They were backed against the wall at the head of the bed, snapping and snarling at her in mad terror.
“Mr Binford was Miss Reba’s man. Was landlord here eleven years until he die bout two years ago.
Next day Miss Reba get these dawgs, name one Mr Binford and other Miss Reba.
Whenever she go to the cemetery she start drinking like this evening, then they both got to run.
But Mr Binford ketch it sho nough.
Last time she throw him outen upstair window and go down and empty Mr Binford’s clothes closet and throw everything out in the street except what he buried in.”
“Oh,” Temple said.
“No wonder they’re scared.
Let them stay under there.
They wont bother me.”
“Reckon I have to.
Mr Binford aint going to leave this room, not if he know it.”
She stood again, looking down at Temple.
“Eat that supper,” she said. “You feel better.
I done slip you a drink of gin, too.”
“I dont want any,” Temple said, turning her face away.
She heard Minnie leave the room.
The door closed quietly.
Under the bed the dogs crouched against the wall in that rigid and furious terror.
The light hung from the center of the ceiling, beneath a fluted shade of rose-colored paper browned where the bulb bulged it.
The floor was covered by a figured maroon-tinted carpet tacked down in strips; the olive-tinted walls bore two framed lithographs.
From the two windows curtains of machine lace hung, dust-colored, like strips of lightly congealed dust set on end.
The whole room had an air of musty stodginess, decorum; in the wavy mirror of a cheap varnished dresser, as in a stagnant pool, there seemed to linger spent ghosts of voluptuous gestures and dead lusts.
In the corner, upon a faded scarred strip of oilcloth tacked over the carpet, sat a washstand bearing a flowered bowl and pitcher and a row of towels; in the corner behind it sat a slop jar dressed also in fluted rose-colored paper.
Beneath the bed the dogs made no sound.
Temple moved slightly; the dry complaint of mattress and springs died into the terrific silence in which they crouched.
She thought of them, woolly, shapeless; savage, petulant, spoiled, the flatulent monotony of their sheltered lives snatched up without warning by an incomprehensible moment of terror and fear of bodily annihilation at the very hands which symbolised by ordinary the licensed tranquillity of their lives.
The house was full of sounds.
Indistinguishable, remote, they came in to her with a quality of awakening, resurgence, as though the house itself had been asleep, rousing itself with dark; she heard something which might have been a burst of laughter in a shrill woman voice.
Steamy odors from the tray drifted across her face.
She turned her head and looked at it, at the covered and uncovered dishes of thick china.
In the midst of them sat the glass of pale gin, a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches.
She rose on her elbow, catching up the slipping gown.
She lifted the covers upon a thick steak, potatoes, green peas; rolls; an anonymous pinkish mass which some sense—elimination, perhaps—identified as a sweet.
She drew the slipping gown up again, thinking about them eating down at school in a bright uproar of voices and clattering forks; of her father and brothers at the supper table at home; thinking about the borrowed gown and Miss Reba saying that they would go shopping tomorrow. And I’ve just got two dollars, she thought.
When she looked at the food she found that she was not hungry at all, didn’t even want to look at it.
She lifted the glass and gulped it empty, her face wry, and set it down and turned her face hurriedly from the tray, fumbling for the cigarettes.
When she went to strike the match she looked at the tray again and took up a strip of potato gingerly in her fingers and ate it.
She ate another, the unlighted cigarette in her other hand.
Then she put the cigarette down and took up the knife and fork and began to eat, pausing from time to time to draw the gown up onto her shoulder.
When she finished eating she lit the cigarette.
She heard the bell again, then another in a slightly different key.
Across a shrill rush of a woman’s voice a door banged.
Two people mounted the stairs and passed the door; she heard Miss Reba’s voice booming from somewhere and listened to her toiling slowly up the stairs.
Temple watched the door until it opened and Miss Reba stood in it, the tankard in her hand. She now wore a bulging house dress and a widow’s bonnet with a veil.
She entered on the flowered felt slippers.
Beneath the bed the two dogs made a stifled concerted sound of utter despair.
The dress, unfastened in the back, hung lumpily about Miss Reba’s shoulders.
One ringed hand lay on her breast, the other held the tankard high.
Her open mouth, studded with gold-fillings, gaped upon the harsh labor of her breathing.