The man looked at him in irascible amazement.
What's that name again? Holme said.
What?
That name. That feller I'm to see in town.
Clark, goddamn it.
Thank ye. He raised a hand slightly in farewell and the man looked at him and shook his head and yelled again at the negroes. Holme went on.
Further on he came to a board culvert through which a small branch sluiced with a cool sucking sound to cross beneath the road. He stood looking down at the water for a moment, then parted the ferns and went into the woods along the branch until he came to a pool. He knelt in the black sand and dipped and spread his hands very white in the clear water, framing his own listing image. From the bib of his overalls he fingered a small piece of soap and a razor in a homesewn leather sheath. He shucked off the straps of his overalls and took off his shirt and began to wash his arms and his chest. With the soap he made a thin and transient lather, honed the razor against the calf of his boot and shaved himself, studying his face in the water and feeling out stray patches of stubble with his fingers. When he had done he splashed water at his face and took up his shirt to dry with before donning it again. He wrapped the soap in a leaf and put it together with the razor in the bib pocket once more and combed his hair briefly with his fingers and rose.
When he did reach town it was past noon, his shirt gone sour again and sweat darkening the white crusts of salt at his sleeves and the cuffs of his trousers which in their raggedness looked blown off to length, tailored by watchdogs. White dust had built upon the wet patches at his knees until he might have knelt in flour and his face and hair were pale with dust save for his eyes which had a smoked look to them. He wandered into the heatstricken square and looked about him, blinking. People were moving from shade to shade beneath the store awnings and across the bright noon clay with leaden steps, moving beneath the blinding heat like toilers in a dream stunned and without purpose. The first man he came upon that was not caught up in this listless tableau was a teamster fitting a wheel. He said him a howdy above his bent back.
Yep, the man said. He ran his forefinger around a tallow tin and brought forth the last of it like cake icing and daubed it over the tapered spline of the axle. Holme watched while he eased the wheel into place and while he fitted the nut and turned it hand tight. He gave the wheel a spin and it went smoothly, dishing slightly and whispering as if it rode through water. Where's that wrench now? he said. He was feeling along the ground and Holme thought for a minute the man was blind.
It's under your foot, he said.
The man stopped and looked up at him, then took up the wrench. Ah, he said, here tis. He tightened the nut and then took the cotterpin from the greasecup where he had put it for safekeeping and bent the ends with his thumb and fitted it and reflared it again. Then he tapped the cup into place with the heel of his hand and rose.
Now, he said, his hands coming clawlike up his overall legs and leaving dark and polished trails of grease, what was it again?
I just wanted to ast ye where I might find a feller named Clark.
Just about any place ye look. County's full of em.
No ...
Yes tis.
I mean this'n I'm huntin a feller at the turpentine camp out on the road told me to ast for him.
That's the old man I reckon. He's out at Essary's fixin for the auction. They havin a big auction tomorrow.
Holme blinked hugely in the sun and palmed the sweat from his forehead. I'm huntin work, he said.
Are? Don't fall asleep there, you'll tip over and hurt yourself.
Holme squinted his eyes at the man, blinked again at the flat and sunscoured clay about him, turned and started up the street.
The man watched him go for a minute, one elbow propped on the wheel of the wagon. Then he raised his hand in the air. Hey there, he called.
Holme turned.
You, the man said. Hold up a minute.
Holme started slowly back toward him. The man watched him with one hand visored upon his forehead against the sun. You ain't drunk are ye? he said.
No, Holme said. Just a little give out is all.
Are you sure enough lookin for work?
Yessir.
Well, I never meant to be short with ye. I hate to see a feller act whipped though. Damned if I don't. You ain't sick are ye?
No. I ain't sick. You need a man to work?
Well, no. I just thought you looked like you'd had some kind of trouble or somethin. Walkin off thataway. Kindly bothered me. I ain't astin ye your business now.
