There was no cessation of mirth in that, either.
The still, abject, downlooking voice reached him. “I made a mistake tonight.
I forgot something.” Perhaps she was waiting for him to ask her what it was.
But he did not.
He just stood there, with a still, downspeaking voice dying somewhere about his ears.
He had forgot about the shot sheep.
He had lived with the fact which the older boy had told him too long now.
With the slain sheep he had bought immunity from it for too long now for it to be alive.
So he could not understand at first what she was trying to tell him.
They stood at the corner.
It was at the edge of town, where the street became a road that ran on beyond the ordered and measured lawns, between small, random houses and barren fields—the small, cheap houses which compose the purlieus of such towns.
She said, “Listen.
I’m sick tonight.” He did not understand.
He said nothing.
Perhaps he did not need to understand.
Perhaps he had already expected some fateful mischance, thinking,
‘It was too good to be true, anyway’; thinking too fast for even thought: In a moment she will vanish.
She will not be.
And then I willbe back home, in bed, not having left it at all. Her voice went on: “I forgot about the day of the month when I told you Monday night.
You surprised me, I guess.
There on the street Saturday.
I forgot what day it was, anyhow.
Until after you had gone.”
His voice was as quiet as hers.
“How sick?
Haven’t you got some medicine at home that you can take?”
“Haven’t I got ...” Her voice died.
She said, “Well, say.” She said suddenly: “It’s late.
And you with four miles to walk.”
“I’ve already walked it now.
I’m here now.” His voice was quiet, hopeless, calm. “I reckon it’s getting late,” he said.
Then something changed.
Not looking at him, she sensed something before she heard it in his hard voice: “What kind of sickness have you got?”
She didn’t answer, at once.
Then she said, still, downlooking:
“You haven’t ever had a sweetheart, yet.
I’ll bet you haven’t.” He didn’t answer. “Have you?” He didn’t answer.
She moved.
She touched him for the first time.
She came and took his arm, lightly, in both hands.
Looking down, he could see the dark shape of the lowered head which appeared to have been set out of line a little on the neck when she was born.
She told him, halting, clumsily, using the only words which she knew perhaps.
But he had heard it before.
He had already fled backward, past the slain sheep, the price paid for immunity, to the afternoon when, sitting on a creek bank, he had been not hurt or astonished so much as outraged.
The arm which she held jerked free.
She did not believe that he had intended to strike her; she believed otherwise, in fact.
But the result was the same.
As he faded on down the road, the shape, the shadow, she believed that he was running.
She could hear his feet for some time after she could no longer see him.
She did not move at once.