm. Then I’ll be bold: I’ll take her right out to my place, and when she sees how bold I am she’ll give in. They like bold men. What do you think of that?”

“Fine—provided she acts like she ought to. It might be a good idea to outline the plot to her, though, so she wont slip up.”

“You are kidding me now. But dont you really think this scheme is sound?”

“Air tight. You have thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“Certainly. That’s the only way to win battles, you know. Napoleon taught us that.”

“Napoleon also said something about the heaviest artillery, too,” his friend remarked wickedly.

He smiled with complacence. “I am as I am,” he murmured.…

“Especially when it hasn’t been used in some time,” his host continued. He looked like a hurt beast, and the other added quickly: “but are you going to try this scheme tonight, or are you just telling me of an hypothetical case?”

He regarded his watch with consternation. “Good gracious, I must run.” He sprang to his feet. “Thanks for advising me. I really think I have the system for this type of woman, dont you?”

“Sure,” his friend agreed. At the door he halted and rushed back to shake hands. “Wish me luck,” he said over his departing shoulder. The door closed behind him and his descending feet sounded from the stairs. Then the street door; and the other stood on the balcony, watching him out of sight. The host returned to his couch and reclined again, laughing. He rose, turned out the light and lay in the dark, chuckling. Beneath him the typewriter, tireless, clattered and thundered.

Perhaps three hours later. The typewriter yet leaped and danced on the table.

“Morrison!”

The manipulator of the machine felt a vague annoyance, like knowing that someone is trying to wake you from a pleasant dream, knowing that if you resist the dream will be broken.

“Oh, Mor—risooooooon!”

He concentrated again, being conscious that the warm peaceful night without his room had been ravished of quiet. He banged louder upon his key-board to exorcise it, but there came a timid knock at his blind.

“Damn!” he said, surrendering. “Come in!” he bellowed, looking up. “My God, where did you come from? I let you in about ten minutes ago, didn’t I?” He looked at his visitor’s face and his tone changed. “What’s the matter, friend? Sick?”

The visitor stood blinking in the light, then entered falteringly and drooped upon a chair. “Worse than that,” he said despondently.

The large man wheeled heavily to face him.

“Need a doctor or anything?”

The caller buried his face in his hands. “No, no a doctor cant help me.”

“Well, what is it?” the other insisted in mounting exasperation. “I’m busy. What do you want?”

The guest drew a long breath and looked up. “I’ve simply got to talk to someone.” He lifted a stricken face to the other’s heavy piercing stare. “A terrible thing happened to me tonight.”

“Well, spit it out, then. But be quick.”

He sighed and weakly fumbled his handkerchief, mopping his face. “Well, just as I said, I acted indifferent, said I didn’t want to dance tonight. And she said, ‘Aw, come on: do you think I came out just to sit on a park bench all evening?’ And then I put my arm around her—”

“Around who?”

“Around her. And when I tried to kiss her she just put—”

“But where was this?”

“In a taxi. She just put her elbow under my chin and pushed me back in my corner and said ‘Are we going to dance, or not? If we aint, say so, and I’ll get out. I know a fellow that will take me out to dance’ and—”

“In God’s name, friend, what are you raving about?”

“About that girl I was out with tonight. And so we went to dance and I was petting her like I said and she said ‘Lay off, brother, I aint got lumbago’ And after a while she kept looking over her shoulder and then craning her head around to look over mine and getting out of step and saying, ‘Pardon me’ and so I said to her ‘What are you thinking of?’ and she said ‘huh?’ and I said ‘I can tell you what you are thinking of’ and she said ‘Who, me? what was I thinking of?’ still looking and bobbing her head around. Then I saw she was kind of smiling and I said ‘You are thinking of me.’ And she said ‘Oh, was I?’ ”

“Good God,” murmured the other, staring at him.

“Yes. And so I said, like I’d planned, ‘I’m tired of this place. Let’s go’ She didn’t want to go, but I was firm and so at last she said ‘All right. You go down and get a taxi and I will fix up and come on down’

“I ought to have known there was something wrong then, but I didn’t. Well, I ran on down and got a taxi. And I gave the driver ten dollars to drive us out into the country where there wasn’t much passing and to stop and pretend that he had to go back down the road a ways for something, and to wait there until I honked the horn for him.