Willa. I kept that boy John out of school all last winter till the trouble was over. I just couldn’t bear what they had to put up with from them other kids—mean, nasty songs and horrible pictures on the fences—
—a woman, Icey continued, heedless, is a fool to marry for that. Because it’s all just a fake and a pipe dream to start with. It’s somethin’ for a man—the good Lord never meant for a decent woman to want that—not
really
want it.
Next winter, Willa said. If I married Mr. Powell—I’d send them both back to school. They’d seem more respectable somehow—
Pssst!
What?
Yonder he comes! Mr. Powell on his way here!
Yes. Oh, yes! Do I look all right, Icey?
Honey, you’re as pretty as a picture.
That’s good, Icey! she breathed wildly. Because—
Did you—Have you decided? Will you—
Yes! Oh, yes, Icey! If he asks me again tonight I’ll say yes!
Icey scampered off to the kitchen, purple with excitement, and presently Willa and Preacher were alone at a table by the window.
Cocoa tonight? She smiled.
No, my child! I haven’t eaten a smidgen of food all day.
Goodness! Are you sick?
Yes—no—
He rested his elbows on the table and fixed her with his burning eyes.
Willa, I can’t sleep nights till you say yes, he murmured, reaching for her hand still damp from the dishwater. It’s just as if the Lord kept whisperin’ in my ear—This is the woman for you, Harry Powell!
He paused for an instant.
Have you thought about it, Willa?
Yes! she breathed, scarlet with her emotions. I have!
And have you got an answer for me?
Harry, I’ll marry you, she stammered. If only—
If only what, my dear?
She sought to form the answer, but it was too vague, too lost. She did not know herself whose voice this was, deep in the vast river murmurs of her mind, that kept telling her not to do this thing. Something—the figure of a man—wandered in and out among the trees of her consciousness, through the white, blurring fog upon her mind’s shores. Now it was the shape of a lover and now something else—something frightful beyond telling—something with the body of a child in its arms.
—
Old Uncle Birdie took his quid of tobacco out of his mouth long enough to gulp down another choking throatful of the corn liquor in the tin cup. John squatted on the threshold of the wharfboat cabin watching him with a faint, admiring smile. The night air was shrill with the enormous racket of the showboat calliope a few feet above them.
I can’t hear ye, boy!
I said, Did you fix Dad’s skiff yet?
The skiff! Daggone it, Johnny, I’ve had such a misery in my hip these past couple of days I’ve barely stirred from the boat. Next week, now. I promise. We’ll go fishin’ first day of June if it ain’t too sunny.
John sighed.
How’s your maw?
Oh she’s all right.
How’s your sister Pearl?
What?
Pearl? Pearl?
John nodded with grown-up authority.
Jist fine.
He ducked his head outside the door again and stared again in consuming wonder at the blazing glory of the showboat. She was little more than an enormous barn built on a raft with a stern-wheeler to tow her. And yet she was a miracle from stem to stern—strung with blazing electric lights and glittering white paint. Half the county had come to Cresap’s Landing that night to see her and pay their quarters and go on board to view the show. John, of course, had no quarter and so he had contented himself with the prospect of a half hour’s chat with Uncle Birdie and these stolen glances at the wonderful boat here within staggering earshot of her piping calliope. He had disobeyed Willa again—coming here. And he had, with much greater misgivings, left Pearl in bed alone. And it was this latter which itched his conscience until inevitably it got the better of him and so at last he rose and lifted his hand in farewell to the old man.
Leavin’, boy?
Yep! Gotta watch out for Pearl, Uncle Birdie.
Well good night, boy. Come again—anytime.
—a woman, Icey continued, heedless, is a fool to marry for that. Because it’s all just a fake and a pipe dream to start with. It’s somethin’ for a man—the good Lord never meant for a decent woman to want that—not
really
want it.
Next winter, Willa said. If I married Mr. Powell—I’d send them both back to school. They’d seem more respectable somehow—
Pssst!
What?
Yonder he comes! Mr. Powell on his way here!
Yes. Oh, yes! Do I look all right, Icey?
Honey, you’re as pretty as a picture.
That’s good, Icey! she breathed wildly. Because—
Did you—Have you decided? Will you—
Yes! Oh, yes, Icey! If he asks me again tonight I’ll say yes!
Icey scampered off to the kitchen, purple with excitement, and presently Willa and Preacher were alone at a table by the window.
Cocoa tonight? She smiled.
No, my child! I haven’t eaten a smidgen of food all day.
Goodness! Are you sick?
Yes—no—
He rested his elbows on the table and fixed her with his burning eyes.
Willa, I can’t sleep nights till you say yes, he murmured, reaching for her hand still damp from the dishwater. It’s just as if the Lord kept whisperin’ in my ear—This is the woman for you, Harry Powell!
He paused for an instant.
Have you thought about it, Willa?
Yes! she breathed, scarlet with her emotions. I have!
And have you got an answer for me?
Harry, I’ll marry you, she stammered. If only—
If only what, my dear?
She sought to form the answer, but it was too vague, too lost. She did not know herself whose voice this was, deep in the vast river murmurs of her mind, that kept telling her not to do this thing. Something—the figure of a man—wandered in and out among the trees of her consciousness, through the white, blurring fog upon her mind’s shores. Now it was the shape of a lover and now something else—something frightful beyond telling—something with the body of a child in its arms.
—
Old Uncle Birdie took his quid of tobacco out of his mouth long enough to gulp down another choking throatful of the corn liquor in the tin cup. John squatted on the threshold of the wharfboat cabin watching him with a faint, admiring smile. The night air was shrill with the enormous racket of the showboat calliope a few feet above them.
I can’t hear ye, boy!
I said, Did you fix Dad’s skiff yet?
The skiff! Daggone it, Johnny, I’ve had such a misery in my hip these past couple of days I’ve barely stirred from the boat. Next week, now. I promise. We’ll go fishin’ first day of June if it ain’t too sunny.
John sighed.
How’s your maw?
Oh she’s all right.
How’s your sister Pearl?
What?
Pearl? Pearl?
John nodded with grown-up authority.
Jist fine.
He ducked his head outside the door again and stared again in consuming wonder at the blazing glory of the showboat. She was little more than an enormous barn built on a raft with a stern-wheeler to tow her. And yet she was a miracle from stem to stern—strung with blazing electric lights and glittering white paint. Half the county had come to Cresap’s Landing that night to see her and pay their quarters and go on board to view the show. John, of course, had no quarter and so he had contented himself with the prospect of a half hour’s chat with Uncle Birdie and these stolen glances at the wonderful boat here within staggering earshot of her piping calliope. He had disobeyed Willa again—coming here. And he had, with much greater misgivings, left Pearl in bed alone. And it was this latter which itched his conscience until inevitably it got the better of him and so at last he rose and lifted his hand in farewell to the old man.
Leavin’, boy?
Yep! Gotta watch out for Pearl, Uncle Birdie.
Well good night, boy. Come again—anytime.
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