It’s under your foot, he said.
The man stopped and looked up at him, then took up the wrench. Ah, he said, here tis. He tightened the nut and then took the cotterpin from the greasecup where he had put it for safekeeping and bent the ends with his thumb and fitted it and reflared it again. Then he tapped the cup into place with the heel of his hand and rose.
Now, he said, his hands coming clawlike up his overall legs and leaving dark and polished trails of grease, what was it again?
I just wanted to ast ye where I might find a feller named Clark.
Just about any place ye look. County’s full of em.
No …
Yes tis.
I mean this’n I’m huntin a feller at the turpentine camp out on the road told me to ast for him.
That’s the old man I reckon. He’s out at Essary’s fixin for the auction. They havin a big auction tomorrow.
Holme blinked hugely in the sun and palmed the sweat from his forehead. I’m huntin work, he said.
Are? Don’t fall asleep there, you’ll tip over and hurt yourself.
Holme squinted his eyes at the man, blinked again at the flat and sunscoured clay about him, turned and started up the street.
The man watched him go for a minute, one elbow propped on the wheel of the wagon. Then he raised his hand in the air. Hey there, he called.
Holme turned.
You, the man said. Hold up a minute.
Holme started slowly back toward him. The man watched him with one hand visored upon his forehead against the sun. You ain’t drunk are ye? he said.
No, Holme said. Just a little give out is all.
Are you sure enough lookin for work?
Yessir.
Well, I never meant to be short with ye. I hate to see a feller act whipped though. Damned if I don’t. You ain’t sick are ye?
No. I ain’t sick. You need a man to work?
Well, no. I just thought you looked like you’d had some kind of trouble or somethin. Walkin off thataway. Kindly bothered me. I ain’t astin ye your business now.
Everbody’s subject to get in a ditch sometime or anothern, Holme said. I ain’t lookin for nobody to be sorry for me.
No, the teamster said.
What about this Clark feller?
Now he might have somethin for ye. Why don’t ye ast at the store what time they expectin him in. It’s a right good ways out there where he’s at and I doubt you’d get back against dark.
All right, Holme said. Which store?
Clark’s.
Thank ye, Holme said. Much obliged.
That’s all right, the teamster said. I hope ye luck.
Much obliged, Holme said again. He nodded and started on up the street and the teamster nodded to him and then to himself more gravely. And say, he called.
Holme turned, still walking.
You talk sharp to that old man you hear?
Holme raised one hand and went on.
The clerk at the store when Holme asked him frowned and said: When you see him comin is when ye can look for him. What is it you wanted with him?
Feller told me to see him about work.
Did?
Two fellers …
Well you can wait on him if it suits ye. He may be back directly.
Holme went out and leaned against a stanchion of the porch and watched the people pass and the little dust-devils that went along the road. He dipped up half a handful of corn from his pocket and began to chew it and then he stopped, his face going from vacancy to disgust, and spat the tasteless meal to the ground. As he did so a man rounding the corner leaped back and began to scream at him.
What? Holme said dumbly. What?
Cholera? Cholera?
Hell, it weren’t nothin but a mouthful of corn.
I lost a whole family to it now don’t lie to me like I ain’t never seen it goddamn it.
Shit, Holme said.
O yes. Five youngerns. Five. And damn near the old lady too. God knows why he didn’t … I taken it back—God knows all right. Why he’s kept that flaptongued bitch down here as long as he has. The flowered crown to all other abominations. A walkin plague in your own house. That’s what’s been visited on me. You sure you ain’t sick?
Shit, Holme said. I ain’t never been sick a day in my life savin the whoopincough one time.
I’d shoot a man went around with the plague like ary mad dog, the man said.
Ain’t nobody plagued, Holme said.
I hope they ain’t, the man said. I pray to God they ain’t. He came on along the edge of the porch inspecting the damp explosion of chewed corn in the dust there and mounted the steps with a wary cast to his eye. Where’s old Clark at? he said. You seen him?
No, Holme said. I’m waitin on him myself.
You sure you ain’t a little off your feed? You look kindly peaked to me.
Holme looked at him and looked away, spat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. I done told ye, he said.
How long you been waitin on Clark?
Just a little bit. He’s out at the auction.