"What the hell you waiting for, honey?" she said. "Come on, darling, goddam it!"
"What you layin' down for?" I said. "I thought I was just goin' to hold you on my lap."
"P-Please, Nick!" She moaned again. "We've g-got no time to waste, so-please, honey!"
"Well, all right," I said. "But I got some news for you. Sort of a little secret. I think maybe I ought to tell it to you before-"
"Crap on the secret." She made a wild grab for me. "I don't want any goddam secrets! What I want is-"
"But it's about poor old Tom. Somethin' done went and happened to him…"
"Who gives a damn? It's just too goddam bad that the son-of-a-bitch isn't dead! Now-"
I told her that that was the secret: Tom was dead. "Looks like he got his guts blowed clear through his backbone," I said. "Looks like he stumbled over his gun when he was drunk, and blowed himself to glory."
She looked at me, her eyes widening, mouth working as she tried to speak. Finally, the words came out in a shaky whisper:
"You're sure, Nick? You really killed him?"
"Let's just say he had himself an accident," I said. "Let's just say that fate dealt him a cool blow."
"But he is dead? You're sure about that?"
I told her I was sure, all right. Plenty sure. "If he ain't, he's the first live man I've ever seen who could hold still while he was getting kicked in the balls."
Rose's eyes lit up like I'd given her a Christmas purty. Then she threw herself back on the pillows, rocking with laughter.
"Holy Jesus, so the stinking son-of-a-bitch is really dead! I'm through with the dirty bastard at last!"
"Well, sir, it sure looks that way," I said.
"Goddam him! I just wish I'd have been there to kick him myself, the bastardly son~of-a-bitchin' whoremonger!" she said, adding on a few more choice names. "You know what I'd have liked to do to that dirty bastard, Nick? I'd have liked to take me a red hot poker and jabbed it right up the filthy son-of-a-bitch's-uh, what's the matter, honey?"
"Nothin'," I said. "I mean, maybe we ought to show a little more respect for ol' Tom, him bein' dead and all. It just don't seem quite fittin' to low-rate the dead with a lot of dirty names."
"You mean I shouldn't call the son-of-a-bitch a son-of-a-bitch?"
"Well, now, it don't sound real good, does it?" I said. "It don't sound nice a-tall."
Rose said it sounded just fine to her, but if it bothered me she'd try to watch her tongue. "That son-of-a-bitch caused enough trouble while he was alive without fouling us up afterward. Anyway, I'd do anything to please you, sweetheart. Anything you want, darling."
"Then, why ain't you doin' it?" I said. "How come you still got your dress on?"
"Goddam," she said, looking down at herself. "Rip the goddam thing off, will you, honey?"
I started ripping, and she started helping me with my clothes. And things were getting right to the most interesting point when the phone rang. Rose cussed and said to let the goddam thing go, but! said it might be Myra-which it was-so she stalked out in the kitchen and answered it.
She talked quite a while. Or, rather, she listened to Myra talking. About all Rose got to say was a lot of well-I-declare's and you-don't-say-so's and so on. Finally, she said, "Why, of course I'll tell him, Myra, dear. Just as soon as he comes in from the field. And you and Lennie take care of your sweet selves until! see you again."
Rose slammed up the phone, and came back to where I was. I asked her what Myra wanted, and she said it could wait, goddam it. There were more important things to do right now.
"Like what?" I said.
"Like this," she said. "This! "
So we didn't do no talking for quite a while.
Not until afterwards, when we lay side by side, holding hands and breathing in long deep breaths. Then, finally, she turned around facing me, her head propped up on her elbow, and told me about Myra's call.
"Looks like a day for good news, honey. First, that son-of-a-bitch, Tom, gets killed, and now it looks like you're a cinch to get re-elected."
"Yeah?" I said. "How's that, baby?"
"Sam Gaddis. The whole town's talking about him. Why, do you know what he did, Nick?"
"I ain't got the slightest idea," I said. "I always thought Sam was a mighty good man."
"He raped a little two-year-old nigger baby, that's what!"
"Mmmm? Male or female?" I said.
"Female, I guess. I-ha, ha-Nick, you awful thing, you." She laughed and gave me a squeeze. "But isn't it terrible, honey! To think of a grown man screwing a poor innocent little baby! And that's only one thing he did!"
"Do tell," I said. "Like which?"
Rose said that Sam had also cheated a poor widow woman out of her life's savings, and then he'd beat his own father to death with a stick of cordwood to keep him from talking about it.
"And that's only the beginning. Nick. Everyone's saying that Sam broke into his grandma's grave, and stole the gold teeth out of her mouth. Did you ever hear of such a thing? And he killed his wife and fed her corpse to the hogs. And-"
"Now, wait a minute," I said. "Sam Gaddis has never been married."
"You mean you just never saw his wife. He was married before he came here, and he fed her to the hogs before anyone could find out about her."
"Aw, come on, now," I said. "Just when is Sam supposed to have done all these things?"
Rose hesitated and said, well, she didn't know when exactly. But, by God, she knew he'd done 'em.
"People wouldn't just make up stories like that. They couldn't!"
"Couldn't they?"
"Why, of course not, honey! Anyway, most of the stories came right from Mrs. Robert Lee Jefferson, according to Myra. Her own husband told them to her, and you know Robert Lee Jefferson wouldn't lie."
"Yeah," I said. "It don't seem like he would now, does it?"
And I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Or maybe doing the opposite. Because it was really pretty god-danged sad, now, wasn't it? It was a god-danged sorry state of affairs.
Of course, it was all to the good for me. I'd thrown the bait to Robert Lee Jefferson, and he'd bit on it. He'd done just what I expected him to do-gone around, asking people what the stories about Sam were. Which had started them to asking other people. And before long, there were plenty of answers; the kind of stinking dirty dirt that people can always create for themselves when there ain't none for real.
And it made me kind of sad, you know? Really downright sad. I couldn't help wishing that Robert Lee hadn't taken the bait, and started asking questions. Which, in turn, had started piling up the dirt around a fine man like Sam Gaddis.