The Displaced Person

By Flannery O’ Connor

1954
 
THE PEACOCK was following Mrs. Shortley up the road to the
hill where she meant to stand. Moving one behind the other,
they looked like a complete procession. Her arms were folded and as
she mounted the prominence, she might have been the giant wife
of the countryside, come out at some sign of danger to see what the
trouble was. She stood on two tremendous legs, with the grand
self-confidence of a mountain, and rose, up narrowing bulges of
granite, to two icy blue points of light that pierced forward, surveying
everything. She ignored the white afternoon sun which was
creeping behind a ragged wall of cloud as if it pretended to be an
intruder and cast her gaze down the red clay road that turned off
from the highway.
  The peacock stopped just behind her, his tail--glittering greengold
and blue in the sunlight-lifted just enough so that it would
not touch the ground. It flowed out on either side like a floating
train and his head on the long blue reed-like neck was drawn back
as if his attention were fixed in the distance on something no one
else could see.
  Mrs. Shortley was watching a black car turn through the gate
from the highway. Over by the toolshed, about fifteen feet away, the
two Negroes, Astor and Sulk, had stopped work to watch. They
were hidden by a mulberry tree but Mrs. Shortley knew they were
there.
  Mrs. McIntyre was coming down the steps of her house to meet
the car. She had on her largest smile but Mrs. Shortley, even from
her distance, could detect a nervous slide in it. These people who
were coming were only hired help, like the Shortleys themselves or
the Negroes. Yet here was the owner of the place out to welcome
them. Here she was, wearing her best clothes and a string of beads,
and now bounding forward with her mouth stretched.
  The car stopped at the walk just as she did and the priest was the
first to get out. He was a long-legged black-suited old man with a
white hat on and a collar that he wore backwards, which, Mrs.
Shortley knew, was what priests did who wanted to be known as
priests. It was this priest who had arranged for these people to come
here. He opened the back door of the car and out jumped two
children, a boy and a girl, and then, stepping more slowly, a woman
in brown, shaped like a peanut. Then the front door opened and
out stepped the man, the Displaced Person. He was short and a
little sway-backed and wore gold-rimmed spectacles.
  Mrs. Shortley's vision narrowed on him and then widened to
include the woman and the two children in a group picture. The
first thing that struck her as very peculiar was that they looked
like other people. Every time she had seen then in her imagination,
the image she had got was of the three bears, walking single
file, with wooden shoes on like Dutchmen and sailor hats and
bright coats with a lot of buttons. But the woman had on a dress
she might have worn herself and the children wen' dressed like anybody
from around. The man had on khaki pants and a blue shirt.
Suddenly, as Mrs. McIntyre held out her hands to him, he bobbed
down from the waist and kissed it.
  Mrs. Shortley jerked her own hand up toward her mouth and
then after a second brought it down and rubbed it vigorously on
her seat. If Mr. Shortley had tried to kiss her hand Mrs. McIntyre
would have knocked him into the middle of next week, but then
Mr. Shortley wouldn't have kissed her hand anyway. He didn't
have time to mess around.
  She looked closer, squinting. The boy was in the center of the
group, talking. He was supposed to speak the most English because
he had learned some in Poland and so he was to listen to his father's
Polish and say it in English and then listen to Mrs. McIntyre's
English and say that in Polish. The priest had told Mrs. McIntyre
his name was Rudolph and he was twelve and the girl’s name was
Sledgewig and she was nine. Sledgewig sounded to Mrs. Shortley
like something you would name a bug, or vice versa as if you named
a boy Bollweevil. All of them's last name was something that only
they themselves and the priest could pronounce. All she could make
out of it was Gobblehook. She and Mrs. Mcintyre had been calling
them the Gobblehooks all week while they got ready for them.
  There had been a great deal to do to get ready for them because
they didn't have anything of their own, not a stick of furniture or
a sheet or a dish, and everything had had to be scraped together
out of things that Mrs. McIntyre couldn't use anymore herself.
They had collected a piece of odd furniture here and a piece there
and they had taken some flowered chicken feed sacks and made curtains
for the windows, two red and one green, because they had not
had enough of the red sacks to go around. Mrs. McIntyre said she
was not made of money and she could not afford to buy curtains.
"They can't talk," Mrs. Shortley said. "You reckon they'll know
what colors even is?" and Mrs. McIntyre had said that after what
those people had been through, they should be grateful for anything
they could get. She said to think how lucky they were to
escape from over there and come to a place like this.
  Mrs. Shortley recalled a newsreel she had seen once of a small
room piled high with bodies of dead naked people all in a heap,
their arms and legs tangled together, a head thrust in here, a head
there, a foot, a knee, a part that should have been covered up sticking
out, a hand raised clutching nothing. Before you could realize
that it was real and take it into your head, the picture changed and
a hollow-sounding voice was saying, "Time marches on!" This was
the kind of thing that was happening every day in Europe where
they had not advanced as in this country, and watching from her
vantage point, Mrs. Shortley had the sudden intuition that the
Gobblehooks, like rats with typhoid fleas, could have carried all
those murderous ways over the water with them directly to this
place. If they had come from where that kind of thing was done to
them, who was to say they were not the kind that would also do it
to others? The width and breadth of this question nearly shook
her. Her stomach trembled as if there had been a slight quake in
the heart of the mountain and automatically she moved down from
her elevation and went forward to be introduced to them, as if she
meant to find out at once what they were capable of.
  She approached, stomach foremost, head back, arms folded, boots
flopping gently against her large legs. About fifteen feet from the
gesticulating group, she stopped and made her presence felt by
training her gaze on the back of Mrs. Mcl ntyre's neck. Mrs. Me-
Intyre was a small woman of sixty with a round wrinkled face and
red bangs that came almost down to two high orange-colored
penciled eyebrows. She had a little doll's mouth and eyes that were
a soft blue when she opened them wide but more like steel or
granite when she narrowed them to inspect a milk can. She had
buried one husband and divorced two and Mrs. Shortley respected
her as a person nobody had put anything over on yet--except, ha,
ha, perhaps the Shortleys. She held out her arm in Mrs. Shortley's
direction and said to the Rudolph boy, "And this is Mrs. Shortley.
Mr. Shortley is my dairyman. Where's Mr. Shortley ," she asked as
his wife began to approach again, her arms still folded. "I want him
to meet the Guizacs."
  Now it was Guizac. She wasn't calling them Gobblehook to their
face. "Chancey's at the barn," Mrs. Shortley said. "He don't have
time to rest himself in the bushes like them niggers over there."
  Her look first grazed the tops of the displaced people's heads and
then revolved downwards slowly, the way a buzzard glides and
drops in the air until it alights on the carcass. She stood far enough
away so that the man would not be able to kiss her hand. He looked
directly at her with little green eyes and gave her a broad grin that
was toothless on one side. Mrs. Shortley, without smiling, turned
her attention to the little girl who stood by the mother, swinging
her shoulders from side to side. She had long braided hair in two
looped pigtails and there was no denying she was a pretty child
even if she did have a bug's name. She was better looking than
either Annie Maude or Sarah Mae, Mrs. Shortleys two girls going
on fifteen and seventeen but Annie Maude had never got her
growth and Sarah Mae had a cast in her eye. She compared the
foreign boy to her son, H.C., and H.C. came out far ahead. H.C.
was twenty years old with her build and eyeglasses. He was going
to Bible school now and when he finished he was going to start
him a church. He had a strong sweet voice for hymns and could
sell anything. Mrs. Shortley looked at the priest and was reminded
that these people did not have an advanced religion. There was no
telling what all they believed since none of the foolishness had
been reformed out of it. Again she saw the room piled high with
bodies.
  The priest spoke in a foreign way himself, English but as if he
had a throatful of hay. He had a big nose and a bald rectangular face
and head. While she was observing him, his large mouth dropped
open and with a stare behind her, he said, "Arrrrrrr!" and pointed.
Mrs. Shortley spun around. The peacock was standing a few feet
behind her, with his head slightly cocked.
  "What a beauti-ful birdrrrd!" the priest murmured.
  "Another mouth to feed," Mrs. McIntyre said, glancing in the
  peafowl's direction.
  "And when does he raise his splendid tail?” Asked the priest.
"Just when it suits him," she said. "There used to be twenty or
thirty of those things on the place but I've let them die off. I don't
like to hear them scream in the middle of the night."
  "So beauti-ful," the priest said. "A tail full of suns," and he crept
forward on tiptoe and looked down on the bird's back where the
polished gold and green design began. The peacock stood still as
if he had just come down from some sun-drenched height to be a
vision for them all. The priest's homely red face hung over him,
glowing with pleasure.
  Mrs. Shortley's mouth had drawn acidly to one side. "Nothing
but a peachicken," she muttered.
  Mrs. Mcintyre raised her orange eyebrows and exchanged a look
with her to indicate that the old man was in his second childhood.
"Well, we must show the Guizacs their new home," she said impatiently
and she herded them into the car again. The peacock
stepped off toward the mulberry tree where the two Negroes were
hiding and the priest turned his absorbed face away and got in the
car and drove the displaced people down to the shack they were to
occupy.
  Mrs. Shortley waited until the car was out of sight and then she
made her way circuitously to the mulberry tree and stood about
ten feet behind the two Negroes, one an old man holding a bucket
half full of calf feed and the other a yellowish boy with a short
woodchuck-like head pushed into a rounded felt hat. "Well," she
said slowly, "yawl have looked long enough. What you think about
them?"
  The old man, Astor, raised himself. "We been watching," he said
as if this would be news to her. "Who they now?"
  "They come from over the water," Mrs. Shortley said with a wave
of her arm. "They're what is called Displaced Persons."
  "Displaced Persons," he said. "Well now. I declare. What do
that mean?"
  "It means they ain't where they were born at and there's nowhere
for them to go--like if you was run out of here and wouldn't
nobody have you."