Everbody's subject to get in a ditch sometime or anothern, Holme said. I ain't lookin for nobody to be sorry for me.
No, the teamster said.
What about this Clark feller?
Now he might have somethin for ye. Why don't ye ast at the store what time they expectin him in. It's a right good ways out there where he's at and I doubt you'd get back against dark.
All right, Holme said. Which store?
Clark's.
Thank ye, Holme said. Much obliged.
That's all right, the teamster said. I hope ye luck.
Much obliged, Holme said again. He nodded and started on up the street and the teamster nodded to him and then to himself more gravely. And say, he called.
Holme turned, still walking.
You talk sharp to that old man you hear?
Holme raised one hand and went on.
The clerk at the store when Holme asked him frowned and said: When you see him comin is when ye can look for him. What is it you wanted with him?
Feller told me to see him about work.
Did?
Two fellers ...
Well you can wait on him if it suits ye. He may be back directly.
Holme went out and leaned against a stanchion of the porch and watched the people pass and the little dust-devils that went along the road. He dipped up half a handful of corn from his pocket and began to chew it and then he stopped, his face going from vacancy to disgust, and spat the tasteless meal to the ground. As he did so a man rounding the corner leaped back and began to scream at him.
What? Holme said dumbly. What?
Cholera? Cholera?
Hell, it weren't nothin but a mouthful of corn.
I lost a whole family to it now don't lie to me like I ain't never seen it goddamn it.
Shit, Holme said.
O yes. Five youngerns. Five. And damn near the old lady too. God knows why he didn't ... I taken it back--God knows all right. Why he's kept that flaptongued bitch down here as long as he has. The flowered crown to all other abominations. A walkin plague in your own house. That's what's been visited on me. You sure you ain't sick?
Shit, Holme said. I ain't never been sick a day in my life savin the whoopincough one time.
I'd shoot a man went around with the plague like ary mad dog, the man said.
Ain't nobody plagued, Holme said.
I hope they ain't, the man said. I pray to God they ain't. He came on along the edge of the porch inspecting the damp explosion of chewed corn in the dust there and mounted the steps with a wary cast to his eye. Where's old Clark at? he said. You seen him?
No, Holme said. I'm waitin on him myself.
You sure you ain't a little off your feed? You look kindly peaked to me.
Holme looked at him and looked away, spat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. I done told ye, he said.
How long you been waitin on Clark?
Just a little bit. He's out at the auction.
The hell he is. I just come from there. Who told you that?
Clerk in the store here, Holme motioned with his head.
He don't know shit from applebutter, the man said. Where's Leroy?
I don't know no Leroy.
That's right. You ain't from around here, the man said. He lunged wildly at a passing wasp. Get away, goddamn it, he said. Where are ye from can I ast ye?
I ain't from around here, Holme said.
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Damn right you ain't, the man said, and went inside.
When he came out again it was with his back to the door in a receding torrent of invective until he stumbled through onto the porch balancing a handful of crackers and a jar of milk, his mouth full, spraying crumbs and oaths into the dim interior for just another minute before he let the door to. Then he sat on the steps and ate and looked up and down the street from time to time and said no more to Holme. Holme was sitting on the edge of the porch with his feet dangling. He was looking the other way when the man did speak. The man said: Yonder comes the son of a bitch.
He watched. The sign in slant green script broken among the parting boards of the wagon's side read Clark Auction Company and rising outsized up from the wagon seat rode a man dressed in a filthy white suit and so huge that the mule and the wagon which carried him looked absurd, like a toy rig in a circus bearing some soiled and monolithic clown. He reined in at the corner of the porch directly in front of Holme, stood in the wagon, adjusted his hat and climbed down. The mule turned its head and looked at Holme and looked away again. The man mounted the steps. The clerk came to the door and opened it for him.
He says he ain't got no butter and tomorrow's saturday ...
Shut up and get back in the store, the man said. Howdy Bud, pretty day ain't it? Whew. I was lookin for warm weather to hold off some, wasn't you?
