Pearl Buck - Time Is Noon

“She heard somehow.” He did not ask of the child.

“I’ve got to go away now.”

“But why are you afraid of her, Frank?”

“I’m not afraid of her — she’s only a whore. You can’t understand.”

“Then what are you afraid of, Frank? I could help, you know. I’ll think of some way to help.”

“You can’t help — you don’t know.” He began picking at the old tufted quilt he had put over his knees. “You — I’m not afraid of her —it’s myself —you can’t understand. I’m spoiled, see? I’m afraid of — wanting to go back to her. I–I’m not decent. I — want her — a woman like her. You don’t know. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I make myself sick. I want her and then I’m sick. I’m sick. I’m sick when I remember her — other women like her — but I want her. It’s the only kind I can — can want. I can’t get away from it — I want to get away, but I can’t.”

But he did not speak of the child. He did not know of the child. He must never know about the child. … “Me in a coal mine, Joan, wanting to fly!”

“Jo!” Bart’s voice shouted up the stairs. “Time to eat!”

“You shall get away — poor Frank, you shall get away!” she promised. Somehow, she could do it, she said to herself fiercely. She could do what ought to be done.

She rode over them all. Bart, astonished, cried, “But you don’t know how to even get around in the city! You’ll get lost — and I can’t go with you right now. We’re butchering this week — don’t know if Sam could go, even.”

“I don’t want anybody. Frank knows the way there and I can get back.”

She forced her own will ruthlessly.

“You’re near your time. You might be took,” Bart’s mother said. New York! It was a hundred miles away. She knew all about it and she wouldn’t go there for anything, and never had. Things happened there. You could read about it in the newspaper. Everybody said—

“I’ll be all right,” said Joan. “I have more than three weeks to go.”

“You can’t tell so near,” the woman fretted.

“Dr. Crabbe says so,” she answered with composure.

“How can he tell? Can’t anybody tell exactly when a woman takes.”

She did not answer. She went on wiping the table, putting away dishes, sweeping the crumbs, planning. She was going with Frank herself. She was going to find Roger Bair herself this time and tell him about Frank. She could do it.

“It’s not decent for a woman in your fix to go among a lot of men strangers.” Bart’s mother was watching her from the stove.

She turned on her. “You mean it’s a shame for a woman to have a child?”

“No,” the other woman said, embarrassed. She was wiping out the zinc-lined sink and she did not look up. “It’s not shame — not after the birth. But before, a decent woman doesn’t show herself.”

“I do,” said Joan. “I don’t care — I’m proud.” She was triumphant over this house now, triumphant over their silence, over their stubbornness.

“You going to New York?” said Bart’s father at the dinner table. He shot his eyebrows over his eyes at her.

“Yes, I’m going,” Joan cried.

He grunted and filled his mouth with bread.

“Bring me back something, Sis,” said Sam, grinning. He had finished his food and was picking at his black nails with the tines of his fork.

She saw Francis look at him and then stare down into his plate. He ate doggedly, saying nothing. But after the meal he hung about her as she worked. “Don’t come,” he muttered. “It doesn’t matter about me. I’ll find something. There are lots of fellows like me — I’ll go on away again.”

“We’re going tomorrow,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve always wanted to see New York.”

But of New York she never remembered anything. She stayed by Francis closely, getting off the train, going down into subways, going up into elevated trains, walking along the streets that were swaying with crowds. He seemed to know his way, going on with certainty from one place to another. She looked at the faces flying past her, a glimpse at this face, a glimpse at another, before they passed. It was as though they were all whirling about her and Francis, and only they two seemed to have direction.

Or were they lost, too? Once in a subway, deep underground, he took her hand. “Don’t you get lost,” he said.

“I shan’t lose you,” she promised him, holding fast.

They climbed at last into a bus. “Now,” said Francis, “we are nearly there.” He sat down beside her. “There isn’t any hope, you know, Joan. It’s nonsense. He won’t remember me — he doesn’t know you.” His face was bleak in the early morning.

“Are you sure this is the time he will be there?” she asked. She did not answer his despair. She would do anything. All these houses and people — she was not afraid of any of them.

“Yeah,” he said listlessly. “I looked up the plane schedule. He comes the same time he used to. I was always there to see him come in and take off. He’ll be there unless he’s dead. He’s nuts about his plane.”

“Then I’ll see him,” she said tranquilly. “I brought enough money along. Even if I have to buy a ticket and ride somewhere in his plane, I’ll see him.”

The flying field was as big as the whole farm laid smooth. She had never seen so wide and smooth a place. She had never seen a plane before, except as it flew, a bird among birds, in the sky. But then it was impossible, gazing at that far shape as she stood alone upon a hillside, impossible to believe that it contained in its body human beings. Only its purposefulness seemed guided and human. Birds fluttered and swerved, dipped and soared and drifted in dreaming circles. But a plane went straight to its desire.

They were walking across the level field.

“Here’s his plane,” said Francis.

She forgot to look at Francis — she did not hear the eagerness of his voice. She was staring at the great plane. It was enormous, more huge than her imagination of it. She gazed at it, forgetting everything else, herself, her life. All her wonder was held in this shining shape of silvery metal, seeming to touch the earth so delicately, seeming to spurn it, its wings forever outspread ready for instant flight, its never-folding wings.

But out of the wonder someone was speaking to her. “What do you see?” She looked up at a man taller even than she was — it was strange to look higher than herself — she was always taller than everybody. He looked down at her, a man in a khaki shirt and breeches, a visored cap on his head. Under the cap his face was lean and hewn, the cheeks flat, the eyes bold and blue.

“It’s the plane,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful before. It’s — it’s concentration — the clean shape — it’s the very shape of flight — it’s motion put into shape.”

She turned her head. She stared at the plane dreamily in ecstasy. She was thinking. I’m glad I saw this before my baby is born. I’m glad I have this to go into his last making.

She was recalled again by the man’s voice. “Are you a passenger? Are you going?”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “I couldn’t — I have to go home — I came here with my brother. He wants to fly.” She looked around for Francis and saw him standing a little way off, twisting his hat in his hands. “There he is! Wait — perhaps you could tell us where to find Roger Bair. He’s the pilot.”

Francis came up to her and caught her words.

“But, Joan,” he whispered.

The man smiled. “I’m Roger Bair!”

“Are you?” she cried, and laughed aloud. When she looked at his face now she saw very clearly the straight brow and nose, the deep lines from mouth to chin, the brown weathered skin. It was impossible to tell how old he was from his face, and the cap hid his hair. But his eyes were blue, a clear imperial blue. Looking up in the morning light she seemed to be looking through his face to the sky, his eyes were so blue.