  "It seem like they here, though," the old man said in a reflective
voice. "If they here, they somewhere."
  "Sho is," the other agreed. "They here."
  The illogic of Negro-thinking always irked Mrs. Shortley. "They
ain't where they belong to be at," she said. "They belong to be
back over yonder where everything is still like they been used to.
Over here it's more advanced than where they come from. But yawl
better look out now," she said and nodded her head. "There's about
ten million billion more just like them and I know what Mrs.
McIntyre said."
  "Say what?" the young one asked.
  "Places are not easy to get nowadays, for white or black, but I
reckon I heard what she stated to me," she said in a sing-song voice.
"You liable to hear most anything," the old man remarked, leaning
forward as if he were about to walk off but holding himself
suspended.
  "I heard her say, 'This is going to put the Fear of the Lord into
those shiftless niggers!'" Mrs. Shortley said in a ringing voice.
  The old man started off. "She say something like that every now
and then," he said. "Ha, Ha. Yes indeed."
  "You better get on in that barn and help Mr. Shortley," she said
to the other one. "What you reckon she pays you for?"
  "He the one sent me out," the Negro muttered. "He the one
gimme something else to do."
  "Well you better get to doing it then," she said and stood there
until he moved off. Then she stood a while longer, reflecting, her
unseeing eyes directly in front of the peacock's tail. He had jumped
into the tree and his tail hung in front of her, full of fierce planets
with eyes that were each ringed in green and set against a sun that
was gold in one second's light and salmon-colored in the next. She
might have been looking at a map of the universe but she didn't
notice it any more than she did the spots of sky that cracked the
dull green of the tree. She was having an inner vision instead. She
was seeing the ten million billion of them pushing their way into
new places over here and herself, a giant angel with wings as wide
as a house, telling the Negroes that they would have to find another
place. She turned herself in the direction of the barn, musing
on this, her expression lofty and satisfied.
  She approached the barn from an oblique angle that allowed her a
look in the door before she could be seen herself. Mr. Chancey
Shortley was adjusting the last milking machine on a large black
and white spotted cow near the entrance, squatting at her heels.
There was about a half-inch of cigarette adhering to the center of
his lower lip. Mrs. Shortley observed it minutely for half a second.
"If she seen or heard of you smoking in this barn, she would blow
a fuse," she said.
  Mr. Shortley raised a sharply rutted face containing a washout
under each cheek and two long crevices eaten down both sides of
his blistered mouth. "You gonter be the one to tell her?" he asked.
"She's got a nose of her own," Mrs. Shortley said.
  Mr. Shortley, without :appearing to give the feat any consideration,
lifted the cigarette stub with the sharp end of his tongue, drew
it into his mouth, closed his lips tightly, rose, stepped out, gave his
wife a good round appreciative stare, and spit the smoldering butt
into the grass.
  "Aw Chancey," she said, "haw haw," and she dug a little hole
for it with her toe and covered it up. This trick of Mr. Shortley's
was actually his way of making love to her. When he had done his
courting, he had not brought a guitar to strum or anything pretty
for her to keep, but had sat on her porch steps, not saying a word,
imitating a paralyzed man propped up to enjoy a cigarette. When
the cigarette got the proper size, he would turn his eyes to her and
open his mouth and draw in the butt and then sit there as if he
had swallowed it, looking at her with the most loving look anybody
could imagine. It nearly drove her wild and every time he did it,
she wanted to pull his hat down over his eyes and hug him to death.
  "Well," she said, going into the barn after him, "the Gobblehooks
have come and she wants you to meet them, says, 'Where's Mr.
Shortley ?' and I says, 'He don't have time .. .' "
  "Tote up them weights," Mr. Shortley said, squatting to the
cow again.
  "You reckon he can drive a tractor when he don't know English?"
she asked. "I don't think she's going to get her money’s worth out
of them. That boy can talk but he looks delicate. The one can work
can't talk and the one can talk can’t work. She ain't any better off
than if she had more niggers.'
  "I rather have a nigger if it was me," Mr. Shortley said.
  "She says it's ten million more like them. Displaced Persons, she
says that there priest can get her all she wants."
  "She better quit messin with that there priest," Mr. Shortley said.
  "He don't look smart," Mrs. Shortley said, "--kind of foolish."
  "I ain't going to have the Pope of Rome tell me how to run no
dairy," Mr. Shortley said.
  "They ain't Eye-talians, they're Poles," she said. "From Poland
where all them bodies were stacked up at. You remember all them
bodies ?"
  "I give them three weeks here," Mr. Shortley said.

  Three weeks later Mrs. McIntyre and Mrs. Shortley drove to the
cane bottom to see Mr. Guizac start to operate the silage cutter, a
new machine that Mrs. McIntyre had just bought because she said,
for the first time, she had somebody who could operate it. Mr.
Guizac could drive a tractor, use the rotary hay-baler, the silage
cutter, the combine, the letz mill, or any other machine she had on
the place. He was an expert mechanic, a carpenter, and a mason.
He was thrifty and energetic. Mrs. McIntyre said she figured he
would save her twenty dollars a month on repair bills alone. She
said getting him was the best day's work she had ever done in her
life. He could work milking machines and he was scrupulously
clean. He did not smoke.
  She parked her car on the edge of the cane field and they got
out. Sulk, the young Negro, was attaching the wagon to the cutter
and Mr. Guizac was attaching the cutter to the tractor. He finished
first and pushed the colored boy out of the way and attached the
wagon to the cutter himself, gesticulating with a bright angry face
when he wanted the hammer or the screwdriver. Nothing was done
quick enough to suit him. The Negroes made him nervous.
  The week before, he had come upon Sulk at the dinner hour,
sneaking with a croker sack into the pen where the young turkeys
were. He had watched him take a frying-size turkey from the lot
and thrust it in the sack and put the sack under his coat. Then he
had followed him around the barn, jumped on him, dragged him to
Mrs. McIntyre's back door and had acted out the entire scene for her,
while the Negro muttered and grumbled and said God might
strike him dead if he had been stealing any turkey, he had only
been taking it to put some black shoe polish on its head because
it had the sorehead. God might strike him dead if that was not the
truth before Jesus. Mrs. McIntyre told him to go put the turkey
back and then she was a long time explaining to the Pole that all
Negroes would steal. She finally had to call Rudolph and tell him
in English and have him tell his father in Polish, and Mr. Guizac
had gone off with a startled disappointed face.
  Mrs. Shortley stood by hoping there would be trouble with the
silage machine but there was none. All of Mr. Cuizac's motions
were quick and accurate. He jumped on the tractor like a monkey
and maneuvered the big orange cutter into the lane; in a second the
silage was spurting in a green jet out of the pipe into the wagon.
He went jolting down the row until his disappeared from sight and
the noise became remote.
  Mrs. McIntyre sighed with pleasure. "At Last," she said, "I've
got somebody I can depend on. For years I've been fooling with
sorry people. Sorry people. Poor white trash and niggers," she
muttered. "They've drained me dry. Before you all came I had
Ringfields and Collins and Jarrells and Perkins and Pinkins and
Herrins and God knows what all else and not a one of them left
without taking something off this place that didn't belong to them.
Not a one!"
  Mrs. Shortley could listen to this with composure because she
knew that if Mrs. McIntyre had considered her trash, they couldn't
have talked about trashy people together. Neither of them approved
of trash. Mrs. McIntyre continued with the monologue that Mrs.
Shortley had heard oftentimes before. "I've been running this place
for thirty years," she said, looking with a deep frown out over the
field, "and always just barely making it. People think you're made
of money. I have taxes to pay. I have the insurance to keep up. I
have the repair bills. I have the feed bills." It all gathered up and
she stood with her chest lifted and her small hands gripped around
her elbows. "Ever since the Judge died," she said, "I've barely been
making ends meet and they all take something when they leave. The
niggers don't leave-they stay and steal. A nigger thinks anybody
is rich he can steal from and that white trash thinks anybody is
rich who can afford to hire people as sorry as they are. And all I've
got is the dirt under my feet!"
  You hire and fire, Mrs. Shortley thought, but she didn't always
say what she thought. She stood by and let Mrs. McIntyre say it all
out to the end but this time it didn't end as usual. "But at last I'm
saved!" Mrs. McIntyre said. "One fellow's misery is the other fellow's
gain. That man there," and she pointed where the Displaced
Person had disappeared, "--he has to work! He wants to work!"
She turned to Mrs. Shortley with her bright wrinkled face. "That
man is my salvation!" she said.
  Mrs. Shortley looked straight ahead as if her vision penetrated
the cane and the hill and pierced through to the other side. "I
would suspicion salvation got from the devil," she said in a slow
detached way.
  "Now what do you mean by that?" Mrs. McIntyre asked, looking
at her sharply.
  Mrs. Shortley wagged her head but would not say anything else.
The fact was she had nothing else to say for this intuition had only
at that instant come to her. She had never given much thought to
the devil for she felt that religion was essentially for those people
who didn't have the brains to avoid evil without it. For people like
herself, for people of gumption, it was a social occasion providing
the opportunity to sing; but if she had ever given it much thought,
she would have considered the devil the head of it and God the
hanger-on. With the coming of these displaced people, she was
obliged to give new thought to a good many things.
  "I know what Sledgewig told Annie Maude" she said, and when
Mrs. McIntyre carefully did not ask her what but reached down
and broke off a sprig of sassafras to chew, she continued in a way
to indicate she was not telling all, "that they wouldn't be able to live
long, the four of them, on seventy dollars a month."
  "He's worth raising," Mrs. McIntyre said. "He saves me money."
This was as much as to say that Chancey had never saved her
money. Chancey got up at four in the morning to milk her cows,
in winter wind and summer heat, and he had been doing it for the
last two years. They had been with her the longest she had ever had
anybody. The gratitude they got was these hints that she hadn't
been saved any money.
