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PARTISAN REVIEW
sinful blasphemy, words she had never in her life uttered, that made
her black it out.
But no, maybe it was something else, for she h ad, in the same
flash, done something worse, not only taking the name of the Lord
God in vain, but knocking twin dents
in
the Decalogue at the same
time. For in that instant, she had been far from honoring her father.
She had hated him, as cleanly as a sizzling, ammoniac fl ash of light–
ning in the dark. She hated him, simply, because he was the way
he, so awfully and without being able to help himself, was. He had
never ridden on a slithering truck, yelling like an idiot as he held
up a bloody bear head.
The vision was over in a flash, like the lightning flash leaving
only the tingling ammoniac smell as the dark closed again in her
inner night. But it had unsettled her so that she wasn't able to
answer until he spoke again: "Little lady, how about it. I'll just
walk you to the door." Then he laughed: "You know, they mightn't
let me in the door. Even if Ole Mac-he's the preacher-used to be
a side-kick of mine. Before he took scairt of weather-signs and ran
for cover. Come on-let me walk you to the door."
"Yes," she said.
His being an older man, even if he didn't exactly look it, that
made it all right. Or made it so much worse, it was hopeless any–
way, or something.
The next time or two they met on the street, he spoke politely
and passed on. Certainly that was all she herself intended to do, but
when it was what he did, she was a little nettled, then ashamed
of herself. Then she realized that both those times he had been
wearing his work clothes; and she explained to herself that he had
had the delicacy not to embarrass a lady by stopping to speak with
her under those circumstances.
The next time she met him, he was in shirt sleeves-the spring
had begun to show real signs- but he had on dark trousers with a
crease, and the shirt was white. It was after supper, with a little
light in the sky still toward seven, and she had walked downtown to
the post office, to mail a letter, this time to one of those silly en–
gaged girls from Normal. He was lounging down the street in his
clean shirt sleeves-what he put on, she reckoned-after work. That
thought was prim, decent, and comforting.
