hit is. You go’n git dat mare, en save dat nigger freedom talk fer townfolks: dey mought stomach it. Whut us niggers want ter be free fer, anyhow? Aint we got ez many white folks now ez we kin suppo’t?”
That night at supper, old Bayard looked at his grandson across the roast of mutton. “Will Falls told me you passed him on the Poor House hill running forty miles an hour today.”
“Forty fiddlesticks,” Miss Jenny answered promptly, “it was fifty four. I was watching the—what do you call it, Bayard? speedometer.”
Old Bayard sat with his head bent a little, watching his hands trembling on the carving knife and fork; hearing beneath the napkin tucked into his waistcoat, his heart a little too light and a little too fast; feeling Miss Jenny’s eyes upon his face.
“Bayard,” she said sharply, “what’s that on your cheek?” He rose so suddenly that his chair tipped over backward with a crash, and he tramped blindly from the room.
3
“I know what you want me to do,” Miss Jenny told old Bayard across her newspaper. “You want me to let my housekeeping go to the dogs and spend all my time in that car, that’s what you want. Well, I’m not going to do it. I dont mind riding with him now and then, but I’ve got too much to do with my time to spend it keeping him from running that car fast. Neck, too,” she added. She rattled the paper crisply.
She said: “Besides, you aint foolish enough to believe he’lldrive slow just because there’s somebody with him, are you? If you do think so, you’d better send Simon along. Lord knows Simon can spare the time. Since you quit using the carriage, if he does anything at all, I dont know it.” She read the paper again.
Old Bayard’s cigar smoked in his still hand.
“I might send Isom,” he said.
Miss Jenny’s paper rattled sharply and she stared at her nephew for a long moment. “God in heaven, man, why dont you put a block and chain on him and have done with it?”
“Well, didn’t you suggest sending Simon with him, yourself? Simon has his work to do, but all Isom ever does is saddle my horse once a day, and I can do that myself.”
“I was trying to be ironical,” Miss Jenny said. “God knows, I should have learned better by this time. But if you’ve got to invent something new for the niggers to do, you let it be Simon. I need Isom to keep a roof over your head and something to eat on the table.” She rattled the paper. “Why dont you come right out and tell him not to drive fast? A man that has to spend eight hours a day sitting in a chair in that bank door ought not to have to spend the rest of the afternoon helling around the country in an automobile if he dont want to.”
“Do you think it would do any good to ask him? There was never a damned one of ’em ever paid any attention to my wishes yet.”
“Ask, the devil,” Miss Jenny said. “Who said anything about ask? Tell him not to. Tell him that if you hear again of his going fast in it, that you’ll frail the life out of him. I believe anyway that you like to ride in that car, only you wont admit it, and you just dont want him to ride in it when you cant go too.” But old Bayard had slammed his feet to the floor and risen, and he tramped from the room.
Instead of mounting the stairs however Miss Jenny heard his footsteps die away down the hall, and presently she rose and followed to the back porch, where he stood in the darkness there. The night was dark, myriad with drifting odors of the spring and with insects. Dark upon lesser dark, the barn loomed against the sky.
“He hasn’t come in yet,” she said impatiently, touching his arm. “I could have told you. Go on up and go to bed, now; dont you know he’ll let you know when he comes in? You’re going to think him into a ditch somewhere, with these fool notions of yours.” Then more gently: “You’re too childish about that car. It’s no more dangerous at night than it is in daytime. Come on, now.”
He
That night at supper, old Bayard looked at his grandson across the roast of mutton. “Will Falls told me you passed him on the Poor House hill running forty miles an hour today.”
“Forty fiddlesticks,” Miss Jenny answered promptly, “it was fifty four. I was watching the—what do you call it, Bayard? speedometer.”
Old Bayard sat with his head bent a little, watching his hands trembling on the carving knife and fork; hearing beneath the napkin tucked into his waistcoat, his heart a little too light and a little too fast; feeling Miss Jenny’s eyes upon his face.
“Bayard,” she said sharply, “what’s that on your cheek?” He rose so suddenly that his chair tipped over backward with a crash, and he tramped blindly from the room.
3
“I know what you want me to do,” Miss Jenny told old Bayard across her newspaper. “You want me to let my housekeeping go to the dogs and spend all my time in that car, that’s what you want. Well, I’m not going to do it. I dont mind riding with him now and then, but I’ve got too much to do with my time to spend it keeping him from running that car fast. Neck, too,” she added. She rattled the paper crisply.
She said: “Besides, you aint foolish enough to believe he’lldrive slow just because there’s somebody with him, are you? If you do think so, you’d better send Simon along. Lord knows Simon can spare the time. Since you quit using the carriage, if he does anything at all, I dont know it.” She read the paper again.
Old Bayard’s cigar smoked in his still hand.
“I might send Isom,” he said.
Miss Jenny’s paper rattled sharply and she stared at her nephew for a long moment. “God in heaven, man, why dont you put a block and chain on him and have done with it?”
“Well, didn’t you suggest sending Simon with him, yourself? Simon has his work to do, but all Isom ever does is saddle my horse once a day, and I can do that myself.”
“I was trying to be ironical,” Miss Jenny said. “God knows, I should have learned better by this time. But if you’ve got to invent something new for the niggers to do, you let it be Simon. I need Isom to keep a roof over your head and something to eat on the table.” She rattled the paper. “Why dont you come right out and tell him not to drive fast? A man that has to spend eight hours a day sitting in a chair in that bank door ought not to have to spend the rest of the afternoon helling around the country in an automobile if he dont want to.”
“Do you think it would do any good to ask him? There was never a damned one of ’em ever paid any attention to my wishes yet.”
“Ask, the devil,” Miss Jenny said. “Who said anything about ask? Tell him not to. Tell him that if you hear again of his going fast in it, that you’ll frail the life out of him. I believe anyway that you like to ride in that car, only you wont admit it, and you just dont want him to ride in it when you cant go too.” But old Bayard had slammed his feet to the floor and risen, and he tramped from the room.
Instead of mounting the stairs however Miss Jenny heard his footsteps die away down the hall, and presently she rose and followed to the back porch, where he stood in the darkness there. The night was dark, myriad with drifting odors of the spring and with insects. Dark upon lesser dark, the barn loomed against the sky.
“He hasn’t come in yet,” she said impatiently, touching his arm. “I could have told you. Go on up and go to bed, now; dont you know he’ll let you know when he comes in? You’re going to think him into a ditch somewhere, with these fool notions of yours.” Then more gently: “You’re too childish about that car. It’s no more dangerous at night than it is in daytime. Come on, now.”
He
Similar Books
Unidentified Funny Objects 2
Robert Silverberg, Jim C. Hines, Jody Lynn Nye, Mike Resnick, Ken Liu, Tim Pratt, Esther Frisner
