Read Online The Bad Seed by William March - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William March
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final glance of affection, she said, “What will you give me, if I give you a basket of kisses?” It was a game the child had sometimes played with her father, and Christine, knowing the rules so well, feeling a rush of both tenderness and pity, took the little girl in her arms and gave the expected answer: “I’ll give you a basket of hugs.”
Later on, when she was bored with her puzzle, Rhoda got out her skates and said she’d like to go to the park. Her mother said she could, and not long afterward, hearing Leroy’s scolding, illiterate voice, she went at once to her kitchen window. The man was saying, “How come you go skating and enjoying yourself when your poor little schoolmate is still damp from drowning in the bay? Looks to me like you’d be in the house crying your eyes out; either that, or be in church burning a candle in a blue cup.”
Rhoda stared at the man, but she did not answer. She moved in the direction of the park, and stood there fumbling at the heavy iron gates; but Leroy would not leave her alone. He followed her and said, “Ask me, and I’ll say you don’t even feel sorry about what happened to that little boy.” Rhoda, surprised for a moment out of her perpetual calmness, swung her skates from side to side, and said, “Why should I feel sorry? It was Claude Daigle that got drowned, not me.”
Leroy shook his head, smiled with a wry appreciation, and walked away. It was now close to quitting time, and mechanically he began to do those small chores that were required of him before he left for the day, the child’s words echoing in his brain. He swept the courtyard and made sure that the basement door was locked securely, and as he did so, he kept repeating to himself, mimicking the child’s voice as best he could, “Why should I feel sorry? It was Claude Daigle that got drowned, not me.” That Rhoda was really
something
! That little Rhoda didn’t care nothing about nobody that lived, not even her good-looking mamma!That Rhoda was a mean little girl if he ever seen one! That little Rhoda was like him in a lot of ways; nobody could put nothing over on her, and nobody could put nothing over on him, either! That was sure. That was something you could bet on.…
He lived on General Jackson Street, a good two miles from where he worked, in an unpainted frame house, with his wife, Thelma, and his three gaunt, whining children. The building was on a lot a little lower than the street, and when it rained water stood undrained in a shallow pool under the house. Against the porch, Thelma had made flower beds of beer bottles driven into the earth, but the ground was too damp, and there was too much shade from the big sycamore and the flowering althea bush at the end of the porch, and nothing seemed to grow very well.
That night, before he had his supper, he sat on the porch with his wife, his feet resting on the rickety railing. At once he began to tell his wife about the death of the Daigle boy, but Thelma slapped at mosquitoes, yawned, and said, “Don’t bother to tell me about it. I heard it on the radio.” Then, as though his words had reminded her of something, as though silence were a thing she could not endure, she went inside and turned on the radio, selecting one of the dance programs she liked so well. When she returned to the porch, Leroy said, “Jesus Christ, can’t you turn that thing down some? Can’t a man have quiet even in his own house?”
“I like it that way,” she said. “I like to hear music loud.”
She was a big, dull woman with the empty face of a fat baby, and as she sat again in her rocking chair, she said petulantly, “Quit spitting on them petunias. It was hard enough to coax them up as high as they are now. If you got to spit, sit on the steps.”
He moved to the steps, grumbling a little. Then, as though he’d forgotten for a moment that his present audience was not one he could impress with his tales of injustice, he said, “Pick onme. Pick on
Later on, when she was bored with her puzzle, Rhoda got out her skates and said she’d like to go to the park. Her mother said she could, and not long afterward, hearing Leroy’s scolding, illiterate voice, she went at once to her kitchen window. The man was saying, “How come you go skating and enjoying yourself when your poor little schoolmate is still damp from drowning in the bay? Looks to me like you’d be in the house crying your eyes out; either that, or be in church burning a candle in a blue cup.”
Rhoda stared at the man, but she did not answer. She moved in the direction of the park, and stood there fumbling at the heavy iron gates; but Leroy would not leave her alone. He followed her and said, “Ask me, and I’ll say you don’t even feel sorry about what happened to that little boy.” Rhoda, surprised for a moment out of her perpetual calmness, swung her skates from side to side, and said, “Why should I feel sorry? It was Claude Daigle that got drowned, not me.”
Leroy shook his head, smiled with a wry appreciation, and walked away. It was now close to quitting time, and mechanically he began to do those small chores that were required of him before he left for the day, the child’s words echoing in his brain. He swept the courtyard and made sure that the basement door was locked securely, and as he did so, he kept repeating to himself, mimicking the child’s voice as best he could, “Why should I feel sorry? It was Claude Daigle that got drowned, not me.” That Rhoda was really
something
! That little Rhoda didn’t care nothing about nobody that lived, not even her good-looking mamma!That Rhoda was a mean little girl if he ever seen one! That little Rhoda was like him in a lot of ways; nobody could put nothing over on her, and nobody could put nothing over on him, either! That was sure. That was something you could bet on.…
He lived on General Jackson Street, a good two miles from where he worked, in an unpainted frame house, with his wife, Thelma, and his three gaunt, whining children. The building was on a lot a little lower than the street, and when it rained water stood undrained in a shallow pool under the house. Against the porch, Thelma had made flower beds of beer bottles driven into the earth, but the ground was too damp, and there was too much shade from the big sycamore and the flowering althea bush at the end of the porch, and nothing seemed to grow very well.
That night, before he had his supper, he sat on the porch with his wife, his feet resting on the rickety railing. At once he began to tell his wife about the death of the Daigle boy, but Thelma slapped at mosquitoes, yawned, and said, “Don’t bother to tell me about it. I heard it on the radio.” Then, as though his words had reminded her of something, as though silence were a thing she could not endure, she went inside and turned on the radio, selecting one of the dance programs she liked so well. When she returned to the porch, Leroy said, “Jesus Christ, can’t you turn that thing down some? Can’t a man have quiet even in his own house?”
“I like it that way,” she said. “I like to hear music loud.”
She was a big, dull woman with the empty face of a fat baby, and as she sat again in her rocking chair, she said petulantly, “Quit spitting on them petunias. It was hard enough to coax them up as high as they are now. If you got to spit, sit on the steps.”
He moved to the steps, grumbling a little. Then, as though he’d forgotten for a moment that his present audience was not one he could impress with his tales of injustice, he said, “Pick onme. Pick on
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