All the King's Men - Robert Penn Warren [19]
I laughed. “You haven’t any nerves,” I told him.
“I’m a bundle of nerves,” he said, and grinned.
We kept leaning against the fence, watching the light lying across the country and hitting the clump of trees down the rise. The Boss leaned his head a little forward and let a big globule of spit form at his lips and let it fall through the space between his forearms down to the board hog through just over the fence from us. The trough was dry, with a few odd red grains of corn and a few shreds of shucks lying in it and on the ground by it.
“Things don’t change much around here, though,” the Boss said.
That didn’t seem to demand any response, and so I didn’t give it any.
“I bet I dumped ten thousand gallons of swill into that trough,” he said, “one time and another.” He let another glob of spit fall into the trough. “I bet I slopped five hundred head of hogs out of this trough,” he said. “And,” he said, “by God, I’m still doing it. Pouring swill.”
“Well,” I said, “swill is what they live on, isn’t it?”
He didn’t say anything to that.
The hinges of the gate up the lot creaked again, and I looked around. There wasn’t any reason not to now. It was Sadie Burke. She was plowing her white oxfords through the dust as though she meant business, and every time she took a stride it looked as though she were going to pop the skirt of her blue-striped seersucker suit, she was in such a rush. The Boss turned around, looked at the bottle in his hand, then passed it to me. “What’s up?” he asked her when she got within ten feet.
She didn’t answer right away, but came up close. She was breathing hard from the rush. The light hit her on her slightly pock-marked face, which was damp now with perspiration, and her chopped-off black hair was wild and electric on her head, and her big, deep, powerful black eyes burned right out of her face into the sunlight.
“What’s up?” the Boss demanded again.
“Judge Irwin,” she managed to get out with what breath she had after the rush.
“Yeah?” the Boss said. He was still lounging against the wire, but he was looking at Sadie as though she might draw a gun and he was planning on beating her to the draw.
“Matlock called up–long distance from town–and he said the afternoon paper–”
“Spill it,” the Boss said, “spill it.”
“Damn it,” Sadie said, “I’ll spill it when I get good and ready. I’ll spill it when I get my breath. If I’m good and ready, and if you–”
“You’re using up a lot of breath right now,” the Boss said with a tone of voice which made you think of rubbing your hand down a cat’s back, just as soft.
“It’s my breath,” Sadie snapped at him, “and nobody’s bought it. I damned near break myself down running out here to tell you something and then you say spill it, spill it. Before I can get my breath. And I’ll just tell you when I get my breath and–”
“You don’t sound exactly wind-broke,” the Boss observed, leaning back on the hog wire and grinning.
“You think it’s so damned funny,” Sadie said, “oh, yeah, so damned funny.”
The Boss didn’t answer that. He just kept leaning on the wire as though he had all day before him, and kept on grinning. When he grinned like that it didn’t do much to soothe Sadie’s feelings, I had observed in the past. And the symptoms seemed to be running true to form.
So I decorously withdrew my gaze from the pair, and resumed my admiration of the dying day on the other side of the hog lot and the elegiac landscape. Not that they would have bothered about me if they had anything on their minds–neither one of them. Powers, Thrones, and Dominations might be gathered round and if Sadie felt like it she would cut loose, and the Boss wasn’t precisely of a shrinking disposition. They’d get started like that over nothing at all sometimes, the Boss just lying back and grinning and working Sadie up till those big black glittering eyes of hers would separate from the tangle and hang down by her face so she’d have to swipe it back with the back of the hand. She would say plenty while she got worked up, but the Boss wouldn’t say much. He’d just grin at her. He seemed to take a relish in getting her worked up that way and lying back and watching it. Even when she slapped him once, a good hard one, he kept on looking at her that way, as though she were a hula girl doing a dance for him. He relished her getting worked up, all right, unless she finally landed on a sore spot. She was the only one who knew the trick. O had the nerve. Then the show would really start. They wouldn