William Styron: The Collected Novels: Lie Down in Darkness, Set This House on Fire, The Confessions of Nat Turner, and Sophie's Choice by William Styron
Authors: William Styron
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to reconcile things; Pookie turned once—Loftis could see him—with a ridiculous smile gazing toward the lawn chairs, said something Loftis couldn’t hear and proceeded on up the slope. Then, looking up from his glass to find Dolly regarding him gravely, Loftis returned her gaze, unsmiling, giddy, aware of something that made a faint summery humming in the air, fireflies flickering through the twilight like luminous raindrops, and of a hot, helpless desire.
“Are you happy?” he said softly.
She shook her head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Pookie isn’t a handsome man.”
“You don’t mean that,” he said.
“No, I mean because he’s a funnyman,” she said.
“Because he’s a clown,” he suggested easily. For a long while neither of them spoke.
“He’s sweet,” she sighed finally.
“The hell with that,” he said.
Pookie descended the slope, flapping a cheerful arm in their direction. He passed them, heading for the beach. “Gonna take a look at that little old boat you were talking about,” he called. “Gonna——”
Loftis lifted the bottle. “Have another drink!“ he shouted.
“Thanks, no, old man,” Pookie called back. From the distance his eyes were glassy, faintly perplexed; his face wore a befuddled grin. “I’m a man who knows when to stop!” Loftis waved merrily; Pookie vanished beyond the seawall.
“The hell with that,” Loftis repeated to Dolly. “Somehow, somewhere, you got stuck.”
They sat there for a few minutes in silence. Then Dolly stirred. With what seemed infinite tenderness she gazed directly at him. She was discontented, she had had too much whisky, and she was vulnerable to most any emotion, especially that of lust. “You’re beautiful,” Dolly whispered. “You’re wonderful.”
He walked toward her through the gloom. “Dolly,” he said. “Sweet kitten …” he murmured, committing himself, he somehow knew, with foreknowledge and awareness, as if to an exciting and perilous journey.
Then all of a sudden, shattering the twilight, a wild, stricken scream came from above. He and Dolly turned toward the house together; Loftis heard Dolly give a startled gasp, half-rising from her chair, and he himself, hands still outspread, paralyzed in the gesture of entreaty and affirmation, turned his eyes toward the terrace where beneath a tree he could see La Ruth, monstrous and disturbed, apron fluttering, hands to her face, making crazy motions on the brow of the hill like some black, outlandish bird. “Aiee-eee,” she shrieked, together with long drawn-out cries of “Lawd!” and “Mercy!” and Loftis froze all over, trembling, so certain he was that someone had been killed. He was never quite sure how, in a state already befogged by extravagant emotion and by whisky, he gained the top of the hill, and yet he did, with the absolute speed of light, it seemed, leaving Dolly far behind—she who, horrified, too, cried, “Wait, wait!”—and stumbled up the flagstone steps and beneath the cedars where fallen branches almost sent him tumbling, and rushed desperately, afraid to think what might have happened, to the place where La Ruth stood cradling her face in her hands and lifting her eyes to God. “Now tell me——” he cried breathlessly. She smelled of cooking and of grease and she was speechless. “Now tell me, damn you!” he cried, shaking her, but she only rolled her great black eyes upward while a feeble peeping sound escaped from her throat.
He brushed her aside. There were voices from beneath the cedars and he ran there where, on the cool grassless ground, Helen and Ella Swan were furiously extricating Maudie from a mass of rope and twine. He bent down unsteadily to help, bewildered and frightened, but Helen said fiercely, “Get away, get away,” and Ella, who with palsied fingers had begun to loosen a rope which bound Maudie’s neck, moaned: “Dey tied her up, dey almos’ killed her, de nasty things.”
Now Dolly and Pookie
“Are you happy?” he said softly.
She shook her head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Pookie isn’t a handsome man.”
“You don’t mean that,” he said.
“No, I mean because he’s a funnyman,” she said.
“Because he’s a clown,” he suggested easily. For a long while neither of them spoke.
“He’s sweet,” she sighed finally.
“The hell with that,” he said.
Pookie descended the slope, flapping a cheerful arm in their direction. He passed them, heading for the beach. “Gonna take a look at that little old boat you were talking about,” he called. “Gonna——”
Loftis lifted the bottle. “Have another drink!“ he shouted.
“Thanks, no, old man,” Pookie called back. From the distance his eyes were glassy, faintly perplexed; his face wore a befuddled grin. “I’m a man who knows when to stop!” Loftis waved merrily; Pookie vanished beyond the seawall.
“The hell with that,” Loftis repeated to Dolly. “Somehow, somewhere, you got stuck.”
They sat there for a few minutes in silence. Then Dolly stirred. With what seemed infinite tenderness she gazed directly at him. She was discontented, she had had too much whisky, and she was vulnerable to most any emotion, especially that of lust. “You’re beautiful,” Dolly whispered. “You’re wonderful.”
He walked toward her through the gloom. “Dolly,” he said. “Sweet kitten …” he murmured, committing himself, he somehow knew, with foreknowledge and awareness, as if to an exciting and perilous journey.
Then all of a sudden, shattering the twilight, a wild, stricken scream came from above. He and Dolly turned toward the house together; Loftis heard Dolly give a startled gasp, half-rising from her chair, and he himself, hands still outspread, paralyzed in the gesture of entreaty and affirmation, turned his eyes toward the terrace where beneath a tree he could see La Ruth, monstrous and disturbed, apron fluttering, hands to her face, making crazy motions on the brow of the hill like some black, outlandish bird. “Aiee-eee,” she shrieked, together with long drawn-out cries of “Lawd!” and “Mercy!” and Loftis froze all over, trembling, so certain he was that someone had been killed. He was never quite sure how, in a state already befogged by extravagant emotion and by whisky, he gained the top of the hill, and yet he did, with the absolute speed of light, it seemed, leaving Dolly far behind—she who, horrified, too, cried, “Wait, wait!”—and stumbled up the flagstone steps and beneath the cedars where fallen branches almost sent him tumbling, and rushed desperately, afraid to think what might have happened, to the place where La Ruth stood cradling her face in her hands and lifting her eyes to God. “Now tell me——” he cried breathlessly. She smelled of cooking and of grease and she was speechless. “Now tell me, damn you!” he cried, shaking her, but she only rolled her great black eyes upward while a feeble peeping sound escaped from her throat.
He brushed her aside. There were voices from beneath the cedars and he ran there where, on the cool grassless ground, Helen and Ella Swan were furiously extricating Maudie from a mass of rope and twine. He bent down unsteadily to help, bewildered and frightened, but Helen said fiercely, “Get away, get away,” and Ella, who with palsied fingers had begun to loosen a rope which bound Maudie’s neck, moaned: “Dey tied her up, dey almos’ killed her, de nasty things.”
Now Dolly and Pookie
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