  "Is Mr. Shortley feeling better today?" Mrs. McIntyre asked.
  Mrs. Shortley thought it was about time she was asking that question.
  Mr. Shortley had been in bed two days with an attack. Mr.
Guizac had taken his place in the dairy in addition to doing his
own work. "No he ain't," she said. "That doctor said he was suffering
from over-exhaustion."
  "If Mr. Shortley is over-exhausted," Mrs. McIntyre said, "then he
must have a second job on the side," and she looked at Mrs.
Shortley with almost closed eyes as if she were examining the bottom
of a milk can.
  Mrs. Shortley did not say a word but her dark suspicion grew
like a black thunder cloud. The fact was that Mr. Shortley did
have a second job on the side and that, in a free country, this was
none of Mrs. McIntyre's business. Mr. Shortley made whisky. He
had a small still back in the farthest reaches of the place, on Mrs.
McIntyre's land to be sure, but on land that she only owned and
did not cultivate, on idle land that was not doing anybody any good.
Mr. Shortley was not afraid of work. He got up at four in the morning
and milked her cows and in the middle of the day when he was
supposed to be resting, he was off attending to his still. Not every
man would work like that. The Negroes knew about his still but he
knew about theirs so there had never been any disagreeableness between
them. But with foreigners on the place, with people who were
all eyes and no understanding, who had come from a place continually
fighting, where the religion had not been reformed-with
this kind of people, you had to be on the lookout every minute. She
thought there ought to be a law against them. There was no reason
they couldn't stay over there and take the places of some of the
people who had been killed in their wars and butcherings.
  "What's furthermore," she said suddenly, "Sledgewig said as soon
as her papa saved the money, he was going to buy him a used car.
Once they get them a used car, they'll leave you."
  "I can't pay him enough for him to save money," Mrs. McIntyre
said. "I'm not worrying about that. Of course," she said then, "if
Mr. Shortley got incapacitated, I would have to use Mr. Guizac in
the dairy all the time and I would have to pay him more. He doesn't
smoke," she said, and it was the fifth time within the week that
she had pointed this out.
  "It is no man," Mrs. Shortley said emphatically, "that works as
hard as Chancey, or is as easy with a cow, or is more of a Christian,"
and she folded her arms and her gaze pierced the distance. The
noise of the tractor and cutter increased and Mr. Guizac appeared
coming around the other side of the cane row. "Which can not be
said about everybody," she muttered. She wondered whether, if the
Pole found Chancey's still, he would know what it was. The trouble
with these people was, you couldn't tell what they knew. Every
time Mr. Guizac smiled, Europe stretched out in Mrs. Shortley's
imagination, mysterious and evil, the devil's experiment station.
The tractor, the cutter, the wagon passed, rattling and rumbling
and grinding before them. "Think how long that would have taken
with men and mules to do it," Mrs. McIntyre shouted. "We'll get
this whole bottom cut within two days at this rate."
  "Maybe," Mrs. Shortley muttered, "if don't no terrible accident
occur." She thought how the tractor had made mules worthless.
Nowadays you couldn't give away a mule. The next thing to go,
she reminded herself, will be niggers.
  In the afternoon she explained what was going to happen to them
to Astor and Sulk who were in the cow lot, filling the manure
spreader. She sat down next to the block of salt under a small shed,
her stomach in her lap, her arms on top of it. "All you colored people
better look out," she said. "You know how much you can get for a
mule."
  "Nothing, no indeed," the old man said, "not one thing."
  "Before it was a tractor," she said, "it could be a mule. And before
it was a Displaced Person, it could be a nigger. The time is going
to come," she prophesied, "when it won't be no more occasion to
speak of a nigger."
  The old man laughed politely. "Yes indeed" he said. "Ha ha."
  The young one didn't say anything. He only looked sullen but
when she had gone in the house, he said, "Big Belly act like she
know everything."
  "Never mind," the old man said, "your place too low for anybody
to dispute with you for it."
  She didn't tell her fears about the still to Mr. Shortley until he was
back on the job in the dairy. Then one night after they were in bed,
she said, "That man prowls."
  Mr. Shortley folded his hands on his bony chest and pretended
he was a corpse.
  "Prowls," she continued and gave him a sharp kick in the side
with her knee. "Who's to say what they know and don't know?
Who's to say if he found it he wouldn't go right to her and tell?
How you know they don't make liquor in Europe? They drive
tractors. They got them all kinds of machinery. Answer me."
  "Don't worry me now," Mr. Shortlev said. "I’m a dead man."
  "It's them little eyes of his that's foreign." She muttered. "And
that way he's got of shrugging." She drew her shoulders up and
shrugged several times. "How come he's got everything to shrug
about?" she asked.
  "If everybody was as dead as I am, nobody would have no
trouble," Mr. Shortley said.
  "That priest," she muttered and was silent or a minute. Then
she said, "In Europe they probably got some different way to make
liquor but I reckon they know all the ways. They’re full of crooked
ways. They never have advanced or reformed. They got the same
religion as a thousand years ago. It could only be the devil responsible
for that. Always fighting amongst each other. Disputing. And
then get us into it. Ain't they got us into it twict already and we
ain't got no more sense than to go over there and settle it for them
and then they come on back over here and snoop around and find
your still and go straight to her. And liable to kiss her hand any
minute. Do you hear me?"
  "No," Mr. Shortley said.
  "And I'll tell you another thing," she said. ' I wouldn't be at all
surprised if he don't know everything you say. whether it be in
English or not."
  "I don't speak no other language," Mr. Shortley murmured.
  "I suspect," she said, "that before long there  won’t be no more
niggers on this place. And I tell you what. I'd rather have niggers
than them Poles. And what's furthermore,  I aim to take up for the
niggers when the time comes. When Gobblehook first come here,
you recollect how he shook their hands. like he  didn't know the
difference, like he might have been as black as them, but when it
come to finding out Sulk was taking turkeys, he gone on and told
her. I known he was taking turkeys. I could have  told her myself."
  Mr. Shortley was breathing softly as if he were asleep.
  "A nigger don't know when he has a friend,” She said. "And I'll
tell you another thing. I get a heap out of Sledgewig. Sledgewig
said that in Poland they lived in a brick house and one night a
man come and told them to get out of it before daylight.
Do you believe they ever lived in a brick house;
  "Airs," she said. "That's Just airs. A wooden house is good
enough for me. Chancey," she said, "turn thisaway", I hate to see
niggers mistreated and run out. I have a heap of pity  for niggers
and poor folks. Ain't I always had?” she asked. "I  say ain't I
always been a friend to niggers and poor  folk?
  "When the time comes," she said, "I’ll stand up for the niggers
and that's that. I ain't going to see that  priest  drive out all the
niggers."

 Mrs. McIntyre bought a  new drag harrow and a tractor with a 
power lift because she said, for the first time, she had some one who
could handle machinery. She and Mrs Shortley had driven to the
back field to inspect what he had harrowed the day before.  “That’s 
been done beautifully!" Mrs. McIntyre  said, looking out over he
red undulating ground.
  Mrs. McIntyre had changed since the  t Displaced Person had
working for her and Mrs. Shortley had observed the change very
closely: she had begun to act like somebody who was getting rich
secretly and she didn't confide in Mrs. Shortley the way she used
to. Mrs. Shortley suspected that the priest was at the bottom of the
change. They were very slick. First he would get her into his
Church and then he would get his hand in her pocketbook. Well,
Mrs. Shortley thought, the more fool she! Mrs. Shortley had a
secret herself. She knew something the Displaced Person was doing
that would floor Mrs. McIntyre. "I still say he ain't going to work
forever for seventy dollars a month," she murmured. She intended
to keep her secret to herself and Mr. Shortley.
  "Well," Mrs. McIntyre said, "I may have to get rid of some of
this other help so I can pay him more."
  Mrs. Shortley nodded to indicate she had known this for some
time. ''I'm not saying those niggers ain't had it coming," she said.
  "But they do the best they know how. You can always tell a nigger
what to do and stand by until he does it."
  "That's what the Judge said," Mrs. McIntyre said and looked at
her with approval. The Judge was her first husband, the one who
had left her the place. Mrs. Shortley had heard that she had married
him when she was thirty and he was seventy-five, thinking she
would be rich as soon as he died, but the old man was a scoundrel
and when his estate was settled, they found he didn't have a
nickel. All he left her were the fifty acres and the house. But she
always spoke of him in a reverent way and quoted his sayings, such
as, "One fellow's misery is the other fellow's gain," and "The devil
you know is better than the devil you don't."
  "However," Mrs. Shortley remarked, "the devil you know is better
than the devil you don't," and she had to turn away so that Mrs.
McIntyre would not see her smile. She had found out what the Displaced
Person was up to through the old man, Astor, and she had
not told anybody but Mr. Shortley. Mr. Shortley had risen straight
up in bed like Lazarus from the tomb.
  "Shut your mouth!" he had said.
  "Yes," she had said.
  "Naw!" Mr. Shortley had said.
 "Yes," she had said.
  Mr. Shortley had fallen back flat.
  "The Pole don't know any better," Mrs. Shortley had said. "I
reckon that priest is putting him up to it is all. I blame the priest."
The priest came frequently to see the Guizacs and he would
always stop in and visit Mrs. McIntyre too and they would walk
around the place and she would point out her improvements and
listen to his rattling talk. It suddenly came to Mrs. Shortley that he
was trying to persuade her to bring another Polish family onto the
place. With two of them here, there would be almost nothing spoken
but Polish! The Negroes would be gone and there would be the two
families against Mr. Shortley and herself! She began to imagine a
war of words, to see the Polish words and the English words coming
at each other, stalking forward, not sentences, just words, gabble
gabble gabble, flung out high and shrill and stalking forward and
then grappling with each other. She saw the Polish words, dirty
and all-knowing and unreformed, flinging mud on the clean English
words until everything was equally dirty. She saw them all piled
up in a room, all the dead dirty words, theirs and hers too, piled up
like the naked bodies in the newsreel. God save me, she cried
silently, from the stinking power of Satan! And she started from
that day to read her Bible with a new attention. She poured over
the Apocalypse and began to quote from the Prophets and before
long she had come to a deeper understanding of her existence. She
saw plainly that the meaning of the world was a mystery that
had been planned and she was not surprised to suspect that she
had a special part in the plan because she was strong. She saw
that the Lord God Almighty had created the strong people to do
what had to be done and she felt that she would be ready when she
was called. Right now she felt that her business was to watch the
priest.
