Pearl Buck - Time Is Noon

Bart’s father and Bart were struggling together, and Bart’s mother and Sam were clinging to them and pulling at them. Sam was jerking at Bart, and his mother was hanging to the old man. Bart was standing, huge, stolid, warding off his father’s stiff clumsy blows. At the sound of her voice they parted. They were ashamed before her.

“Sit down!” Bart’s father roared.

Bart picked up the overturned chair and sat down sullenly. The old man sat, panting, and dusted off his clothes. Bart’s mother dropped into a chair and leaned her elbow on the table. They had not eaten. The table was still covered and there was no smell of cooking food.

Then she saw the girl, that silly coarse girl, the daughter of the tenant farmer over the next hill. She knew her. They were shiftless and let their cows run dry and the girl came sometimes for milk, not to the house but to the barn where Bart was milking. There she sat. She had painted her face and the paint was all smeared with crying. Her arms were bare and her hands were thick and red, like Bart’s hands. She did not look at Joan. None of them looked at her. But the noise stopped at the sound of her voice.

“Is Paul all right?” she asked again, sharply.

Bart’s mother lifted her head. “That’s all you think of!” she cried. “You don’t think of nothing but that dumb child—” Her heavy pale face was spotted with red. “You’ve ruined Bart!”

The girl began to cry again, foolish loud crying.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Joan. The girl was staring down at her big red hands clenched in the lap of her pink cotton dress. She had seen girls like that. There were many girls like that. They came to Mr. Winters’ store oh Saturday mornings to buy fifty-nine-cent dresses, pink and blue.

“I’ll tell you what it means!” Bart’s father shouted at her suddenly, turning in his chair at her. “It means we came home from church and found Bart out lying in the hay with this girl! You and your fine ways, thinking you’re too fine for us — too fine to do your duty to Bart — you’ve driven him to it — he’s as good as had no wife for years!”

She stared at Bart. He sat there, his heavy inert body, his hair awry, his face thick and red, his great hands dangling between his knees. Bart and this girl — she was sick suddenly, her stomach writhing in her with sickness. His horrible thick heavy body. … The girl was wailing on and on. She wiped her hand across her nose on the edge of her sleazy white petticoat.

“Is Bart in love with this girl?” she asked.

“I don’t want any hifalutin talk!” Bart’s father shouted. He was panting as though he were still fighting. “If you’d done your duty as a wife—” His voice broke. He drew his sleeve across his forehead. “It’s an awful thing to happen in this house of a Godfearing churchgoing man,” he whispered, panting.

“Bart’s a good boy,” Bart’s mother began. “Bart’s a real good boy. My boys have been raised to be good boys.”

Bart coughed and wrapped his hands together and let them drop again. Sam tilted back on his chair. In his church clothes he looked neat and complacent beside Bart. Bart was in his old work shirt and trousers, his feet bare. But this morning when she went away he had on his blue Sunday suit.

Standing in the doorway, clinging to the door, she looked at them. They were waiting for her. They were all waiting for her, to see what she would do. But she did not know what to do. She looked around at them, and she was struck with their grief. They were grieving, this old man and woman. They were suffering, understanding no cause. They did not understand anything, not any more, really, than Paul did. But then, nobody understood why things happened to them. She could have touched their hands for the first time without repulsion and said, “Let’s be patient with each other because none of us knows why—”

But it was true. She had been unjust to Bart. She had done wrong to them all. She had come into this house of simple people, good people. Bart was not bad — he was only stupid. Ah, Paul helped her to understand them all — Paul, who was born as he was and not to be blamed.

“Yes,” she said. “You are right. I’ve done very wrong.” They looked at her astonished. They had not expected her to be gentle. She was not by nature gentle. But Paul had taught her to be gentle — she had learned how to be infinitely gentle.

Bart began to mumble. “I’m not—”

“I don’t blame you,” she went on quickly. “Don’t tell me, Bart. You — maybe this girl would have made you happy. I’ve injured you.”

The girl stopped crying and listened, her look upon Joan’s dusty shoes. Her coarse mouth was swollen and pouting, her small pale eyes were hidden behind their swollen lids. She looked like the girl who had come to the manse to be married, long ago—

“I won’t have divorce in this house!” said Bart’s father loudly. “That’s worse still. What God’s joined—”

“Bart and I aren’t joined — we can’t be — if we lived together all our lives we wouldn’t be joined.” They sat stupefied by her quiet voice. They were not able to understand. She turned from one bewildered face to the other. They understood meat, drink, work. But she went on. “I see how difficult I’ve been for you to bear.” She hesitated and went on quickly, forcing herself to smile. She made her voice bright as one makes one’s voice bright to speak pleasantly and resolutely to children. “I see it all so clearly. The only thing I can do for you is to go away. You can live as you did before I came. After a while you will forget I was ever here.”

Without waiting for them to answer, she ran through the room and up the back stairs to the attic. She must go away at once. She must not wait for Bart to come to her, sheepish, sullen, wanting her back. She must not wait until they laid hold on her to keep her so people would not know. Paul was whimpering for food, but she paid no heed to him. She would go by the cellar and get him some milk as she went out. She began to pack with frantic speed.

Where could she go in the world? There was no door anywhere hers to open. Then she thought of Mrs. Mark. She could go and stay with her — take care of her. In a week or two she could find something elsewhere. She’d put their clothes into a bundle — it would be easier to carry than a bag. She opened the round topped trunk and found the sandalwood box and took out all her money. That was comfort — it was her own. She put everything she was not able to take into the trunk and locked it. She would send for it. Now she must get away before they knew it. They would not believe she could go so soon. They would not imagine she would go on foot, carrying Paul. But she had her strong good body for servant.

She put a cap on Paul, picked him up and slipped her arm through the bundle and went softly down the front stairs and out the open door. She went around the porch to the cellar and filled a cup for Paul and put it to his mouth. She listened. Bart’s father was talking on and on. She held Paul to her and let him drink.

No one came after her. No one called. All about her was the rich silence of the lengthening autumn afternoon. She looked light. The sun was shining through the golden dusty air. An hour ago she had been walking this road, not dreaming of such a thing as she was doing. But now it was the one inevitable end ahead, into the sky. It was a deep empty bowl of pure blue to which life led her. She had been coming unaware down a long path alone and the path stopped at a gate, and she had opened the gate and closed it behind her forever, not knowing what was beyond.

She plodded steadily eastward. Paul slept again, content. By sunset she would be at Mrs. Mark’s cottage, at least by twilight.