Read Online The Optimist's Daughter by Eudora Welty - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Eudora Welty
Ads: Link
to Roscoe, Grandma?” Wendell asked, abandoning the coffin to hang over her lap and look up into her face.
“Son, you’ve heard me tell it. Stuffed up the windows, stuffed up the door, turned on all four eyes of the stove and the oven,” said Mrs. Chisom indulgently. “Fire Department drug him out, rushed him to the Baptist Hospital in the firewagon, tried all their tricks, but they couldn’t get ahead of Roscoe. He was in Heaven already.”
“He beat the fire engines? Was you there, Grandma?” Wendell cried. “You see him beat ’em?”
“I’m his mother. Well, his mother could sit and be thankful he didn’t do nothing any more serious to harm his looks. He hated more than anything having remarks made against him. In his coffin he was pretty as a girl. Honey, he just stretched him out easy and put his head on a pillow and waited till he’d quit breathing. Don’t you ever let me hear you tried that, Wendell,” said Mrs. Chisom.
Wendell turned and looked back at Judge McKelva.
“Roscoe told his friends in Orange, Texas, what he was figuring on doing. When it’s all done, they wrote and told me he’d called ’em up crying and they went and cried with him. ‘Cried with him?’ I wrote those people back. ‘Why couldn’t you-all have told hismother?’ I can’t get over people. I says on my card, ‘I had the bus fare. I’m not that poor. I had the round-trip from Madrid to Orange and back again.’ ” She was patting both feet.
“He’s better off, Mama,” said Sis. “Better off, just like Judge McKelva laying yonder. Tell yourself the same thing I do.”
“I wrote another card and said at least tell his mother what had been fretting my son, if they knew so much, and they finally got around to answering that Roscoe didn’t want me to know,” Mrs. Chisom said, her face arranging itself all at once into an expression of innocence. It lasted for only a minute. She went on, “Roscoe was my mainstay when Mr. Chisom went. They said, ‘Prepare your mind, Mrs. Chisom. Mr. Chisom is not going to go anywhere but downhill.’ They was guessing right, that time, the doctors was. He went down fast and we buried him back in Mississippi, back in Bigbee, and there on the spot I called Roscoe to me.” She pulled Wendell to her now. “ ‘Roscoe,’ I says, ‘you’re the mainstay now,’ I says. ‘You’re the head of the Chisom family.’ He was so happy.”
Wendell began to cry. Laurel wanted at that moment to reach out for him, put her arms around him—to guard him. He was like a young, undriven, unfalsifying, unvindictive Fay. So Fay might have appeared, just at the beginning, to her aging father, with his slipping eyesight.
At that moment, Wendell broke from Mrs. Chisomand ran tearing toward the hallway. He threw his arms around the knees of an old man whom Miss Adele was just showing in from the hall.
“Grandpa Chisom! I can’t believe my eyes! It’s Grandpa!” Sis cried out.
Wendell at his side, the old man came slowly into the parlor and through the crowd, carrying a yellowed candy box in one hand and a paper sack in the other. Wendell had possession of his old black hat. He came up to Laurel and said, “Young lady, I carried you some Bigbee pecans. I thought you might not harvest their like around here. They’re last year’s.” He held onto his parcels while he explained that he had sat up most of last night, after walking to the crossroads to flag down the bus at three this morning, and had shelled the nuts on the way, to keep awake. “Where I got lost was after I got inside of Mount Salus,” he said, giving the box to Laurel. “That’s the meats. You can just throw the shells away for me,” he added, handing her the sack. “I didn’t like to leave ’em in that nice warm seat for the next passenger.” He carefully dusted his hands before he turned toward the casket.
“Who you think it is, Grandpa?” asked Wendell.
“It’s Mr. McKelva. I reckon he stood whatever it
“Son, you’ve heard me tell it. Stuffed up the windows, stuffed up the door, turned on all four eyes of the stove and the oven,” said Mrs. Chisom indulgently. “Fire Department drug him out, rushed him to the Baptist Hospital in the firewagon, tried all their tricks, but they couldn’t get ahead of Roscoe. He was in Heaven already.”
“He beat the fire engines? Was you there, Grandma?” Wendell cried. “You see him beat ’em?”
“I’m his mother. Well, his mother could sit and be thankful he didn’t do nothing any more serious to harm his looks. He hated more than anything having remarks made against him. In his coffin he was pretty as a girl. Honey, he just stretched him out easy and put his head on a pillow and waited till he’d quit breathing. Don’t you ever let me hear you tried that, Wendell,” said Mrs. Chisom.
Wendell turned and looked back at Judge McKelva.
“Roscoe told his friends in Orange, Texas, what he was figuring on doing. When it’s all done, they wrote and told me he’d called ’em up crying and they went and cried with him. ‘Cried with him?’ I wrote those people back. ‘Why couldn’t you-all have told hismother?’ I can’t get over people. I says on my card, ‘I had the bus fare. I’m not that poor. I had the round-trip from Madrid to Orange and back again.’ ” She was patting both feet.
“He’s better off, Mama,” said Sis. “Better off, just like Judge McKelva laying yonder. Tell yourself the same thing I do.”
“I wrote another card and said at least tell his mother what had been fretting my son, if they knew so much, and they finally got around to answering that Roscoe didn’t want me to know,” Mrs. Chisom said, her face arranging itself all at once into an expression of innocence. It lasted for only a minute. She went on, “Roscoe was my mainstay when Mr. Chisom went. They said, ‘Prepare your mind, Mrs. Chisom. Mr. Chisom is not going to go anywhere but downhill.’ They was guessing right, that time, the doctors was. He went down fast and we buried him back in Mississippi, back in Bigbee, and there on the spot I called Roscoe to me.” She pulled Wendell to her now. “ ‘Roscoe,’ I says, ‘you’re the mainstay now,’ I says. ‘You’re the head of the Chisom family.’ He was so happy.”
Wendell began to cry. Laurel wanted at that moment to reach out for him, put her arms around him—to guard him. He was like a young, undriven, unfalsifying, unvindictive Fay. So Fay might have appeared, just at the beginning, to her aging father, with his slipping eyesight.
At that moment, Wendell broke from Mrs. Chisomand ran tearing toward the hallway. He threw his arms around the knees of an old man whom Miss Adele was just showing in from the hall.
“Grandpa Chisom! I can’t believe my eyes! It’s Grandpa!” Sis cried out.
Wendell at his side, the old man came slowly into the parlor and through the crowd, carrying a yellowed candy box in one hand and a paper sack in the other. Wendell had possession of his old black hat. He came up to Laurel and said, “Young lady, I carried you some Bigbee pecans. I thought you might not harvest their like around here. They’re last year’s.” He held onto his parcels while he explained that he had sat up most of last night, after walking to the crossroads to flag down the bus at three this morning, and had shelled the nuts on the way, to keep awake. “Where I got lost was after I got inside of Mount Salus,” he said, giving the box to Laurel. “That’s the meats. You can just throw the shells away for me,” he added, handing her the sack. “I didn’t like to leave ’em in that nice warm seat for the next passenger.” He carefully dusted his hands before he turned toward the casket.
“Who you think it is, Grandpa?” asked Wendell.
“It’s Mr. McKelva. I reckon he stood whatever it
Similar Books
