But that was not right, either.
Because she had resisted to the very last.
But it was not woman resistance, that resistance which, if really meant, cannot be overcome by any man for the reason that the woman observes no rules of physical combat.
But she had resisted fair, by the rules that decreed that upon a certain crisis one was defeated, whether the end of resistance had come or not.
That night he waited until he saw the light go out in the kitchen and then come on in her room.
He went to the house.
He did not go in eagerness, but in a quiet rage.
“I’ll show her,” he said aloud.
He did not try to be quiet.
He entered the house boldly and mounted the stairs; she heard him at once.
“Who is it?” she said.
But there was no alarm in her tone.
He didn’t answer.
He mounted the stairs and entered the room.
She was still dressed, turning, watching the door as he entered.
But she did not speak to him.
She just watched him as he went to the table and blew out the lamp, thinking,
‘Now she’ll run.’
And so he sprang forward, toward the door to intercept her.
But she did not flee.
He found her in the dark exactly where the light had lost her, in the same attitude.
He began to tear at her clothes.
He was talking to her, in a tense, hard, low voice:
“I’ll show you!
I’ll show the bitch!”
She did not resist at all.
It was almost as though she were helping him, with small changes of position of limbs when the ultimate need for help arose.
But beneath his hands the body might have been the body of a dead woman not yet stiffened.
But he did not desist; though his hands were hard and urgent it was with rage alone.
‘At least I have made a woman of her at last,’ he thought. ‘Now she hates me.
I have taught her that, at least.’
The next day he lay again all day long on his cot in the cabin.
He ate nothing; he did not even go to the kitchen to see if she had left food for him.
He was waiting for sunset, dusk.
‘Then I’ll blow,’ he thought.
He did not expect ever to see her again.
‘Better blow,’ he thought. ‘Not give her the chance to turn me out of the cabin too.
That much, anyway.
No white woman ever did that.
Only a nigger woman ever give me the air, turned me out.’
So he lay on the cot, smoking, waiting for sunset.
Through the open door he watched the sun slant and lengthen and turn copper.
Then the copper faded into lilac, into the fading lilac of full dusk.
He could hear the frogs then, and fireflies began to drift across the open frame of the door, growing brighter as the dusk faded.
Then he rose.
He owned nothing but the razor; when he had put that into his pocket, he was ready to travel one mile or a thousand, wherever the street of the imperceptible corners should choose to run again.
Yet when he moved, it was toward the house.
It was as though, as soon as he found that his feet intended to go there, that he let go, seemed to float, surrendered, thinking All right All right floating, riding across the dusk, up to the house and onto the back porch and to the door by which he would enter, that was never locked.
But when he put his hand upon it, it would not open.
Perhaps for the moment neither hand nor believing would believe; he seemed to stand there, quiet, not yet thinking, watching his hand shaking the door, hearing the sound of the bolt on the inside.