  His visits irked her more and more. On the last one, he went
about picking up feathers off the ground. He found two peacock
feathers and four or five turkey feathers and an old brown hen
feather and took them off with him like a bouquet. This foolish acting
did not deceive Mrs. Shanley any. Here he was: leading
foreigners over in hordes to places that were not theirs, to cause
disputes, to uproot niggers, to plant the Whore of Babylon in the
midst of the righteous! Whenever he came on the place, she hid
herself behind something and watched until he left.

  It was on a Sunday afternoon that she had her vision. She had
gone to drive in the cows for Mr. Shortley who had a pain in his
knee and she was walking slowly through the pasture, her arms
folded, her eyes on the distant low-lying clouds that looked like
rows and rows of white fish washed up on a great blue beach. She
paused after an incline to heave a sigh of exhaustion for she had
an immense weight to carry around and she  was not as young as
she used to be. At times she could feel her heart, like a child's fist,
clenching and unclenching inside her chest, aid when the feeling
came, it stopped her thought altogether and she would go about like
a large hull of herself, moving for no reason; but she gained this
incline without a tremor and stood at the top of it, pleased with
herself. Suddenly while she watched, the sky folded back in two
pieces like the curtain to a stage and a gigantic" figure stood facing
her. It was the color of the sun in the early afternoon, white-gold.
It was of no definite shape but there were fiery, wheels with fierce
dark eyes in them, spinning rapidly all around it. She was not able
to tell if the figure was going forward or backward because its
magnificence was so great. She shut her eyes in order to look at it
and it turned blood-red and the wheels turned white. A voice, very
resonant, said the one word, "Prophesy!”
  She stood there, tottering slightly but still upright, her eyes shut
tight and her fists clenched and her straw hat low on her
forehead. "The children of wicked nations will be butchered," she
said in a loud voice. "Legs where arms should be, foot to face, ear
in the palm of hand. Who will remain whole? Who will remain
whole? Who?"
  Presently she opened her eyes. The sky was full of white fish
carried lazily on their sides by some invisible current and pieces of
the sun, submerged some distance beyond them, appeared from
time to time as if they were being washed in the opposite direction.
Woodenly she planted one foot in front of the other until she
had crossed the pasture and reached the lot. She walked through
the barn like one in a daze and did not speak  to Mr. Shortley. She
continued up the road until she saw the priest's car parked in front
of Mrs. McIntyre's house. "Here again," she muttered. "Come to
destroy."
  Mrs. McIntyre and the priest were walking in the yard. In order
not to meet them face to face, she turned to the left and entered the
feed house, a single-room shack piled on one side with flowered
sacks of scratch feed. There were spilled oyster shells in one corner
and a few old dirty calendars on the wall, advertising calf feed and
various patent medicine remedies. One showed a bearded gentleman
in a frock coat, holding up a bottle, and beneath his feet was
the inscription, "I have been made regular by this marvelous discovery."
Mrs. Shortley had always felt close to this man as if he
were some distinguished person she was acquainted with but now
her mind was on nothing but the dangerous presence of the priest.
She stationed herself at a crack between two boards where she could
look out and see him and Mrs. McIntyre strolling toward the turkey
brooder, which was placed just outside the feed house.
  "Arrrrr!" he said as they approached the brooder. "Look at the
little biddies!" and he stooped and squinted through the wire.
Mrs. Shortley's mouth twisted.
"  Do you think the Guizacs will want to leave me?" Mrs. Mc-
Intyre asked. "Do you think they'll go to Chicago or some place
like that?"
  "And why should they do that now?" asked the priest, wiggling
his finger at a turkey, his big nose close to the wire.
  "Money," Mrs. McIntyre said.
  "Arrrr, give them some morrre then," he said indifferently. "They
have to get along."
  "So do I," Mrs. McIntyre muttered. "It means I'm going to have
to get rid of some of these others."
  "And arrre the ShortIeys satisfactory?" he inquired, paying more
attention to the turkeys than to her.
  "Five times in the last month I've found Mr. Shortley smoking
in the barn," Mrs. McIntyre said. "Five times."
  "And arrre the Negroes any better?"
  "They lie and steal and have to be watched all the time," she said.
  "Tsk, tsk," he said. "Which will you discharge?'
  "I've decided to give Mr. Shortley his month's notice tomorrow,"
Mrs. McIntyre said.
  The priest scarcely seemed to hear her he was so busy wiggling
his finger inside the wire. Mrs. Shortley sat down on an open sack
of laying mash with a dead thump that sent feed dust clouding up
around her. She found herself looking straight ahead at the opposite
wall where the gentleman on the calendar was holding up his marvelous
discovery but she didn't see him. She looked ahead as if she
saw nothing whatsoever. Then she rose and ran to her house. Her
face was an almost volcanic red.
  She opened all the drawers and dragged out boxes and old battered
suitcases from under the bed. She began to unload the drawers into
the boxes, all the time without pause, without taking off the sunhat
she had on her head. She set the two girls to doing the same. When
Mr. Shortley came in, she did not even look at him but merely
pointed one arm at him while she packed with the other. "Bring
the car around to the back door," she said. "You ain't waiting to be
fired!"
  Mr. Shortley had never in his life doubted her omniscience. He
perceived the entire situation in half a second and, with only a
sour scowl, retreated out the door and went to drive the automobile
around to the back.
  They tied the two iron beds to the top of the car and the two
rocking chairs inside the beds and rolled the two mattresses up
between the rocking chairs. On top of this they tied a crate of
chickens. They loaded the inside of the car with the old suitcases
and boxes, leaving a small space for Annie Maude and Sarah Mae.
It took them the rest of the afternoon and half the night to do this
but Mrs. Shortley was determined that they would leave before four
o'clock in the morning, that Mr. Shortley should not adjust another
milking machine on this place. All the time she had been working,
her face was changing rapidly from red to white and back again.
  Just before dawn, as it began to drizzle rain, they were ready to
leave. They all got in the car and sat there cramped up between
boxes and bundles and rolls of bedding. The square black automobile
moved off with more than its customary grinding noises
as if it were protesting the load. In the back, the two long bony
yellow-haired girls were sitting on a pile of boxes and there was a
beagle hound puppy and a cat with two kittens somewhere under
the blankets. The car moved slowly, like some overfreighted leaking
ark, away from their shack and past the white house where Mrs.
McIntyre was sleeping soundly-hardly guessing that her cows
would not be milked by Mr. Shortley that morning-and past the
Pole's shack on top of the hill and on down the road to the gate
where the two Negroes were walking, one behind the other, on
their way to help with the milking. They looked straight at the
car and its occupants but even as the dim yellow headlights lit up
their faces, they politely did not seem to see anything, or anyhow,
to attach significance to what was there. The loaded car might have
been passing mist in the early morning half-light. They continued
up the road at the same even pace without looking back.
  A dark yellow sun was beginning to rise in a sky that was the
same slick dark gray as the highway. The fields stretched away, stiff
and weedy, on either side. "Where we goin?" Mr. Shortley asked
for the first time.
  Mrs. Shortley sat with one foot on a packing box so that her knee
was pushed into her stomach. Mr. Shortley's elbow was almost
under her nose and Sarah Mae's bare left foot was sticking over the
front seat, touching her ear.
  "Where we goin?" Mr. Shortley repeated and when she didn't
answer again, he turned and looked at her.
  Fierce heat seemed to be swelling slowly and fully into her face
as if it were welling up now for a final assault. She was sitting in
an erect way in spite of the fact that one leg was twisted under her
and one knee was almost into her neck, but there was a peculiar
lack of light in her icy blue eyes. All the vision in them might have
been turned around, looking inside her. She suddenly grabbed Mr.
Shortley's elbow and Sarah Mae's foot at the same time and began
to tug and pull on them as if she were trying to fit the two extra
limbs onto herself.
  Mr. Shortley began to curse and guickly stopped the car and
Sarah Mae yelled to quit but Mrs. Shortley apparently intended to
rearrange the whole car at once. She thrashed forward and backward,
clutching at everything she could get her hands on and
hugging it to herself, Mr. Shortley's head, Sarah Mae's leg, the cat,
a wad of white bedding, her own big moon-like knee; then all at
once her fierce expression faded into a look of astonishment and her
grip on what she had loosened. One of her eyes drew near to the
other and seemed to collapse quietly and she was still.
  The two girls, who didn't know what had happened to her, began
to say, "Where we goin, Ma? Where we goin?” They thought she
was playing a joke and that their father, staring straight ahead at
her, was imitating a dead man. They didn't know that she had had
a great experience or ever been displaced in the world from all that
belonged to her. They were frightened by the gray slick road before
them and they kept repeating in higher and higher voices, "Where
we goin, Ma? Where we gain?" while their mother, her huge body
rolled back still against the seat and her eyes like blue-painted glass,
seemed to contemplate for the first time the tremendous frontiers of
her true country.

II

"Well," Mrs. McIntyre said to the old Negro. "we can get along
without them. We've seen them come and seen them go--black and
white." She was standing in the calf barn while he cleaned it and
she held a rake in her hand and now and then pulled a corn cob
from a corner or pointed to a soggy spot that he had missed. When
she discovered the Shortleys were gone, she was delighted as it
meant she wouldn't have to fire them. The people she hired always
left her-because they were that kind of people. Of all the families
she had had, the Shortleys were the best if she didn't count the Displaced Person. They had been not quite trash; Mrs. Shortley was a
good woman, and she would miss her but as the Judge used to say,
you couldn't have your pie and eat it too, and she was satisfied with
the D.P. "We've seen them come and seen them go," she repeated
with satisfaction.
