"And a fine pigsty we'd live in, too," Jason said. "Hurry up, Dilsey," he shouted.
"I know you blame me," Mrs Compson said, "for letting them off to go to church today."
"Go where?" Jason said. "Hasn't that damn show left yet?"
"To church," Mrs Compson said. "The darkies are having a special Easter service.
I promised Dilsey two weeks ago that they could get off."
"Which means we'll eat cold dinner," Jason said, "or none at all."
"I know it's my fault," Mrs Compson said. "I know you blame me."
"For what?" Jason said. "You never resurrected Christ, did you?"
They heard Dilsey mount the final stair, then her slow feet overhead.
"Quentin," she said.
When she called the first time Jason laid his knife and fork down and he and his mother appeared to wait across the table from one another in identical attitudes; the one cold and shrewd, with close-thatched brown hair curled into two stubborn hooks, one on either side of his forehead like a bartender in caricature, and hazel eyes with black-ringed irises like marbles, the other cold and querulous, with perfectly white hair and eyes pouched and baffled and so dark as to appear to be all pupil or all iris.
"Quentin," Dilsey said. "Get up, honey.
Dey waitin breakfast on you."
"I cant understand how that window got broken," Mrs Compson said. "Are you sure it was done yesterday?
It could have been like that a long time, with the warm weather.
The upper sash, behind the shade like that."
"I've told you for the last time that it happened yesterday," Jason said. "Dont you reckon I know the room I live in?
Do you reckon I could have lived in it a week with a hole in the window you could stick your hand…." his voice ceased, ebbed, left him staring at his mother with eyes that for an instant were quite empty of anything.
It was as though his eyes were holding their breath, while his mother looked at him, her face flaccid and querulous, interminable, clairvoyant yet obtuse.
As they sat so Dilsey said,
"Quentin. Dont play wid me, honey.
Come on to breakfast, honey.
Dey waitin fer you."
"I cant understand it," Mrs Compson said. "It's just as if somebody had tried to break into the house--" Jason sprang up.
His chair crashed over backward. "What--" Mrs Compson said, staring at him as he ran past her and went jumping up the stairs, where he met Dilsey.
His face was now in shadow, and Dilsey said,
"She sullin.
Yo maw aint unlocked--" But Jason ran on past her and along the corridor to a door.
He didn't call.
He grasped the knob and tried it, then he stood with the knob in his hand and his head bent a little, as if he were listening to something much further away than the dimensioned room beyond the door, and which he already heard.
His attitude was that of one who goes through the motions of listening in order to deceive himself as to what he already hears.
Behind him Mrs Compson mounted the stairs, calling his name.
Then she saw Dilsey and she quit calling him and began to call Dilsey instead.
"I told you she aint unlocked dat do yit," Dilsey said.
When she spoke he turned and ran toward her, but his voice was quiet, matter of fact.
"She carry the key with her?" he said.
"Has she got it now, I mean, or will she have--"
"Dilsey," Mrs Compson said on the stairs.
"Is which?" Dilsey said. "Whyn't you let--"
"The key," Jason said. "To that room. Does she carry it with her all the time.
Mother." Then he saw Mrs Compson and he went down the stairs and met her. "Give me the key," he said.
He fell to pawing at the pockets of the rusty black dressing sacque she wore.
She resisted.
"Jason," she said. "Jason!
Are you and Dilsey trying to put me to bed again?" she said, trying to fend him off. "Cant you even let me have Sunday in peace?"
"The key," Jason said, pawing at her. "Give it here." He looked back at the door, as if he expected it to fly open before he could get back to it with the key he did not yet have.
"You, Dilsey!" Mrs Compson said, clutching her sacque about her.
"Give me the key, you old fool!" Jason cried suddenly.
From her pocket he tugged a huge bunch of rusted keys on an iron ring like a mediaeval jailer's and ran back up the hall with the two women behind him.
"You, Jason!" Mrs Compson said. "He will never find the right one," she said. "You know I never let anyone take my keys, Dilsey," she said. She began to wail.