He shut the door.
She leaned in it, looking toward the house.
He pushed her back so he could close the door.
“Hit aint goin to hurt you none, Lee says.
All you got to do is lay down.”
“All right.
I will.
Dont you let him in here.”
The door closed.
She heard him drive the hasp to. Then he shook the door.
“Hit’s fastened,” he said.
“Caint nobody git to you now.
I’ll be right hyer.”
He squatted on his heels in the chaff, looking at the house.
After a while he saw Goodwin come to the back door and look toward him, and squatting, clasping his knees, Tommy’s eyes glowed again, the pale irises appearing for an instant to spin on the pupils like tiny wheels.
He squatted there, his lip lifted a little, until Goodwin went back into the house.
Then he sighed, expelling his breath, and he looked at the blank door of the crib and again his eyes glowed with a diffident, groping, hungry fire and he began to rub his hands slowly on his shanks, rocking a little from side to side.
Then he ceased, became rigid, and watched Goodwin move swiftly across the corner of the house and into the cedars.
He squatted rigid, his lip lifted a little upon his ragged teeth.
Sitting in the cottonseed-hulls, in the litter of gnawed corn-cobs, Temple lifted her head suddenly toward the trap at the top of the ladder.
She heard Popeye cross the floor of the loft, then his foot appeared, groping gingerly for the step.
He descended, watching her over his shoulder.
She sat quite motionless, her mouth open a little.
He stood looking at her.
He began to thrust his chin out in a series of jerks, as though his collar were too tight.
He lifted his elbows and brushed them with his palm, and the skirt of his coat, then he crossed her field of vision, moving without a sound, his hand in his coat pocket.
He tried the door.
Then he shook it.
“Open the door,” he said.
There was no sound.
Then Tommy whispered:
“Who’s that?”
“Open the door,” Popeye said.
The door opened.
Tommy looked at Popeye. He blinked.
“I didn’t know you was in hyer,” he said.
He made to look past Popeye, into the crib.
Popeye laid his hand flat on Tommy’s face and thrust him back and leaned past him and looked up at the house.
Then he looked at Tommy.
“Didn’t I tell you about following me?”
“I wasn’t following you,” Tommy said.
“I was watching him,” jerking his head toward the house.
“Watch him, then,” Popeye said.
Tommy turned his head and looked toward the house and Popeye drew his hand from his coat pocket.
To Temple, sitting in the cottonseed-hulls and the corn-cobs, the sound was no louder than the striking of a match: a short, minor sound shutting down upon the scene, the instant, with a profound finality, completely isolating it, and she sat there, her legs straight before her, her hands limp and palm-up on her lap, looking at Popeye’s tight back and the ridges of his coat across the shoulders as he leaned out the door, the pistol behind him, against his flank, wisping thinly along his leg.
He turned and looked at her.
He waggled the pistol slightly and put it back in his coat, then he walked toward her.
Moving, he made no sound at all; the released door yawned and clapped against the jamb, but it made no sound either; it was as though sound and silence had become inverted.
She could hear silence in a thick rustling as he moved toward her through it, thrusting it aside, and she began to say Something is going to happen to me.
She was saying it to the old man with the yellow clots for eyes.