  "And me and you," the old man said, stooping to drag his hoe under
a feed rack, "is still here."
  She caught exactly what he meant her to catch in his tone. Bars
of sunlight fell from the cracked ceiling across his back and cut
him in three distinct parts. She watched his long hands clenched
around the hoe and his crooked old profile pushed close to them.
You might have been here before I was, she said to herself, but it's
mighty likely I'll be here when you're gone. "I’ve spent half my
life fooling with worthless people," she said in a severe voice, "but
now I'm through."
  "Black and white," he said, "is the same "
  "I am through," she repeated and gave her dark smock that she
had thrown over her shoulders like a cape a quick snatch at the
neck. She had on a broad-brimmed black straw hat that had cost
her twenty dollars twenty years ago and that she used now for a
sunhat. "Money is the root of all evil," she said. "The Judge said so
every day. He said he deplored money. He said the reason you
niggers were so uppity was because there was so much money in
circulation."
  The old Negro had known the Judge. "Judge say he long for the
day when he be too poor to pay a nigger to work," he said. "Say
when that day come, the world be back on its feet."
  She leaned forward, her hands on her hips and her neck stretched
and said, "Well that day has almost come am and here and I'm telling
each and everyone of you: you better look sharp. I don't have
to put up with foolishness any more. I have somebody now who has
to work!"
  The old man knew when to answer and when not. At length
he said, "We seen them come and we seen them go."
  "However, the Shortleys were not the worst by far," she said.
  "I well remember those Carrits."
  "They was before them Collinses," he said.
  "No, before the Ringfields."
  "Sweet Lord, them Ringfields!" he murmured.
  "None of that kind want to work," she said.
  "We seen them come and we seen them go,” he said as if this
were a refrain. "But we ain't never had one before." he said, bending
himself up until he faced her, "like what  we got now." He was
cinnamon-colored with eyes that were so blurred with age that they
seemed to be hung behind cobwebs.
  She gave him an intense stare and held it until, lowering his
hands on the hoe, he bent down again and  dragged a pile of shavings
alongside the wheelbarrow. She said stiffly, "He can wash out that
barn in the time it took Mr. Shortley to make up his mind he had
to do it."
  "He from Pole," the old man muttered.
  "From Poland."
"In Pole it ain't like it is here," he said. "They got different ways
of doing," and he began to mumble unintelligibly.
  "What are you saying?" she said. "If you have anything to say
about him, say it and say it aloud."
  He was silent, bending his knees precariously and edging the rake
along the underside of the trough.
  "If you know anything he's done that he shouldn't, I expect you
to report it to me," she said.
  "It warn't like it was what he should ought or oughtn't," he
muttered. "It was like what nobody else don't do."
  "You don't have anything against him," she said shortly, "and
he's here to stay."
  "We ain't never had one like him before is all," he murmured and
gave his polite laugh.
  "Times are changing," she said. "Do you know what's happening
to this world? It's swelling up. It's getting so full of people
that only the smart thrifty energetic ones are going to survive," and
she tapped the words, smart, thrifty, and energetic out on the
palm of her hand. Through the far end of the stall she could see
down the road to where the Displaced Person was standing in
the open barn door with the green hose in his hand. There was a
certain stiffness about his figure that seemed to make it necessary for
her to approach him slowly, even in her thoughts. She had decided
this was because she couldn't hold an easy conversation with him.
Whenever she said anything to him, she found herself shouting
and nodding extravagantly and she would be conscious that one
of the Negroes was leaning behind the nearest shed, watching.
"No indeed!" she said, sitting down on one of the feed racks and
folding her arms, "I've made up my mind that I've had enough
trashy people on this place to last me a lifetime and I'm not going
to spend my last years fooling with Shortleys and Ringfields and
Collins when the world is full of people who have to work."
  "How  come they so many extra?" he asked.
  "People are selfish," she said. "They have too many children.
There's no sense in it any more."
  He had picked up the wheelbarrow handles and was backing out
the door and he paused, half in the sunlight and half out, and stood
there chewing his gums as if he had forgotten which direction he
wanted to move in.
  "What you colored people don't realize," she said, "is that I'm the
one around here who holds all the strings together. If you don't
work, I don't make any money and I can't pay you. You're all
dependent on me but you each and everyone act like the shoe is
on the other foot."
  It was not possible to tell from his face if he heard her. Finally
he backed out with the wheelbarrow. "Judge say the devil he know
is better than the devil he don't," he said in a clear mutter and
trundled off.
  She got up and followed him, a deep vertical pit appearing suddenly
in the center of her forehead, just under the red bangs. "The
Judge has long since ceased to pay the bills around here," she called
in a piercing voice.
  He was the only one of her Negroes who had known the Judge
and he thought this gave him title. He had had a low opinion of
Mr. Crooms and Mr. McIntyre, her other husbands, and in his
veiled polite way, he had congratulated her after each of her
divorces. When he thought it necessary, he would work under a
window where he knew she was sitting and talk to himself, a
careful roundabout discussion, question and answer and then refrain.
Once she had got up silently and slammed the window down so
hard that he had fallen backwards off his feet. Or occasionally he
spoke with the peacock. The cock would follow him around the
place, his steady eye on the ear of corn that stuck up from the old
man's back pocket or he would sit near him and pick himself.
Once from the open kitchen door, she had heard him say to the
bird, "I remember when it was twenty of you walking about this
place and now it's only you and two hens. Crooms it was twelve.
McIntyre it was five. You and two hens now."
  And that time she had stepped out of the door onto the porch
and said, "MISTER Crooms and MISTER McIntyre! And I don't
want to hear you call either of them anything else again. And
you can understand this: when that peachicken dies there won't
be any replacements."
  She kept the peacock only out of a superstitious fear of annoying
the Judge in his grave. He had liked to see them walking around
the place for he said they made him feel rich. Of her three husbands,
the Judge was the one most present to her although he was the
only one she had buried. He was in the family graveyard, a little
space fenced in the middle of the back cornfield, with his mother
and father and grandfather and three great aunts and two infant
cousins. Mr. Crooms, her second, was forty miles away in the state
asylum and Mr. McIntyre, her last, was intoxicated, she supposed,
in some hotel room in Florida. But the Judge, sunk in the cornfield
with his family, was always at home.
  She had married him when he was an old man and because of
his money but there had been another reason that she would not
admit then, even to herself: she had liked him. He was a dirty
snuff-dipping Court House figure, famous all over the county for
being rich, who wore hightop shoes, a string tie, a gray suit with
a black stripe in it, and a yellowed panama hat, winter and summer.
His teeth and hair were tobacco-colored ang his face a clay
pink pitted and tracked with mysterious prehistoric-looking marks
as if he had been unearthed among fossils. There had been a peculiar
odor about him of sweaty fondled bills but he never carried money
on him or had a nickel to show. She was his secretary for a few
months and the old man with his sharp eye had seen at once that
here was a woman who admired him for himself . The three years
that he lived after they married were the happiest and most prosperous
of Mrs. McIntyre's life, but when he died his estate proved
to be bankrupt. He left her a mortgaged house and fifty acres that
he had managed to cut the timber off before he died. It was as if,
as the final triumph of a successful life, he had been able to take
everything with him.
 But she had survived. She had survived a succession of tenant
farmers and dairymen that the old man himself would have found
hard to outdo, and she had been able to meet the constant drain of
a tribe of moody unpredictable Negroes, and she had even managed
to hold her own against the incidental blood suckers, the cattle
dealers and lumber men and the buyers and sellers of anything
who drove up in pieced-together trucks and honked in the yard.
  She stood slightly reared back with her arms folded under her
smock and a satisfied expression on her face as she watched the
Displaced Person turn off the hose and disappear inside the barn.
She was sorry that the poor man had been chased out of Poland
and run across Europe and had had to take up in a tenant shack
in a strange country, but she had not been responsible for any of
this. She had had a hard time herself. She knew what it was to
struggle. People ought to have to struggle. Mr. Guizac had probably
had everything given to him all the way across Europe and over
here. He had probably not had to struggle enough. She had given
him a job. She didn't know if he was grateful or not. She didn't
know anything about him except that he did the work. The truth
was that he was not very real to her yet. He was a kind of miracle
that she had seen happen and that she talked about but that she
still didn't believe.
  She watched as he came out at the barn and motioned to Sulk.
who was coming around the back of the lot. He gesticulated and
then took something out of his pocket and the two of them stood
looking at it. She started down the lane toward them. The Negro's
figure was slack and tall and he was craning his rolling head forward
in his usual idiotic way. He was a little better than half-witted but
when they were like that they were always good  workers.  The Judge
had said always hire you a half-witted nigger because they don't
have sense enough to stop working. The Pole was gesticulating
rapidly. He left something with the colored boy and then walked
off and before she rounded the turn in the lane, she  heard the tractor
crank up. He was on his way to the field. The Negro was still
hanging there, gaping at whatever he had in his hand.
  She entered the lot and walked through the barn, looking with
approval at the wet spotless concrete floor. It was only nine-thirty
and Mr. Shortley had never got anything washed  until eleven. As
she came out at the other end, she saw the Negro moving very
slowly in a diagonal path across the road in front of her, his
eyes still on what Mr. Guizac had given him. He didn't see her
and he paused and dipped his knees and leaned over his hand, his
tongue describing little circles. He had a photograph. He lifted one
finger and traced it lightly over the surface of the picture. Then he
looked up and saw her and seemed to freeze, his mouth in a halfgrin,
his finger lifted.
