Soldiers’ Pay by William Faulkner (digital e reader txt) 📕

“I always thought I’d like to be a buzzard,” he remarked, “but now I think I’d like to be a woman.”

“Good gracious, Joe. Why in the world?”

“Now, long as you’re being one of them sybils, tell me about this bird Jones. He’s lucky.”

“How lucky?”

“Well, he gets what he wants, don’t he?”

“Not the women he wants.”

“Not exactly. Certainly he don’t get all the women he wants. He has failed twice to my knowledge. But failure don’t seem to worry him. That’s what I mean by lucky.” Their cigarettes arced together into the stream, hissing. “I guess brass gets along about as well as anything else with women.”

“You mean stupidity.”

“No, I don’t. Stupidity. That’s the reason I can’t get the one I want.”

She put her hand on his arm. “You aren’t stupid, Joe. And you aren’t bold, either.”

“Yes, I am. Can you imagine me considering anybody else’s feelings when they’s something I want?”

“I can’t imagine you doing anything without considering someone else’s feelings.”

Offended, he became impersonal. “ ’Course you are entitled to your own opinion. I know I ain’t bold like the man in that story. You remember? accosted a woman on the street and her husband was with her and knocked him down. When he got up, brushing himself off, a man says: ‘For heaven’s sake, friend, do you do that often?’ and the bird says: ‘Sure. Of course I get knocked down occasionally, but you’d be surprised.’ I guess he just charged the beating to overhead,” he finished with his old sardonic humor.

She laughed out. Then she said: “Why don’t you try that, Joe?”

He looked at her quietly for a time. She met his gaze unwavering and he slipped to his feet facing her, putting his arm around her. “What does that mean, Margaret?”

She made no reply and he lifted her down. She put her arms over his shoulders. “You don’t mean anything by it,” he told her quietly, touching her mouth with his. His clasp became lax.

“Not like that, Joe.”

“Not like what?” he asked stupidly. For answer she drew his face down to hers and kissed him with slow fire. Then they knew that after all they were strangers to each other. He hastened to fill an uncomfortable interval. “Does that mean you will?”

“I can’t, Joe,” she answered, standing easily in his arms.

“But why not, Margaret? You never give me any reason.”

She was silent in profile against sunshot green. “If I didn’t like you so much, I wouldn’t tell you. But it’s your name, Joe. Gilligan. I couldn’t marry a man named Gilligan.”

He was really hurt. “I’m sorry,” he said dully. She laid her cheek against his. On the crest of the hill tree trunks were a barred grate beyond which the fires of evening were dying away. “I could change it,” he suggested.

Across the evening came a long sound. “There’s your train,” he said.

She thrust herself slightly from him, to see his face. “Joe, forgive me. I didn’t mean that⁠—”

“That’s all right,” he interrupted, patting her back with awkward gentleness. “Come on, let’s get back.”

The locomotive appeared blackly at the curve, plumed with steam like a sinister squat knight and grew larger without seeming to progress. But it was moving and it roared past the station in its own good time, bearing the puny controller of its destiny like a goggled greasy excrescence in its cab. The train jarred to a stop and an eruption of white-jacketed porters.

She put her arms about him again to the edification of the bystanders. “Joe, I didn’t mean that. But don’t you see, I have been married twice already, with damn little luck either time, and I just haven’t the courage to risk it again. But if I could marry anyone, don’t you know it would be you? Kiss me, Joe.” He complied. “Bless your heart, darling. If I married you you’d be dead in a year, Joe. All the men that marry me die, you know.”

“I’ll take the risk,” he told her.

“But I won’t. I’m too young to bury three husbands.” People got off, passed them, other people got on. And above all like an obligato the vocal competition of cabmen. “Joe, does it really hurt you for me to go?” He looked at her dumbly, “Joe!” she exclaimed, and a party passed them. It was Mr. and Mrs. George Farr: they saw Cecily’s stricken face as she melted graceful and fragile and weeping into her father’s arms. And here was Mr. George Farr morose and thunderous behind her. Ignored.

“What did I tell you?” Mrs. Mahon said, clutching Gilligan’s arm.

“You’re right,” he answered, from his own despair. “It’s a sweet honeymoon he’s had, poor devil.”

The party passed on around the station and she looked at Gilligan again. “Joe, come with me.”

“To a minister?” he asked with resurgent hope.

“No, just as we are. Then when we get fed up all we need do is wish each other luck and go our ways.” He stared at her, shocked. “Damn your Presbyterian soul, Joe. Now you think I’m a bad woman.”

“No I don’t, ma’am. But I can’t do that.⁠ ⁠…”

“Why not?”

“I dunno: I just can’t.”

“But what difference does it make?”

“Why, none, if it was just your body I wanted. But I want⁠—I want⁠—”

“What do you want, Joe?”

“Hell. Come on, let’s get aboard.”

“You are coming, then?”

“You know I ain’t. You knew you were safe when you said that.”

He picked up her bags. A porter ravished them skilfully from him and he helped her into the car. She sat upon green plush and he removed his hat awkwardly, extending his hand. “Well, goodbye.”

Her face pallid and calm beneath her small white and black hat, above her immaculate collar. She ignored his hand.

“Look at me, Joe. Have I ever told you a lie?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Then don’t you know I am not lying now? I meant what I said. Sit down.”

“No, no. I can’t do it that way. You know I can’t.”

“Yes. I can’t even seduce you, Joe. I’m sorry. I’d like to make you happy for a short time, if I could. But