Jane Bowles - My Sister's Hand in Mine - The Collected Works of Jane Bowles

“Men,” she said, once she had blown the bugle and made a few routine announcements, “I know you have hard muscles in your legs. But how would you like to have even harder ones?” It was a rhetorical question to which she did not expect an answer. “We’re going to have hurdle races and plain running every day now for two hours.”

Though in her mind she knew dimly that this intensified track training was preparatory to an imminent battle on the Memorial playgrounds, she did not dare discuss it with her men, or even think about it too precisely herself. She had to avoid coming face to face with an impossibility.

“As we all know,” she continued, “we don’t like to have teams because we’ve been through too much on the battlefield all together. Every day I’ll divide you up fresh before the racing, so that the ones who are against each other today, for instance, will be running on the same side tomorrow. The men in our outfit are funny about taking sides against each other, even just in play and athletics. The other outfits in this country don’t feel the same as we do.”

She dug her hands into her pockets and hung her head sheepishly. She was fine now, and certain of victory. She could feel the men’s hearts bursting with love for her and with pride in their regiment. She looked up — a car was rounding the bend, and as it came nearer she recognized it as her father’s.

“Men,” she said in a clear voice, “you can do what you want for thirty minutes while I make out the racing schedule and the team lists.” She stared unflinchingly at the dark blue sedan and waited with perfect outward calm for her father to slow down; she was still waiting after the car had curved out of sight. When she realized that he was gone, she held her breath. She expected her heart to leap for joy, but it did not.

* * *

“Now I’ll go to my headquarters,” she announced in a flat voice. “I’ll be back with the team lists in twenty-five minutes.” She glanced up at the highway; she felt oddly disappointed and uneasy. A small figure was descending the stone steps on the other side of the highway. It was a boy. She watched in amazement; she had never seen anyone come down these steps before. Since the highway had replaced the old country road, the family living in the hilltop house came and went through the back door.

Watching the boy, she felt increasingly certain that he was on his way down to the pit. He stepped off the curb after looking prudently for cars in each direction; then he crossed the highway and clambered down the hill. Just as she had expected him to, when he reached the edge of the pit he seated himself on the ground and slid into it, smearing his coat — dark like her own — with clay.

“It’s a big clay pit,” he said, looking up at her. He was younger than she, but he looked straight into her eyes without a trace of shyness. She knew he was a stranger in town; she had never seen him before. This made him less detestable, nonetheless she had to be rid of him shortly because the men were expecting her back with the team lists.

“Where do you come from?” she asked him.

“From inside that house.” He pointed at the hilltop.

“Where do you live when you’re not visiting?”

“I live inside that house,” he repeated, and he sat down on the floor of the pit.

“Sit on the orange crate,” she ordered him severely. “You don’t pay any attention to your coat.”

He shook his head. She was exasperated with him because he was untidy, and he had lied to her. She knew perfectly well that he was merely a visitor in the hilltop house.

“Why did you come out this door?” she asked, looking at him sharply. “The people in that house go out the back. It’s level there and they’ve got a drive.”

“I don’t know why,” he answered simply.

“Where do you come from?” she asked again.

“That’s my house.” He pointed to it as if she were asking him for the first time. “The driveway in back’s got gravel in it. I’ve got a whole box of it in my room. I can bring it down.”

“No gravel’s coming in here that belongs to a liar,” she interrupted him. “Tell me where you come from and then you can go get it.”

He stood up. “I live in that big house up there,” he said calmly. “From my room I can see the river, the road down there and the road up here, and this pit and you.”

“It’s not your room!” she shouted angrily. “You’re a visitor there. I was a visitor last year at my aunt’s.”

“Good-bye.”

He was climbing out of the pit. Once outside he turned around and looked down at her. There was an expression of fulfillment on his face.

“I’ll bring the gravel some time soon,” he said.

She watched him crossing the highway. Then automatically she climbed out of the pit.

She was mounting the tedious stone steps behind him. Her jaw was clamped shut, and her face had gone white with anger. He had not turned around once to look at her. As they were nearing the top it occurred to her that he would rush into the house and slam the door in her face. Hurriedly she climbed three steps at once so as to be directly behind him. When he opened the door, she pushed across the threshold with him; he did not seem to notice her at all. Inside the dimly lit vestibule the smell of fresh paint was very strong. After a few seconds her eyes became more accustomed to the light, and she saw that the square room was packed solid with furniture. The boy was already pushing his way between two identical bureaus which stood back to back. The space between them was so narrow that she feared she would not be able to follow him. She looked around frantically for a wider artery, but seeing that there was none, she squeezed between the bureaus, pinching her flesh painfully, until she reached a free space at the other end. Here the furniture was less densely packed — in fact, three armchairs had been shoved together around an uncluttered area, wide enough to provide leg room for three people, providing they did not mind a tight squeeze. To her left a door opened on to total darkness. She expected him to rush headlong out of the room into the dark in a final attempt to escape her, but to her astonishment he threaded his way carefully in the opposite direction until he reached the circle of chairs. He entered it and sat down in one of them. After a second’s hesitation, she followed his example.

The chair was deeper and softer than any she had ever sat in before. She tickled the thick velvet arms with her fingertips. Here and there, they grazed a stiff area where the nap had worn thin. The paint fumes were making her eyes smart, and she was beginning to feel apprehensive. She had forgotten to consider that grown people would probably be in the house, but now she gazed uneasily into the dark space through the open door opposite her. It was cold in the vestibule, and despite her woollen coat she began to shiver.

“If he would tell me now where he comes from,” she said to herself, “then I could go away before anybody else came.” Her anger had vanished, but she could not bring herself to speak aloud, or even to turn around and look at him. He sat so still that it was hard for her to believe he was actually beside her in his chair.

Without warning, the dark space opposite her was lighted up. Her heart sank as she stared at a green wall, still shiny with wet paint. It hurt her eyes. A woman stepped into the visible area, her heels sounding on the floorboards. She was wearing a print dress and over it a long brown sweater which obviously belonged to a man.

“Are you there, Franklin?” she called out, and she walked into the vestibule and switched on a second light. She stood still and looked at him.

“I thought I heard you come in,” she said. Her voice was flat, and her posture at that moment did not inspire Mary with respect. “Come to visit Franklin?” she asked, as if suddenly aware that her son was not alone. “I think I’ll visit for a while.” She advanced toward them. When she reached the circle she squeezed in and sat opposite Mary.