  "Why haven't you gone to the field?" she asked.
  He raised one foot and opened his mouth wider while the hand
with the photograph edged toward his back pocket.
  "What's that?" she said.
  "It ain't nothing," he muttered and handed it to her automatically.
It was a photograph of a girl of about twelve in a white dress.
She had blond hair with a wreath in it and she looked forward out
of light eyes that were bland and composed. "Who is this child?"
Mrs. McIntyre asked.
  "She his cousin," the boy said in a high voice.
  "Well what are you doing with it?" she asked.
  "She going to mah me," he said in an even higher voice.
  "Marry you!" she shrieked.
  "I pays half to get her over here," he said. "I pays him three dollar
a week. She bigger now.  She his cousin. She don't care who she
mah she so glad to get away from there." The high voice seemed
to shoot up like a nervous jet of sound and then fall flat as he
watched her face. Her eyes were the color of blue granite when the
glare falls on it, but she was not looking at him. She was looking
down the road where the distant sound of the tractor could be heard.
  "I don't reckon she gain to come nohow." the boy murmured.
  "I'll see that you get every cent of your money back," she said
in a toneless voice and turned and walked off, holding the photograph
bent in two. There was nothing about her small stiff figure
to indicate that she was shaken.
  As soon as she got in the house, she lay down on her bed and
shut her eyes and pressed her hand over her heart as if she were
trying to keep it in place. Her mouth opened and she made two
or three dry little sounds. Then after a minute she sat up and said
aloud, "They're all the same. It's always been like this," and she fell
back flat again. "Twenty years of being beaten and done in and
they even robbed his grave!" and remembering that, she began to
cry quietly, wiping her eyes every now and then with the hem of
her smock.
  What she had thought of was the angel over the Judge's grave.
This had been a naked granite cherub that the old man had seen
in the city one day in a tombstone store window. He had been
taken with it at once, partly because its face reminded him of his
wife and partly because he wanted a genuine work of art over
his grave. He had come home with it sitting on the green plush
train seat beside him. Mrs. Mclntyre had never noticed the resemblance
to herself. She had always thought it hideous but when the
Herrins stole it off the old man's grave, she w.is shocked and outraged.
Mrs. Herrin had thought it very pretty and had walked to
the graveyard frequently to see it, and when the Herrins left the
angel left with them, all but its toes, for the ax old man Herrin
had used to break it off with had struck slightly too high. Mrs.
Mclntyre had never been able to afford to have it replaced.
  When she had cried all she could, she got up and went into the
back hall, a closet-like space that was dark and quiet as a chapel and
sat down on the edge of the Judge's black mechanical chair with
her elbow on his desk. This was a giant roll-top piece of furniture
pocked with pigeon holes full of dusty papers. Old bankbooks and
ledgers were stacked in the half-open drawers and there was a
small safe, empty but locked, set like a tabernacle in the center
of it. She had left this part of the house unchanged since the old
man's time. It was a kind of memorial to him, sacred because he
had conducted his business here. With the slightest tilt one way
or the other, the chair gave a rusty skeletal groan that sounded
something like him when he had complained of his poverty. It had
been his first principle to talk as if he were the poorest man in the
world and she followed it, not only because he had but because it
was true. When she sat with her intense constricted face turned
toward the empty safe, she knew there was nobody poorer in the
world than she was.
  She sat motionless at the desk for ten or fifteen minutes and then
as if she had gained some strength, she got up and got in her car and
drove to the cornfield.
  The road ran through a shadowy pine thicket and ended on top
of a hill that rolled fan-wise down and up again in a broad expanse
of tassled green. Mr. Guizac was cutting from the outside of the
field in a circular path to the center where the graveyard was all but
hidden by the corn, and she could see him on the high far side of
the slope, mounted on the tractor with the cutter and wagon behind
him. From time to time, he had to get off the tractor and climb
in the wagon to spread the silage because the Negro had not arrived.
She watched impatiently, standing in front of her black coupe with
her arms folded under her smock, while he progressed slowly
around the rim of the field, gradually getting close enough for her
to wave to him to get down. He stopped the machine and jumped
off and came running forward, wiping his red jaw with a piece of
grease rag.
  "I want to talk to you," she said and beckoned him to the edge of
the thicket where it was shady. He took off the cap and followed her,
smiling, but his smile faded when she turned and faced him. Her
eyebrows, thin and fierce as a spider's leg, had drawn together
ominously and the deep vertical pit had plunged down from under
the red bangs into the bridge of her nose. She removed the bent
picture from her pocket and handed it to him silently. Then she
stepped back and said, "Mr. Guizac! You would bring this poor innocent
child over here and try to marry her to a half-witted thieving
black stinking nigger! What kind of a monster are you!"
  He took the photograph with a slowly returning smile. "My
cousin," he said. "She twelve here. First Communion. Six-ten now."
  Monster! she said to herself and looked at him as if she were
seeing him for the first time. His forehead and skull were white
where they had been protected by his cap but the rest of his face
was red and bristled with short yellow hairs, his eyes were like two
bright nails behind his gold-rimmed spectacles that had been
mended over the nose with haywire. His whole: face looked as if it
might have been patched together out of several others. "Mr.
Guizac," she said, beginning slowly and then speaking faster until
she ended breathless in the middle of a word, "that nigger cannot
have a white wife from Europe. You can't talk to a nigger that way.
You'll excite him and besides it can't be done. Maybe it can be done
in Poland but it can't be done here and you'll have to stop. It's all
foolishness. That nigger don't have a grain of sense and you'll excite
... "
  "She in camp three year," he said.
  "Your cousin," she said in a positive voice, "cannot come over here
and marry one of my Negroes."
  "She six-ten year," he said. "From Poland. Mamma die, pappa die.
She wait in camp. Three camp." He pulled a wallet from his pocket
and fingered through it and took out another picture of the same
girl, a few years older, dressed in something dark and shapeless.
She was standing against a wall with a short wornan who apparently
had no teeth. "She mamma," he said, pointing to the woman. "She
die in two camp."
  "Mr. Guizac," Mrs. McIntyre said, pushing the picture back at
him, "I will not have my niggers upset. I cannot run this place
without my niggers. I can run it without you but not without them
and if you mention this girl to Sulk again, you won't have a job
with me. Do you understand?"
  His face showed no comprehension. He seemed to be piecing all
these words together in his mind to make a thought.
  Mrs. McIntyre remembered Mrs. Shortlev'c words: "He understands
everything, he only pretends he don't so as to do exactly as
he pleases," and her face regained the look of shocked wrath she
had begun with. "I cannot understand how a min who calls himself
a Christian," she said, "could bring a poor innocent girl over
here and marry her to something like that. I cannot understand it.
I cannot!" and she shook her head and looked into the distance with
a pained blue gaze.
  After a second he shrugged and let his arms drop  as if he were
tired. "She no care black," he said. "She in camp three year."
  Mrs. McIntyre felt a peculiar weakness behind her knees. "Mr.
Guizac," she said, "I don't want to have to speak 'you about this
again. If I do, you'll have to find another place yourself. Do you
understand? "
  The patched face did not say. She had the impression that he
didn't see her there. "This is my place," she said. "I  say who will
come here and who won't."
  "Ya," he said and put back all his cap.
  "I am not responsible for the world's misery,' she said as an
afterthought.
 "Ya," he said.
  "You have a good job. You should be grateful to be here," she
added, "but I'm not sure you are."
  "Ya," he said and gave his little shrug and turned back to the
tractor.
  She watched him get on and maneuver the machine into the
corn again. When he had passed her and rounded the turn, she
climbed to the top of the slope and stood with her arms folded and
looked out grimly over the field. "They're all the same," she muttered,
"whether they come from Poland or Tennessee. I've handled
Herrins and Ringfields and Shortleys and I can handle a Guizac,"
and she narrowed her gaze until it closed entirely around the
diminishing figure on the tractor as if she were watching him
through a gunsight. All her life she had been fighting the world's
overflow and now she had it in the form of a Pole. "You're just like
all the rest of them," she said, "--only smart and thrifty and energetic
but so am I. And this is my place," and she stood there, a small
black-hatted, black-smocked figure with an aging cherubic face, and
folded her arms as if she were equal to anything. But her heart was
beating as if some interior violence had already been done to her.
She opened her eyes to include the whole field so that the figure
on the tractor was no larger than a grasshopper in her widened view.
She stood there for some time. There was a slight breeze and the
corn trembled in great waves on both sides of the slope. The big
cutter, with its monotonous roar, continued to shoot it pulverized
into the wagon in a steady spurt of fodder. By nightfall, the Displaced
Person would have worked his way around and around until
there would be nothing on either side of the two hills but the
stubble, and down in the center, risen like a little island, the graveyard
where the Judge lay grinning under his desecrated monument.

III

The priest, with his long bland face supported on one finger, had
been talking for ten minutes about Purgatory while Mrs. McIntyre
squinted furiously at him from an opposite chair. They were drinking
ginger ale on her front porch and she kept rattling the ice in her
glass, rattling her beads, rattling her bracelet like an impatient pony
jingling its harness. There is no moral obligation to keep him, she
was saying under her breath. there is absolutely no moral obligation.
Suddenly she lurched up and her voice fell across his brogue like a
drill into a mechanical saw. "Listen," she said, "I'm not theological.
I'm practical! I want to talk to you about something practical!"
  "Arrrrrrr," he groaned, grating to a halt.
  She had put at least a finger of whiskey in her own ginger ale
so that she would be able to endure his full-length visit and she sat
down awkwardly, finding the chair closer to her than she had expected.
  "Mr. Guizac is not satisfactory," she said.
  The old man raised his eyebrows in mock wonder.
"He's extra," she said, "He doesn't fit in. I have to have somebody
who fits in."
