Read Online The Orchard Keeper (1965) by Cormac McCarthy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cormac McCarthy
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bleeding month of October he watched, looking torpid and heavylidded as a toad, his nerves coiled and tuned like a waiting cat’s.
One evening coming from the store he saw her on the road and she smiled at him and said Hidy. He nodded and went on, heard them giggle behind him. He hadn’t seen her since late in the summer.
He was crossing Saunders’ field and bound for the creek, the homemade crokersack seine riding his shoulder like a tramp’s dunnage. He never saw her until she spoke, leaning against a post with her hands capping the top of it and her chin resting on them. She looked as if she might have been standing there for days with an incalculable patience just waiting for him to come by
.
Well, he thought, she ain’t old enough to own the land to want to run me off of it even if she is big enough. So he said Howdy back to her
.
Your name’s John Wesley, ain’t it?
He started to say, Yesm, but he said, Yep, that’s my name
.
She moved down from the post and came toward him, unhurried, sauntering. She wore a cotton print dress that
buttoned up like a housecoat and where it stretched across her belly or strained to cover her rolling breasts white flesh and pink silk pursed out between the buttons. She pulled a weed and began chewing on it, eying him sidewise, standing in front of him now and favoring one leg so that her hip tilted out. What you doin? she asked
.
Jest messin around, he said
.
Messin around?
Yeah. That’s all
.
She nudged a stone with the toe of her slipper. Who you messin around with?
Why, nobody. Jest me
.
The tips of her breasts were printed in the cloth like coins. She was watching him watch. You ain’t supposed to mess around with yourself, she told him, part of a smile at her mouthcorners and eyes squinting in mischief
.
Who says that? he asked
.
Me. Preacher says that too
.
I got to get on, he said
.
You goin to mess with yourself some more?
He started on and she fell in alongside him. Where you goin? she asked
.
Pond, he said
.
What you goin there for?
Fish
.
Fish. Fishin? You ain’t got a pole
.
Got one over there, he told her
.
Hid. You don’t carry your pole with you?
Nah
.
She giggled
.
They were walking along slow, much slower than he walked. After a while when she didn’t say anything he asked her where she was going
.
Me? she said. I ain’t goin nowhere. Jest messin around. Who you goin to mess around with?
Hmph, she laughed. You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?
Nah. I don’t care who you mess with
.
He walked on, looking up at the trees, the sky
.
You carry your fish in that?
What’s that?
She was pointing at the croker seine. That, she said
.
Oh. Naw, that’s a seine. I got to seine me some minners first afore I go to the pond
.
She didn’t leave. Wading up the creek poking the pole of the seine up under the banks he would see her walking along or standing and watching. Where the honeysuckles thinned at one place she came up to the bank and took off her shoes and kicked at the water with her toes as he went by. When he looked back she was in the creek to her knees with her skirt hiked up and tucked under in the waist of her bloomers and her thighs were incredibly white against the surge of brown water where she walked unsteadily into the current, leaning, her breasts swinging. She caught up to him and splashed water at him. She said:
You don’t know my name, do you?
All right, he said. What’s your name?
What do you care?
I don’t care, you jest…
What’d you ast me for then?
You … I never … He stopped. You was the one ast me if …
Wanita, she said. If you jest got to know. Wanita Tipton. I live over yander. She motioned vaguely beyond the creek, across the late summer ruins of a cornfield, a stand of walnut trees surrounding a stained house with a green tin roof. He nodded, fell to seining again
.
He didn’t have enough floats and the minnows kept going over the back. Still he had half a dozen in the can tied to his
One evening coming from the store he saw her on the road and she smiled at him and said Hidy. He nodded and went on, heard them giggle behind him. He hadn’t seen her since late in the summer.
He was crossing Saunders’ field and bound for the creek, the homemade crokersack seine riding his shoulder like a tramp’s dunnage. He never saw her until she spoke, leaning against a post with her hands capping the top of it and her chin resting on them. She looked as if she might have been standing there for days with an incalculable patience just waiting for him to come by
.
Well, he thought, she ain’t old enough to own the land to want to run me off of it even if she is big enough. So he said Howdy back to her
.
Your name’s John Wesley, ain’t it?
He started to say, Yesm, but he said, Yep, that’s my name
.
She moved down from the post and came toward him, unhurried, sauntering. She wore a cotton print dress that
buttoned up like a housecoat and where it stretched across her belly or strained to cover her rolling breasts white flesh and pink silk pursed out between the buttons. She pulled a weed and began chewing on it, eying him sidewise, standing in front of him now and favoring one leg so that her hip tilted out. What you doin? she asked
.
Jest messin around, he said
.
Messin around?
Yeah. That’s all
.
She nudged a stone with the toe of her slipper. Who you messin around with?
Why, nobody. Jest me
.
The tips of her breasts were printed in the cloth like coins. She was watching him watch. You ain’t supposed to mess around with yourself, she told him, part of a smile at her mouthcorners and eyes squinting in mischief
.
Who says that? he asked
.
Me. Preacher says that too
.
I got to get on, he said
.
You goin to mess with yourself some more?
He started on and she fell in alongside him. Where you goin? she asked
.
Pond, he said
.
What you goin there for?
Fish
.
Fish. Fishin? You ain’t got a pole
.
Got one over there, he told her
.
Hid. You don’t carry your pole with you?
Nah
.
She giggled
.
They were walking along slow, much slower than he walked. After a while when she didn’t say anything he asked her where she was going
.
Me? she said. I ain’t goin nowhere. Jest messin around. Who you goin to mess around with?
Hmph, she laughed. You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?
Nah. I don’t care who you mess with
.
He walked on, looking up at the trees, the sky
.
You carry your fish in that?
What’s that?
She was pointing at the croker seine. That, she said
.
Oh. Naw, that’s a seine. I got to seine me some minners first afore I go to the pond
.
She didn’t leave. Wading up the creek poking the pole of the seine up under the banks he would see her walking along or standing and watching. Where the honeysuckles thinned at one place she came up to the bank and took off her shoes and kicked at the water with her toes as he went by. When he looked back she was in the creek to her knees with her skirt hiked up and tucked under in the waist of her bloomers and her thighs were incredibly white against the surge of brown water where she walked unsteadily into the current, leaning, her breasts swinging. She caught up to him and splashed water at him. She said:
You don’t know my name, do you?
All right, he said. What’s your name?
What do you care?
I don’t care, you jest…
What’d you ast me for then?
You … I never … He stopped. You was the one ast me if …
Wanita, she said. If you jest got to know. Wanita Tipton. I live over yander. She motioned vaguely beyond the creek, across the late summer ruins of a cornfield, a stand of walnut trees surrounding a stained house with a green tin roof. He nodded, fell to seining again
.
He didn’t have enough floats and the minnows kept going over the back. Still he had half a dozen in the can tied to his
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