Read Online The Collected Stories of William Humphrey by William Humphrey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Humphrey
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to be spoken of. He didnât imagine it, no more than he imagined the look on Mr. Johnsonâs face the last time he was over, like he just couldnât see how a man could change overnight and go so completely to the dogs, shaking his head as much as to say, I donât see how you could do it, a man with a wife and family. Then again, half-awake in the morning, aching all over and dreading the clang of the alarm, he would see a long row of backs all turned his way and hear sniggers, âYou know, he ainât no good to his wife any more. Ainât been for months. So just keep your eye on her for the next little spell.â
He knew people talked about how tacky he dressed them, too, her and Harold. It looked like every dress she owned had a way of coming out at the seams under the arms and though he knew she had a lot to do, it did seem she could keep her things mended a little better. Not that she left those holes there to make him feel bad, but she ought to have seen they did.
Then her mama and papa would come over and the old woman would sit with her nose stiff and her eyes loose, looking behind and under and atop things as if what she saw before her, bad as it was, wasnât bad enough, and she was sure they had worse things hid away. And the old man would sit and rub his belly, ducking his head, pumping up a good long belch that rumbled like an indoor toilet, letting everybody know what a good dinner he had left home on and how little he looked forward to getting here for his supper.
The old man was the only one didnât think he had a nasty case of something. He just thought he was lazy and he had a sly steady look for him: I know what youâre up to, tried it myself, but hell, theyâs a point to stop at and you passed it long ago.
And now, even Daisy, turning round with a long disappointed look at him. He pulled the team up, thinking he would eat, but he couldnât get a bite down.
He thought how Lauraâs mama shook her head over Harold every time she laid eyes on him. Dan couldnât see anything wrong with him. Kids were supposed to be a little dirty and wear old clothes around home. But to her he was such a pitiful sight, maybe he was just closing his eyes to all that was wrong with the boy.
He thought how long he had let that twenty-dollar bill Mr. Johnson slipped him stay in the cupboard, how he vowed to go over and give it right back the very next day but hadnât got around to it somehow, and instead come to say heâd let it lay there and never use it and return the very same one when he had enough for sure never to need it, and then, how he had turned it over to Laura and away it had gone. Gone fast, too, and he wondered was Laura really being careful of her spending. How he had stood around hemming and hawing and looking far-off when Mr. Johnson came again, waiting for him to slip him another, and then being mad when he didnât. Being mad when you didnât get charityâthat was a pretty low comedown.
He leaned back against the tree, worn out, his leg thumping with pain, and let the team stray off down the fencerow. He lay down to rest a while but the sun shifted and bored through the branches as if it wanted to get a look at him. He tried to doze but he could hear that cowbell ringing in his head. Each of his hurts came back to him and he tried to recall the day it happened, hoping to remember something that might seem to deserve such punishment. The details of his troubles began crawling up over the edges of his mind and grew thick, like a gathering swarm of bees. It was not his family nor the people on the streetâhe was the one who had changed. Other men had troubles but they were separate and unconnected, each came and stung and went on. Something was wrong with a man when they came and did their hurt and then stayed, waiting for the next, until theyâd eaten him hollow. He didnât have any troubles any more, he just had one big
He knew people talked about how tacky he dressed them, too, her and Harold. It looked like every dress she owned had a way of coming out at the seams under the arms and though he knew she had a lot to do, it did seem she could keep her things mended a little better. Not that she left those holes there to make him feel bad, but she ought to have seen they did.
Then her mama and papa would come over and the old woman would sit with her nose stiff and her eyes loose, looking behind and under and atop things as if what she saw before her, bad as it was, wasnât bad enough, and she was sure they had worse things hid away. And the old man would sit and rub his belly, ducking his head, pumping up a good long belch that rumbled like an indoor toilet, letting everybody know what a good dinner he had left home on and how little he looked forward to getting here for his supper.
The old man was the only one didnât think he had a nasty case of something. He just thought he was lazy and he had a sly steady look for him: I know what youâre up to, tried it myself, but hell, theyâs a point to stop at and you passed it long ago.
And now, even Daisy, turning round with a long disappointed look at him. He pulled the team up, thinking he would eat, but he couldnât get a bite down.
He thought how Lauraâs mama shook her head over Harold every time she laid eyes on him. Dan couldnât see anything wrong with him. Kids were supposed to be a little dirty and wear old clothes around home. But to her he was such a pitiful sight, maybe he was just closing his eyes to all that was wrong with the boy.
He thought how long he had let that twenty-dollar bill Mr. Johnson slipped him stay in the cupboard, how he vowed to go over and give it right back the very next day but hadnât got around to it somehow, and instead come to say heâd let it lay there and never use it and return the very same one when he had enough for sure never to need it, and then, how he had turned it over to Laura and away it had gone. Gone fast, too, and he wondered was Laura really being careful of her spending. How he had stood around hemming and hawing and looking far-off when Mr. Johnson came again, waiting for him to slip him another, and then being mad when he didnât. Being mad when you didnât get charityâthat was a pretty low comedown.
He leaned back against the tree, worn out, his leg thumping with pain, and let the team stray off down the fencerow. He lay down to rest a while but the sun shifted and bored through the branches as if it wanted to get a look at him. He tried to doze but he could hear that cowbell ringing in his head. Each of his hurts came back to him and he tried to recall the day it happened, hoping to remember something that might seem to deserve such punishment. The details of his troubles began crawling up over the edges of his mind and grew thick, like a gathering swarm of bees. It was not his family nor the people on the streetâhe was the one who had changed. Other men had troubles but they were separate and unconnected, each came and stung and went on. Something was wrong with a man when they came and did their hurt and then stayed, waiting for the next, until theyâd eaten him hollow. He didnât have any troubles any more, he just had one big
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