  The priest carefully turned his hat on his knees. He had a little
trick of waiting a second silently and then swinging the conversation
back into his own paths. He was about eighty. She had never known
a priest until she had gone to see this one on the business of getting
her the Displaced Person. After he had got her the Pole, he
had used the business introduction to try to convert her--just as she
had supposed he would.
  "Give him time," the old man said. "He'll learn to fit in. Where
is that beautiful birrrrd of yours?" he asked and then said, "Arrrrr, I
see him!" and stood up and looked out over the lawn where the
peacock and the two hens were stepping at a strained attention,
their long necks ruffled, the cock's violent blue and the hens' silvergreen,
glinting in the late afternoon sun.
  "Mr. Guizac," Mrs. Mclntyre continued, bearing down with a flat
steady voice, "is very efficient. “I’ll admit that. But he doesn't understand
how to get on with my niggers and they don't like him. I
can't have my niggers run off. And I don't like his attitude. He's not
the least grateful for being here."
  The priest had his hand on the screen door and he opened it,
ready to make his escape. "Arrrr, I must be off," he murmured.
"I tell you if I had a white man who understood the Negroes, I'd
have to let Mr. Guizac go," she said and stood up again.
  He turned then and looked her in the face. "He has nowhere to
go," he said. Then he said, "Dear lady, I know you well enough to
know you wouldn't turn him out for a trifle!”' and without waiting
for an answer, he raised his hand and gave her his blessing in a
rumbling voice.
  She smiled angrily and said, "I didn't create  this situation, of
course."
  The priest let his eyes wander toward the birds.  They had reached
the middle of the lawn. The cock stopped suddenly and curving his
neck backwards, he raised his tail and spread t with a shimmering
timbrous noise. Tiers of small pregnant suns floated in a green-gold
haze over his head. The priest stood transfixed, his jaw slack. Mrs.
McIntyre wondered where she had ever seen such an idiotic old man.
"Christ will come like that!" he said in a loud gay voice and wiped
his hand over his mouth and stood there,  gaping.
  Mrs. McIntyre's face assumed a set puritanical,  expression and she
reddened. Christ in the conversation embarrassed  her the way sex
had her mother. "It is not my responsibility that Mr. Guizac has
nowhere to go," she said. "I don't find myself responsible for all
the extra people in the world."
  The old man didn't seem to hear her. His attention was fixed on
the cock who was taking minute steps backward, his head against
the spread tail. "The Transfiguration," he murmured.
  She had no idea what he was talking about. "Mr. Guizac didn't
have to come here in the first place," she said giving him a hard
look.
  The cock lowered his tail and began to pick grass.
  "He didn't have to come in the first  place,” she repeated, emphasizing
each word.
  The old man smiled absently.   "He came to redeem us," he said
and blandly reached for her hand and shook it and said he must go.

  If Mr. Shortley had not returned a few weeks  later, she would
have gone out looking for a new man to hire. She had not wanted
him back but when she saw the familiar black automobile  drive up
the road and stop by the sick of the house, she had the feeling that
she was the one returning, after a long miserable  trip to her own
place. She realized all at once that it was Mrs, Shortley  she had been
missing. She had had no one to talk to since Mrs  Shortley left, and
she ran to the door, expecting to see her heaving herself up the steps.
  Mr. Shortley stood there alone. He had on a black felt hat and a
shirt with red and blue palm trees designed in it but the hollows
in his long bitten blistered face were deeper than they had been a
month ago.
  "Well!" she said. "Where is Mrs. Shortley?"
  Mr. Shortley didn't say anything. The change in his face seemed to
have come from the inside; he looked like a man who had gone for
a long time without water. "She was God's own angel," he said in a
loud voice. "She was the sweetest woman in the world."
  "Where is she?" Mrs. McIntyre murmured.
  "Daid," he said. "She had herself a stroke on the day she left out
of here." There was a corpse-like composure about his face. "I
figure that Pole killed her," he said. "She seen through him from
the first. She known he come from the devil. She told me so."
  It took Mrs. McIntyre three days to get over Mrs. Shortley's
death. She told herself that anyone would have thought they were
kin. She rehired Mr. Shortley to do farm work though actually she
didn't want him without his wife. She told him she was going
to give thirty days' notice to the Displaced Person at the end of the
month and that then he could have his job hack in the dairy. Mr.
Shortley preferred the dairy job but he was willing to wait. He said
it would give him some satisfaction to see the Pole leave the place,
and Mrs. McIntyre said it would give her a great deal of satisfaction.
She confessed that she should have been content with the help she
had in the first place and not have been reaching into other parts of
the world for it. Mr. Shortley said he never had cared for foreigners
since he had been in the first world's war and seen what they were
like. He said he had seen all kinds then but that none of them were
like us. He said he recalled the face of one man who had thrown
a hand-grenade at him and that the man had had little round eyeglasses
exactly like Mr. Guizac's.
  "But Mr. Guizac is a Pole, he's not a German," Mrs. McIntyre
said.
  "It ain't a great deal of difference in them two kinds," Mr.
Shortley had explained.
  The Negroes were pleased to see Mr. Shortley back. The Dis-
placed Person had expected them to work as hard as he worked
himself, whereas Mr. Shortlev recognized their limitations. He had
never been a very good worker himself with Mrs. Shanley to keep
him in line, but without her, he was even more forgetful and slow.
The Pole worked as fiercely as ever and seemed to have no inkling
that he was about to be fired. Mrs. McIntyre saw jobs done in a
short time that she had thought would never get done at all. Still
she was resolved to get rid of him. The sight of his small stiff figure
moving quickly here and there had come to be the most irritating
sight on the place for her, and she felt she had been tricked by the
old priest. He had said there was no legal obligation for her to keep
the Displaced Person if he was not satisfactory, but then he had
brought up the moral one.
  She meant to tell him that her moral obligation was to her own
people, to Mr. Shortley, who had fought in the world war for his
country and not to Mr. Guizac who had merely arrived here to take
advantage of whatever he could. She felt she must have this out with
the priest before she fired the Displaced Person. When the first of
the month came and the priest hadn't called, she put off giving the
Pole notice for a little longer.
  Mr. Shortley told himself that he should have known all along
that no woman was going to do what she said she was when she
said she was. He didn't know how long he could afford to put up
with her shilly-shallying. He thought himself that she was going
soft and was afraid to turn the Pole out for fear he would have a
hard time getting another place. He could tell her the truth about
this: that if she let him go, in three years he would own his own
house and have a television aerial sitting on top of it. As a matter
of policy, Mr. Shortley began to come to her back door every evening
to put certain facts before her. "A white man sometimes don't
get the consideration a nigger gets," he said, "but that don't matter
because he's still white, but sometimes," and here he would pause
and look off into the distance, "a man that's fought and bled
and died in the service of his native land don't get the consideration
of one of them like them he was fighting. I ast you: is that
right?" When he asked her such questions he could watch her face
and tell he was making an impression. She didn't look too well
these days. He noticed lines around her eyes that hadn't been there
when he and Mrs. Shortley had been the only white help on the
place. Whenever he thought of Mrs. Shortley, he felt his heart go
down like an old bucket into a dry well.
  The old priest kept away as if he had been frightened by his last
visit but finally, seeing that the Displaced Person had not been fired,
he ventured to call again to take up giving Mrs. McIntyre instructions
where he remembered leaving them off. She had not asked
to be instructed but he instructed anyway, forcing a little definition
of one of the sacraments or of some dogma into each conversation
he had, no matter with whom. He sat on her porch, taking no notice
of her partly mocking, partly outraged expression as she sat shaking
her foot, waiting for an opportunity to drive a wedge into his talk.
"For," he was saying, as if he spoke of something that had happened
yesterday in town, "when God sent his Only Begotten Son, Jesus
Christ Our Lord"-he slightly bowed his head-"as a Redeemer to
mankind, He ... "
  "Father Flynn!" she said in a voice that made him jump. "I
want to talk to you about something serious!"
  The skin under the old man's right eye flinched.
  "As far as I'm concerned," she said and glared at him fiercely,
  "Christ was just another D.P."
  He raised his hands slightly and let them drop on his knees.
  "Arrrrrr," he murmured as if he were considering this.
  "I'm going to let that man go," she said. "I don't have any
obligation to him. My obligation is to the people who've done something
for their country, not to the ones who've just come over to
take advantage of what they can get," and she began to talk rapidly,
remembering all her arguments. The priest's attention seemed to
retire to some private oratory to wait until she got through. Once
or twice his gaze roved out onto the lawn as if he were hunting
some means of escape but she didn't stop. She told him how she had
been hanging onto this place for thirty years, always just barely
making it against people who came from nowhere and were going
nowhere, who didn't want anything but an automobile. She said
she had found out they were the same whether they came from
Poland or Tennessee. When the Guizacs got ready, she said, they
would not hesitate to leave her. She told him how the people who
looked rich were the poorest of all because they had the most to
keep up. She asked him how he thought she paid her feed bills.
She told him she would like to have her house done over but she
couldn't afford it. She couldn't even afford to have the monument
restored over her husband's grave. She asked him if he would like
to guess what her insurance amounted to for the year. Finally she
asked him if he thought she was made of money and the old man
suddenly let out a great ugly bellow as if this were a comical question.
   When the visit was over, she felt let down, though she had clearly
triumphed over him. She made up her mind now that on the first of
the month, she would give the Displaced Person his thirty days'
notice and she told Mr. Shortley so.
  Mr. Shortley didn't say anything. His wife had been the only
woman he was ever acquainted with who was never scared off
from doing what she said. She said the Pole had been sent by the
devil and the priest. Mr. Shortley had no doubt that the priest had
got some peculiar control over Mrs. McIntyre and that before long
she would start attending his Masses. She looked as if something
was wearing her down from the inside. She was thinner and more
fidgety, and not as sharp as she used to be. She would look at a milk
can now and not see how dirty it was and he had seen her lips
move when she was not talking. The Pole never did anything the
wrong way but all the same he was very irritating to her. Mr.
