Nothing More than Murder by Jim Thompson Page A

bowed. It gave you an awfully funny feeling. It made you feel almost like it was Judgment Day; like they’d all been pulled up out of everywhere for the trumpet’s blast before they could move. It was kind of scary.
    I remember one woman in particular. She was standing up in a wagon box with a big fat squawling baby in each arm. They looked damned near as big as she was; and she’d started to feed them, I guess, because she had her blouse open and what babies go for was hanging out on each side. It wasn’t hanging right, though, and the kids were as mad as all hell, twisting and screaming and grabbing at it, and trying to raise their heads up. But she just stood there with her head bowed like everyone else.
    We drove through the cemetery gates, and got out. Web and Rufe stood by me at the grave.
    The minister began his oratory; a lot of mumbo jumbo about being washed in the blood of the lamb and people being better off dead than they were alive; and all the time, by God, acting like it was deep stuff. And the different bands began to play “Nearer My God to Thee,” and they couldn’t play with themselves, let alone with each other. And the church choirs kept racing ahead and falling behind. And—but it wasn’t funny. I’ve never felt more like bawling in my life.
    There are some things so bad and so careless that you wish to God they didn’t pretend to be good-intentioned so you could put in a holler without making a heel of yourself. I’ve felt pretty much the same way looking at newsreels of ceremonies at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The bands playing and the people singing, all in their own way, the right way; and the generals, the statesmen, and the club ladies all speaking a little piece for themselves. And they all mean so goddamn well—I guess—and no one is responsible any more than I was responsible for her.
    I bawled; there beside the grave with the rain coming down harder and harder. I felt just as bad as if I’d known the woman.
    I could hardly see a thing I was crying so hard. I saw Carol for a second on the other side of the grave, and then everything got blurry again.
    Web and Rufe led me away. We went back to the car and they put me inside while they waited outside, one at each door.
    It came over me all of a sudden that I was a prisoner; that the reason they were with me was to watch me. I leaned forward to get out of the car, and Web Clay eased me back.
    I tried it again. I knocked his hand out of the way.
    “You let me out of here!” I yelled. “I can’t stand any more! Take me away from here!”
    “Maybe we’d better, Web,” said Rufe. “Joe’s been under an awful strain.”
    Web said, yes, I had, and went and got the other two fellows. We drove away.
    Web rode with his arm around me, almost with my head pulled down against his chest; and Rufe made me take a new silk handkerchief to blow my nose on. They took me into the house.
    “What you need, Joe, is a good stiff drink,” said Web. “Rufe, you got anything in the car?”
    “I’ve got something,” I said, straightening up a little. “I guess we all need a little something.”
    We went up to my room and had a few good stiff drinks, and swapped a little talk. Rufe and Web got friendlier than I’d ever seen them. While we were up there, Carol and some of the town ladies were busy downstairs fixing coffee and laying out sandwiches and cake. When the crowd began to come in from the funeral, the boys took me downstairs again.
    I was sat down and stood up and made to eat cake and sandwiches and coffee, and when the people began to file past me in a line on the way out, they—the ones that were taking care of me—even did my talking.
    “Yes, yes. That’s very kind of you, neighbor—”
    “Joe appreciates that very much—”
    “Joe thanks you very much—”
    I guess they would have even shook—shaken—hands for me if they could have.
    By this time it was dark; practically everyone was gone except the ladies who were