Then she caught sight of me, and without change of pace swung straight into my room and slammed the door behind her.
"The son-of-a-bitch," she said, and stood there panting and glaring at me.
"You needn't blame me," I said.
"The son-of-a-bitch," she iterated, glaring, "I'll kill him, I swear to God I'll kill him."
"You set a high valuation on something," I said.
"I'll ruin him, I'll drive him out of this state, I swear to God. The son-of-a-bitch to two-time me after all I've done for him. Listen–" she said, and grabbed a handful of my lapels in each of her strong hands and shook me (He hands were squarish and strong and hard like a man's.) "Listen–" she repeated.
"You needn't choke me," I protested peevishly, "and I don't want to listen. O know too God-damned much now." And I wasn't joking. I didn't want to listen. The world was full of things I didn't want to know.
"Listen–" and she shook me–"who made that son-of-a-bitch what he is today? Who made him Governor? Who took him when he was the Sap of the Year and put him in big time? Who gave it to him, play by play so he couldn't lose?"
"I reckon you mean for me to say you did."
"And it's the truth," she said, "and he goes and two-times me, the–"
"No," I said, trying to get loose from the grip on my lapels, "he was two-timing Lucy, so you need some other kind of arithmetic for what he was doing to you. But I don't know whether to multiply or divide in a case like this."
"Lucy!" she burst out from lips that coiled and contorted. "Lucy–she's a fool. She had her way and he'd be in Mason City slopping the hogs right now, and he knows it. He knows what she'd do for him. If he listened to her. She had her chance, she–" She simply stopped for breath, but you could see the words still blazing on in her head while she gasped for air.
"I see you seem to think Lucy is on the way out," I said.
"Lucy–" she said, and stopped, but the tone said everything there was to say about Lucy, who was a country girl, and had gone to a hick Baptist college where they believe in God, and had taught the little towheaded snots in the Mason Country school, and had married Willie Stark and given him a kid, and had missed her chance. Then she added, suddenly quiet, in a grim matter-of-factness, "Give him time–he'll ditch her, the son-of-a-bitch."
"You ought to know," I said, simply because I couldn't resist the logic of the proposition, but I hadn't got it out before she slapped me. Which is what you ask for when you start mixing into affairs, public or private.
"It's the wrong guy," I said, fingering my cheek and backing off a step from the heat, for she was about to blaze, "I'm not the hero of the piece."
Then she wasn't about to blaze, at all. She stood there in a kind of heavy numbness inside the sagging clothes. I saw a tear gather at the inner corner of each eye, gather very slowly and swollenly and then run down with the precision of a tiny mechanical toy, one on each side of the slightly pitted nose, until they simultaneously arrived at the smear of dark lipstick, and spread. I saw the tongue come out and fastidiously touch the upper lip as though to sample the salt.
She was looking straight to me all the time as though if she looked hard enough she might see the answer to something.
Then she went past me to the wall, where a mirror hung, and stared into the mirror, putting her face up close to the mirror and turning it a little from side to side, slowly. I couldn't see what was in the mirror, just the back of her head.
"What was she like?" she asked, distantly and dispassionately "Who?" I asked, and it was an honest question.
"In Chicago," she said.
"She was just a little tart," I said, "with fake Swedish hair on her head and skates on her feet and practically nothing on in between."
"Was she pretty?" the distant and dispassionate voice asked.
"Hell," I said, "if I met her on the street tomorrow I wouldn't recognize her."
"Was she pretty?" the voice said.
"How do I know?" I demanded, peevish again. "The condition she earned her living in you didn't get around to noticing her face."
"Was she pretty?"
"For Christ's sake, forget it," I said.
She turned around, and came toward me, holding her hands up at about the level of the chin, one on each side, the fingers together and slightly bent, not touching her face. She came up close to me and stopped. "Forget it?" she repeated, as though she had just heard my words.
Then she lifted her hands a little, and touched the white riddled plaster-of-Paris mask, touching t on each side, just barely prodding the surface as though it were swollen and painful. "Look," she commanded.
She held it here for me to look at. "Look!" she commanded vindictively, and jabbed her fingers into the flesh, hard. For it was flesh, it wasn't plaster of Paris at all.
"Yes, look," she said, "and we lay up there in that God-forsaken shack–both of us, my brother and me–we were kids–and it was the smallpox–and my father was a drunk no-good–he was off drunk, crying and drinking in a saloon if he could beg a dime–crying and telling how the kiddies, the sweet little angel kiddies, was sick–oh, he was a drunk lousy warm-hearted kid-beating crying Irishman–and my brother died–and he ought to have lived–it wouldn't have mattered to him–not to a man–but me, I didn't die–I didn't die, and I got well–and my father, he would look at me and grab me and start kissing me all over the face, all over the holes, slobbering, and crying and stinking of whisky–or he'd look at me and say, 'Jeez,' and slap me in the face–and it was all the same–it was all the same, for I wasn't the one that died–I didn't die–I–"
It was all a breathless monotony, suddenly cut off. She had groped out for me and had seized the cloth of my coat in her hands and had stuck her bowed head up against my chest. So I stood there with my right arm around her shoulder, patting her, patting and making a kind of smoothing-out motion with my hand on her back that shook soundlessly with what I took to be sobs.
Then, not lifting her head, she was saying, "It's going to be like that–it's always been that way, and it'll keep on–being like that–"
_It__, I thought, and thought she was talking about the face.
But she wasn't, for she was saying, "–it'll keep on–they'll kiss it and slobber–then they'll slap you in the face–no matter what you do, do anything for them, make them what they are–take them out of the gutter and make something out of them–and they'll slap you in the face–the first chance–because you had smallpox–they'll some naked slut on skates and they'll slap you in the face–they'll kick up dirt in your face–"
I kept on patting and making the smoothing-out motion, for there wasn't anything else to do.
"–that's the way it'll be–always some slut on skates–some–"
"Look here," I said, still patting, "you make out. What do you care what he does?"
She jerked her head up. "What do you know, what the hell do you know?" she demanded, and dug her fingers in my coat and shook me.
"If it's all this grief," I said, "let him go."
"Let him go! Let him go! I'll kill him first, I swear it," she said, glaring at me out of the now red eyes. "Let him go? Listen here–" and she shook me again–"if he does run after some slut, he'll come back. He's got to come back, do you hear? He's got to. Because he can't do without me. And he knows it. He can do without any of those sluts, but he can't do without me. Not without Sadie Burke, and he knows it."
And she lifted her face up, high, almost thrusting it at me, as though she were showing me something I ought damned well to be proud to look at.