proposition of having a man who did not need you
was a bit frightening. It should not be, but it was. The thing she
thought she had failed at was precisely this: waiting for the man who
did not need her but wanted her. She had been afraid to wait for
that, then, and when she saw it before her, now, the thing itself it
too scared her. Perhaps she was merely afraid of everything. Most
people, she thought, were, and she was perhaps finally not any
better. It had been pretty to think so, she thought. A woman was not
to be faulted for her pretty thoughts.
“ Is a woman to be faulted for her pretty thoughts,
general?"
“ That has not occurred to me either,” Forrest
said.
Mrs. Hollingsworth realized why she had summoned the
general. "General, could you send that boy with the lemon dog
over tomorrow, if you are not fighting?"
Forrest looked at her directly. He understood and
accepted her rejection. His hand continued to move sensually on the
sofa, feeling the fabric. “Sho I can do that, ma’am—that is
what general means. What kind of hide is this?"
“ Hide?” She then understood him to mean the
fabric on the sofa.
"I don’t want to see whatever you skunt this
off of," Forrest said. "Or hunt it.”
“ General, are you tired?”
“ I’m tireder than a dog lying underneath another
dog.”
Nor Nurse nor Need
The man in the plaid shirt came into the house like
something hunted and hunting. He was nervous and deliberate. Mrs.
Hollingsworth could see that she had complicated him to a point that
was not easy for him. He was hurt in some way that he did not wish to
acknowledge; he felt that if he did, it would confirm and solidify
and even deepen the hurt. There was an aura about him that, like
Forrest’s hologram, showed a storm of improbable and distorted
hallucinations that emanated from his real life. He was standing
there in her foyer, surrounded by a spectral play of his injuries and
failures that was as plastic and mobile and colorful and ridiculous
as the kind of light show that had accompanied, in its day, the
Hendrix music that she had played for the general.
She had no music playing now, and this light show was
not funny. The man’s mother unkissed and the coach unanswered and
the father unapproached were there, in a swirl, and the impossibly
beautiful woman was there, and she was crying, and she was crying for
something the man had done or said to her. The man was aroused, and
he looked at her— Mrs. Hollingsworth—with a piercing hunger that
was at once honest and direct and simple and also hopelessly fraught
with reservations and riders and provisos just beneath the surface of
his leering desire. It was an irresistibly messy kind of desire. It
promised as much pain as balm. He looked like the kind of cat who
would bite you on the neck to hold you down and spend days kissing
the wound.
Was he a man who wanted but did not need her? Since
she stood in a convenient relationship to getting the truth from this
kind of man, Mrs. Hollingsworth asked him, “Do you want me?” To
this he said, clear-eyed and broad of shoulder because of the grain
sacks, and looking strangely elegant in the cheap shirt,
"Yes."
“ Do you need me?”
“ Need?"
They regarded each other a long time. The man looked
at the floor. They heard a sound at the door and the man opened it
and the lemon dog came into the house. It began snuffling the
baseboards, raptly, undistracted. Every couple of increments forward
the dog made a kind of cough, as if clearing its system, like a wine
taster between tastes, and then resumed its eager inhalation of her
house. It worked one of the boards until out of their sight.
“ That’s a good dog," the man said. “I had
a life in which I would have needed you, once. It was not an honest
life. I died. I have a new life. In it I want you, but it would be
dishonest of me to need you. If I were to get succor from you, I
would not be able to return it properly—I would only take. Then I
would
was a bit frightening. It should not be, but it was. The thing she
thought she had failed at was precisely this: waiting for the man who
did not need her but wanted her. She had been afraid to wait for
that, then, and when she saw it before her, now, the thing itself it
too scared her. Perhaps she was merely afraid of everything. Most
people, she thought, were, and she was perhaps finally not any
better. It had been pretty to think so, she thought. A woman was not
to be faulted for her pretty thoughts.
“ Is a woman to be faulted for her pretty thoughts,
general?"
“ That has not occurred to me either,” Forrest
said.
Mrs. Hollingsworth realized why she had summoned the
general. "General, could you send that boy with the lemon dog
over tomorrow, if you are not fighting?"
Forrest looked at her directly. He understood and
accepted her rejection. His hand continued to move sensually on the
sofa, feeling the fabric. “Sho I can do that, ma’am—that is
what general means. What kind of hide is this?"
“ Hide?” She then understood him to mean the
fabric on the sofa.
"I don’t want to see whatever you skunt this
off of," Forrest said. "Or hunt it.”
“ General, are you tired?”
“ I’m tireder than a dog lying underneath another
dog.”
Nor Nurse nor Need
The man in the plaid shirt came into the house like
something hunted and hunting. He was nervous and deliberate. Mrs.
Hollingsworth could see that she had complicated him to a point that
was not easy for him. He was hurt in some way that he did not wish to
acknowledge; he felt that if he did, it would confirm and solidify
and even deepen the hurt. There was an aura about him that, like
Forrest’s hologram, showed a storm of improbable and distorted
hallucinations that emanated from his real life. He was standing
there in her foyer, surrounded by a spectral play of his injuries and
failures that was as plastic and mobile and colorful and ridiculous
as the kind of light show that had accompanied, in its day, the
Hendrix music that she had played for the general.
She had no music playing now, and this light show was
not funny. The man’s mother unkissed and the coach unanswered and
the father unapproached were there, in a swirl, and the impossibly
beautiful woman was there, and she was crying, and she was crying for
something the man had done or said to her. The man was aroused, and
he looked at her— Mrs. Hollingsworth—with a piercing hunger that
was at once honest and direct and simple and also hopelessly fraught
with reservations and riders and provisos just beneath the surface of
his leering desire. It was an irresistibly messy kind of desire. It
promised as much pain as balm. He looked like the kind of cat who
would bite you on the neck to hold you down and spend days kissing
the wound.
Was he a man who wanted but did not need her? Since
she stood in a convenient relationship to getting the truth from this
kind of man, Mrs. Hollingsworth asked him, “Do you want me?” To
this he said, clear-eyed and broad of shoulder because of the grain
sacks, and looking strangely elegant in the cheap shirt,
"Yes."
“ Do you need me?”
“ Need?"
They regarded each other a long time. The man looked
at the floor. They heard a sound at the door and the man opened it
and the lemon dog came into the house. It began snuffling the
baseboards, raptly, undistracted. Every couple of increments forward
the dog made a kind of cough, as if clearing its system, like a wine
taster between tastes, and then resumed its eager inhalation of her
house. It worked one of the boards until out of their sight.
“ That’s a good dog," the man said. “I had
a life in which I would have needed you, once. It was not an honest
life. I died. I have a new life. In it I want you, but it would be
dishonest of me to need you. If I were to get succor from you, I
would not be able to return it properly—I would only take. Then I
would
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