“I ain’t a-goin’ to milk you. I ain’t a-goin’ to do nothing for them.”
I hear her turn when I pass. When I turn she is just behind me with her sweet, hot, hard breath.
“Didn’t I tell you I wouldn’t?”
She nudges me, snuffing. She moans deep inside, her mouth closed. I jerk my hand, cursing her like Jewel does.
“Git, now.”
I stoop my hand to the ground and run at her. She jumps back and whirls away and stops, watching me. She moans. She goes on to the path and stands there, looking up the path.
It is dark in the barn, warm, smelling, silent. I can cry quietly, watching the top of the hill.
Cash comes to the hill, limping where he fell off of the church. He looks down at the spring, then up the road and back toward the barn. He comes down the path stiffly and looks at the broken hitch-rein and at the dust in the road and then up the road, where the dust is gone.
“I hope they’ve got clean past Tull’s by now. I so hope hit.”
Cash turns and limps up the path.
“Durn him. I showed him. Durn him.”
I am not crying now. I am not anything. Dewey Dell comes to the hill and calls me. “Vardaman.” I am not anything. I am quiet. “You, Vardaman.” I can cry quiet now, feeling and hearing my tears.
“Then hit want. Hit hadn’t happened then. Hit was a-layin’ right there on the ground. And now she’s gittin ready to cook hit.”