I ain't interested in the weather, the other said. I want to know who's goin to ...
You know I talked to a feller up the road said he had corn puttin out. What about that?
Aw, you swear he did?--Goddamn it I don't want to hear about somebody's goddamned corn I want them people down out of there.
The big man had removed his hat to peel the sweat from his head with a curled forefinger and now he paused and looked at the other. What people is that, Bud? he said.
Goddamn it you know what people. I ain't havin it. I want shet of em.
And the other, equable, donning again and adjusting his dustcolored hat with the propriety one might a silk derby, saying: Why Bud, you don't reckon I put em there do ye?
I don't care who done it I just want em out of there.
When I wasn't even in town.
I ain't concerned about that. Them two ...
They on your property.
Yes.
In a tree you said it was?
You know where they're at.
You know the county ain't authorized no facilities for the removal of dead stock.
The other man's jaw was working up and down but nothing came out.
How come you ain't got no butter?
Then it started, an explosion of curses and oaths in such ingenious combinations that the other smiled appreciatively. He turned to Holme and winked. When the man began to run dry and stammer the other put a hand on his shoulder. Easy now Bud, he said. It's a warm day. Tell you what. I'll see what the law can do.
Law's ass. You are the law ...
Law takes time, the other said. Yours is a unusual case. We don't want to jump too fast here and do the wrong thing, do we? I think maybe another day or so and we'll be able to handle your problem. It's kindly good advertisin for the public peace just now. Ain't it?
Goddamn it I don't care about no advertisin I want them sons of bitches out of my field.
The other was still smiling but his eyes weren't smiling. He said: I believe another day or two, Bud. That'll be all right won't it? He didn't even wait to see what the man would say but lifted his hand and went on in the store. Holme followed him. He didn't look at the man's face standing there when he passed him.
Clark had gone behind the counter and was riffling through bills and notes in a cigar box. The clerk was dusting merchandise. Holme leaned on the counter for a few minutes, the man's huge back to him and his head nodding from time to time, muttering, shuffling the papers, scratching his chin, cursing.
Mr Clark, he said.
Yep.
He didn't turn and Holme didn't speak again and then he did turn, looking at him with a kind of arrogant curiosity. What is it, he said.
Well, I wanted to ast if you might have any work.
You ridin or walkin?
Walkin.
I need a man to circulate handbills but not afoot. Here. Here's one for yourself anyway. He unrolled a thick scroll of printed bills on the counter and peeled one off. Holme took it and looked at it. The bills on the counter recoiled with a vicious slicing sound.
Goin to have the Willis Brothers and Little Aud, Clark said. Free prizes and lemonade. Like to have everbody come.
Yessir, Holme said, looking up. Was they not nothin else you needed done? A feller said maybe you could use some help. Maybe at the auction ...
Clark looked at the clerk and the clerk began to dust again and then he looked at Holme. What feller, he said.
Out to the turpentine camp.
What's your name mister.
Holme.
Holme. Where you from Holme.
Holme swallowed and answered very fast. I come from down in Johnson County. I'm just up here huntin work.
You wasn't here Wednesday was you?
No sir. I just come in this mornin.
The man stood there looking down at him and Holme looked about the shelves and their bright labeled wares and then down at the counter.
You know how I hired my deputy, Holme?
No sir.
They was a wagonload of sons of bitches pulled up in a field to pick beans and he's the first'n off the tailgate.
Holme smiled weakly. Clark never had smiled.
You ever been to a auction?
No sir.
He was hefting the weight of the roll of bills in one palm and contemplating Holme. That's the wrong answer, he said. He looked toward the clerk. Where's Leroy?
I don't know. I ain't paid to keep up with him.
Clark lifted an enormous watch from the pocket of his coat and looked at it. Tell you what I'll do, Holme, he said, addressing the face of the watch.
What.
He looked up. You broke, I reckon.
Yessir.
