In lots of books I read, the writer seems to go haywire every time he reaches a high point. He'll start leaving out punctuation and running his words together and babble about stars flashing and sinking into a deep dreamless sea. And you can't figure out whether the hero's laying his girl or a cornerstone. I guess that kind of crap is supposed to be pretty deep stuff-a lot of the book reviewers eat it up, I notice. But the way I see it is, the writer is just too goddam lazy to do his job. And I'm not lazy, whatever else I am. I'll tell you everything.
But I want to get everything in the right order.
I want you to understand how it was.
Late Saturday afternoon, I got Bob Maples alone for a minute and told him I wouldn't be able to work that night. I said that Amy and me had something mighty important to do, and maybe I wouldn't be getting in Monday or Tuesday either; and I gave him a wink.
"Well, now,"-he hesitated, frowning. "Well, now, you don't think maybe that-" Then, he gripped my hand and wrung it. "That's real good news, Lou. Real good. I know you'll be happy together."
"I'll try not to lay off too long," I said. "I reckon things are, well, kind of up in the air and-"
"No, they ain't," he said, sticking his chin out. "Everything's all right, and it's going to stay that way. Now go on and buss Amy for me, and don't you worry about nothing."
It still wasn't real late in the day, so I drove out on Derrick Road and parked a while.
Then I went home, leaving the car parked out in front, and fixed dinner.
I stretched out on the bed for about an hour, letting my food settle. I drew water in the bath tub and got in.
I lay in the tub for almost an hour, soaking and smoking and thinking. Finally, I got out, looked at the clock and began laying out clothes.
I packed my gladstone, and cinched the straps on it. I put on clean underwear and socks and new-pressed pants, and my Sunday go-to-meetin' boots. I left off my shirt and tie.
I sat on the edge of the bed smoking until eight o'clock. Then, I went downstairs to the kitchen.
I turned the light on in the pantry, moving the door back and forth until I had it like I wanted it. Until there was just enough light in the kitchen. I looked around, making sure that all the blinds were drawn, and went into Dad's office.
I took down the concordance to the Bible and removed the four hundred dollars in marked money, Elmer's money. I dumped the drawers of Dad's desk on the floor. I turned off the light, pulled the door almost shut, and went back into the kitchen.
The evening newspaper was spread out on the table. I slid a butcher knife under it, and-And it was that time. I heard her coming.
She came up the back steps and across the porch, and banged and fumbled around for a minute getting the door open. She came in, out of breath kind of and out of temper, and pushed the door shut behind her. And she saw me standing there, not saying anything because I'd forgotten why and I was trying to remember. And, finally, I did remember.
So-or did I mention it already? — on Saturday night, the fifth of April, 1952, at a few minutes before nine o'clock I killed Amy Stanton.
Or maybe you could call it suicide.
19
She saw me and it startled her for a second. Then she dropped her two traveling cases on the floor and gave one of 'em a kick, and brushed a wisp of hair from her eyes.
"Well!" she snapped. "I don't suppose it would occur to you to give me a little help! Why didn't you leave the car in the garage, anyway?"
I shook my head. I didn't say anything.
"I'll swear, Lou Ford! Sometimes I think-And you're not even ready yet! You're always talking about how slow I am, and here you stand, on your own wedding night of all things, and you haven't-" She stopped suddenly, her mouth shut tight, her breasts rising and falling. And I heard the kitchen clock tick ten times before she spoke again. "I'm sorry, darling," she said softly. "I didn't mean-"
"Don't say anything more, Amy," I said. "Just don't say anything more."
She smiled and came toward me with her arms held out. "I won't darling. I won't ever say anything like that again. But I do want to tell you how much-"
"Sure," I said. "You want to pour your heart out to me."
And I hit her in the guts as hard as I could.
My fist went back against her spine, and the flesh closed around it to the wrist. I jerked back on it, I had to jerk, and she flopped forward from the waist, like she was hinged.
Her hat fell off, and her head went clear down and touched the floor. And then she toppled over, completely over, like a kid turning a somersault. She lay on her back, eyes bulging, rolling her head from side to side.
She was wearing a white blouse and a light creamcolored suit; a new one, I reckon, because I didn't remember seeing it before. I got my hand in the front of the blouse, and ripped it down to the waist. I jerked the skirt up over her head, and she jerked and shook all over; and there was a funny sound like she was trying to laugh.
And then I saw the puddle spreading out under her.
I sat down and tried to read the paper. I tried to keep my eyes on it. But the light wasn't very good, not good enough to read by, and she kept moving around. It looked like she couldn't lie still.
Once I felt something touch my boot, and I looked down and it was her hand. It was moving back and forth across the toe of my boot. It moved up along the ankle and the leg, and somehow I was afraid to move away. And then her fingers were at the top, clutching down inside; and I almost couldn't move. I stood up and tried to jerk away, and the fingers held on.
I dragged her two-three feet before I could break away.
Her fingers kept on moving, sliding and crawling back and forth, and finally they got ahold of her purse and held on. They dragged it down inside of her skirt, and I couldn't see it or her hands any more.
Well, that was all right. It would look better to have her hanging onto her purse. And I grinned a little, thinking about it. It was so much like her, you know, to latch onto her purse. She'd always been so tight, and… and I guess she'd had to be.
There wasn't a better family in town than the Stantons. But both her folks had been ailing for years, and they didn't have much any more aside from their home. She'd had to be tight, like any damned fool ought to have known; because there wasn't any other way of being, and that's all any of us ever are: what we have to be. And I guessed it hadn't been very funny when I'd kidded her dead-pan, and acted surprised when she got mad.
I guess that stuff she'd brought to me when I was sick wasn't really crap. It was as good as she knew how to fix. I guess that dog of theirs didn't have to chase horses unless'n he wanted the exercise. I- Why the hell didn't he come? Hell, she hadn't had a real breath now in almost thirty minutes, and it was hard as hell on her. I knew how hard it was and I held my own breath for a while because we'd always done things together, and…
He came.
I'd locked the front screen, so that he couldn't just walk in, and I heard him tugging at it.
I gave her two hard kicks in the head and she rose off the floor, her skirt falling down off of her face, and I knew there wouldn't be any doubt about her. She was dead on the night of-Then I went and opened the door and let him in.
I pushed the roll of marked twenties on him and said, "Stick this in your pocket. I've got the rest back in the kitchen," and I started back there.
I knew he would put the money in his pocket, and you do too if you can remember back when you were a kid. You'd walk up to a guy and say, "Here, hold this," and probably he'd pulled the same gag himself; he'd know you were handing him a horse turd or a prickly pear or a dead mouse. But if you pulled it fast enough, he'd do just what you told him.