Shortley himself did things as he pleased--not always her way--but
she didn't seem to notice. She had noticed though that the Pole and
all his family were getting fat; she pointed out to, Mr. Shortley that
the hollows had come out of their cheeks and that they saved every
cent they made. "Yes'm, and one of these days he'll be able to buy
and sell you out," Mr. Shortley had ventured to say, and he could
tell that the statement had shaken her.
  "I'm just waiting for the first," she had said.
  Mr. ShortIey waited too and the first came and went and she didn't
fire him. He could have told anybody how it would be. He was not
a violent man but he hated to see a woman done in by a foreigner.
He felt that that was one thing a man couldn't stand by and see
happen.
  There was no reason Mrs. McIntyre should not fire Mr. Guizac at
once but she put it off from day to day. She wad worried about her
bills and about her health. She didn't sleep at night or when she did
she dreamed about the Displaced Person. She hid never discharged
anyone before; they had all left her. One nigh: she dreamed that
Mr. Guizac and his family were moving into her house and that she
was moving in with Mr. Shortley. This was tau much for her and
she woke up and didn't sleep again for several nights; and one night
she dreamed that the priest came to call and droned on and on saying,
"Dear lady, I know your tender heart won't suffer you to turn
the porrrrr man out. Think of the thousands of them, think of the
ovens and the boxcars and the camps and the sick children and
Christ Our Lord."
  "He's extra and he's upset the balance around here," she said,
"and I'm a logical practical woman and there arc no ovens here and
no camps and no Christ Our Lord and when h- leaves, he'll make
more money. He'll work at the mill and buy a c.ir and don't talk to
me--all they want is a car."
  "The ovens and the boxcars and the sick children," droned the
priest, "and our dear Lord."
  "Just one too many," she said.
  The next morning, she made up her mind while she was eating her
breakfast that she would give him his notice at once, and she stood
up and walked out of the kitchen and down the load with her table
napkin still in her hand. Mr. Guizac was spraying, the barn, standing
in his swaybacked way with one hand on his hip. He turned off the
hose and gave her an impatient kind of attention as if she were
interfering with his work. She had not thought of what she would
say to him, she had merely come. She stood in the barn door, looking
severely at the wet spotless floor and the dripping stanchions.
  “Ya goat?" he said.
  "Mr. Guizac," she said, "I can barely meet my obligations now."
Then she said in a louder, stronger voice, emphasizing each word,
  "I have bills to pay."
  "I too," Mr. Guizac said. "Much bills, little money," and he
shrugged.
  At the other end of the barn, she saw a long beak-nosed shadow
glide like a snake halfway up the sunlit open door and stop; and
somewhere behind her, she was aware of a silence where the sound
of the Negroes shoveling had come a minute before. "This is my
place," she said angrily. "All of you are extra. Each and everyone
of you are extra!"
  "Ya," Mr. Guizac said and turned on the hose again.
  She wiped her mouth with the napkin she had in her hand and
walked off, as if she had accomplished what she came for.
Mr. Shortley's shadow withdrew from the door and he leaned
against the side of the barn and lit half of a cigarette that he took out
of his pocket. There was nothing for him to do now but wait on
the hand of God to strike, but he knew one thing: he was not going
to wait with his mouth shut.
  Starting that morning, he began to complain and to state his side
of the case to every person he saw, black or white. He complained
in the grocery store and at the courthouse and on the street corner
and directly to Mrs. Mcintyre herself, for there was nothing underhanded
about him. If the Pole could have understood what he had
to say, he would have said it to him too. "All men was created free
and equal," he said to Mrs. McIntyre, "and I risked my life and
limb to prove it. Gone over there and fought and bled and died and
come back on over here and find out who's got my job-just exactly
who I been fighting. It was a hand-grenade come that near to killing
me and I seen who throwed it--little man with eye-glasses just like
his. Might have bought them at the same store. Small world," and he
gave a bitter little laugh. Since he didn't have Mrs. Shortley to do
the talking any more, he had started doing it himself and had found
that he had a gift for it. He had the power of making other people
see his logic. He talked a good deal to the Negroes.
  "Whyn't you go back to Africa?" he asked Sulk one morning as
they were cleaning out the silo. "That's your country, ain't it?"
  "I ain't gain there," the boy said. "They might eat me up."
  "Well, if you behave yourself it isn't any reason you can't stay
here," Mr. Shortley said kindly. "Because you didn't run away
from nowhere Your granddaddy was bought. He didn't have a
thing to do with coming. It's the people that run away from where
they come from that I ain't got any use for."
  "I never felt no need to travel," the Negro said.
  "Well," Mr. Shortley said, "if I was going to travel again, it
would be to either China or Africa. You go to either of them two
places and you can tell right away what the difference is between
you and them. You go to these other places and the only way you
can tell is if they say something. And then you can't always tell
because about half of them know the English language. That's
where we make our mistake," he said, "--letting all them people
onto English. There'd be a heap less trouble if everybody only knew
his own language. My wife said knowing two languages was like
having eyes in the back of your head. You couldn't put nothing
over on her."
  "You sho couldn't," the boy muttered, and then he added, "She
was fine. She was sho fine. I never known a finer white woman than
her."
  Mr. Shortley turned in the opposite direction and worked silently
for a while. After a few minutes he leaned up and tapped the colored
boy onn the shoulder with the handle of his shovel. For a second he
only looked at him while a great deal of meaning gathered in his
wet eyes. Then he said softly, "Revenge is mine, saith the Lord."
  Mrs. McIntyre found that everybody in town knew Mr. Shortley's
version of her business and that everyone was critical of her conduct.
She began to understand that she had a moral obligation to fire
the Pole and that she was shirking it because she found it hard to
do. She could not stand the increasing guilt any longer and on a
cold Saturday morning, she started off after breakfast to fire him.
She walked down to the machine shed where she heard him cranking
up the tractor.
  There was a heavy frost on the ground that made the fields look
like the rough backs of sheep; the sun was almost silver and the
woods stuck up like dry bristles on the sky line. The countryside
seemed to be receding from the little circle of noise around the shed.
Mr. Guizac was squatting on the ground beside the small tractor,
putting in a part. Mrs. Mcintyre hoped to get the fields turned over
while he still had thirty days to work (Or her. The colored boy was
standing by with some tools in his hand and Mr. Shortley was under
the shed about to get up or the large tractor and back it out. She
meant to wait until he and the Negro got out of the way before she
began her unpleasant duty.
  She stood watching Mr. Guizac, stamping her feet on the hard
ground, for the cold was climbing like a paralysis up her feet and
legs. She had on a heavy black coat and a red head-kerchief with
her black hat pulled down on top of it to keep the glare out of her
eyes. Under the black brim her face had an abstracted look and
once or twice her lips moved silently. Mr. Guizac shouted over the
noise of the tractor for the Negro to hand him a screwdriver and
when he got it, he turned over on his back on the icy ground and
reached up under the machine. She could not see his face, only his
feet and legs and trunk sticking impudently out from the side of
the tractor. He had on rubber boots that were cracked and splashed
with mud. He raised one knee and then lowered it and turned himself
slightly. Of all the things she resented about him, she resented
most that he hadn't left on his own accord.
  Mr. Shortley had got on the large tractor and was backing it out
from under the shed. He seemed to be warmed by it as if its heat
and strength sent impulses up through him that he obeyed instantly.
He had headed it toward the small tractor but he braked it on a
slight incline and jumped off and turned back toward the shed.
Mrs. Mcintyre was looking fixedly at Mr. Guizac's legs lying flat
on the ground now. She heard the brake on the large tractor slip
and, looking up, she saw it move forward, calculating its own path.
Later she remembered that she had seen the Negro jump silently
out of the way as if a spring in the earth had released him and that
she had seen Mr. Shortley turn his head with incredible slowness
and stare silently over his shoulder and that she had started to shout
to the Displaced Person but that she had not. She had felt her eyes
and Mr. Shortley's eyes and the Negro's eyes come together in one
look that froze them in collusion forever, and she had heard the little
noise the Pole made as the tractor wheel broke his backbone. The
two men ran forward to help and she fainted.
  She remembered, when she came to, running somewhere, perhaps
into the house and out again but she could not remember what for
or if she had fainted again when she got there. When she finally
came back to where the tractors were, the ambulance had arrived.
Mr. Guizac's body was covered with the bent bodies of his wife
and two children and by a black one which hung over him, murmuring
words she didn't understand. At first she thought this must
be the doctor but then with a feeling of annoyance she recognized
the priest, who had come with the ambulance and was slipping something into the crushed man's mouth. After a minute he stood up and she looked first at his bloody pants legs and then at his face which
was not averted from her but was as withdrawn and expressionless as
the rest of the countryside. She only stared at him for she was too
shocked by her experience to be quite herself. Her mind was not
taking hold of all that was happening. She felt she was in some
foreign country where the people bent over the body were natives,
and she watched like a stranger while the dead man was carried
away in the ambulance.
  That evening, Mr. Shortley left without notice to look for a new
position and the Negro, Sulk, was taken with a sudden desire to
see more of the world and set off for the southern part of the state.
The old man Astor could not work without company. Mrs. McIntyre
hardly noticed that she had no help left for she came down with a
nervous affliction and had to go to the hospital. When she came
back, she saw that the place would be too much for her to run now
and she turned her cows over to a professional auctioneer (who
sold them at a loss) and retired to live on what she had, while she
tried to save her declining health. A numbness developed in one of
her legs and her hands and head began to jiggle and eventually
she had to stay in bed all the time with only a colored woman to
wait on her. Her eyesight grew steadily worse and she lost her
voice altogether. Not many people remembered to come out to the
country to see her except the old priest. He came regularly once a
week with a bag of breadcrumbs and, after he had fed these to the
peacock, he would come in and sit by the side of her bed and explain
the doctrines of the Church.

End