Can you operate a pick and shovel?
I reckon.
All right. See Harold here about gettin you one from back in the back and then go up to the church and dig me two holes. Big enough to put somebody in. And not in the church lot neither. That's all spoke for. These go up in the back where them little markers is at. You might better ast at the preacher's house.
All right, Holme said.
That old pick's loose in the handle to where I'd not trust it, the clerk said.
Is it the heavy trade in here all day that's kept you from mendin it? He turned back to Holme. The county pays a dollar, he said. That's more than I'd pay but I ain't been ast. If you get done this evenin afore dark come by the store here and you can get paid. Otherwise I'll see ye tomorrow. Unless you're still standin here tomorrow waitin on him to get you that pick and shovel.
When Holme came past the churchyard with his shouldered tools there were two negroes there among the stones, one sitting and watching the other and the other naked to the waist and kneedeep in the hole he dug, the pick coming lazily down and ceasing with a small dead thump in the earth. When the seated one saw him he started to rise and then he sat again. The one working stopped and looked up, face shining with sweat, the two of them watching him come along.
Howdy, he said. You sure you diggin in the right place?
Yessir, the seated one said.
You ain't diggin two are ye?
Yessir. I just waitin on him a minute.
Where's the other one?
They ain't but just us.
Holme looked at them blankly. Where's the other hole at? he said.
The two negroes looked at each other. The one digging said: We wasn't told to dig but one.
This'n here is Mrs Salter, the one sitting said, cocking his thumb backward at the stone against which he leaned. He supposed to go on the right cause I ast his
right or my right and he say her right.
Holme unloaded the tools from his shoulder and leaned on them and looked about him and then at the negroes again. You mean you ain't diggin but the one hole, he said.
That's all we's told.
It's for somebody else I reckon. You ain't seen the preacher have ye?
I seen him go up the road a little while back.
Holme nodded. To the rear of the church was an untended lot where he could make out some thin board headstones tilted among the weeds. I reckon yander's the place for buryin anybody that ain't spoke for, ain't it?
The one had started to dig again and he stopped but neither answered.
Or ain't it?
Yessir, the one said. I reckon.
Holme nodded to them and went on.
He worked until nightfall and then a little later. He was beginning to feel lightheaded and his empty belly had drawn up in him like a fist. He worked on for a while in the dark and then he quit. There were no lights at the preacher's house. When he got to the store there were no lights there and there was nobody about. He did not know how late it was. He slid the pick and shovel beneath the porch and went on up the road, a solitary figure in that warm and breathing dark, shadowless and unwitnessed. He slept the night in the lee of a hayrick and he woke again before it was light. Before there was any sign or hope of light. Something had passed on the road and he lay huddled against the chill of pending dawn with his arms crossed on his chest in that attitude the living inflict upon the dead and he listened but he could hear nothing. There was something fearful about. He listened for dogs to bark down along the road but no dogs barked. He lay awake a long time and the morning came up in the east in a pale accretion of light heralded by no cock, no waking birds. He rose and went into the road, dusting the chaff from his wretched clothes and stomping his feet in the fine boots now calked with grave earth. He went along toward the town and as he topped a rise in the road two buzzards labored up out of a dead tree in a field from which hung the bodies of three men. One was dressed in a dirty white suit. Nothing moved. The buzzards swung away beyond the woods and there was no sound and no movement anywhere. There was only the gradual gathering of light to which these eyeless dead came alien and unreal like figures wandered from a dream.
He hurried on, into the empty town. It was daylight now. When he got to the store Clark's rig was standing untethered at the corner of the porch with the mule asleep in the traces. He went up the steps and tapped at the door and waited and tapped again. He peered through the window. His silhouette lay on the floor in the bent light. All was dim and dusty with abandonment. He called. After a while he descended the steps into the road again and he stood there and looked all about him and listened for any sound at all but there was nothing. He turned and went on through the town. He was walking very fast and after a while he was running again.