The Complete Stories of Truman Capote by Truman Capote Page A

tapping her big old bare foot just as fast and furious as she could and fanning her fat face with this cardboard picture of Niagara Falls.
    “Where is it?” says she. “Where’s my hundred dollars that he made away with while my trusting back was turned?”
    “
This
is the straw that broke the camel’s back,” says I, but I was too hot and tired to get up.
    “That’s not the only back that’s going to be broke,” says she, her bug eyes about to pop clear out of their sockets. “That was my funeral money and I want it back. Wouldn’t you know he’d steal from the dead?”
    “Maybe he didn’t take it,” says Marge.
    “You keep your mouth out of this, missy,” says Olivia-Ann.
    “He stole my money sure as shooting,” says Eunice. “Why, look at his eyes—black with guilt!”
    I yawned and said, “Like they say in the courts—if the party of the first part falsely accuses the party of the second part, then the party of the first part can be locked away in jail even if the State Home is where they rightfully belong for the protection of all concerned.”
    “God will punish him,” says Eunice.
    “Oh, Sister,” says Olivia-Ann, “let us not wait for God.”
    Whereupon Eunice advances on me with this most peculiar look, her dirty flannel nightie jerking along the floor. And Olivia-Ann leeches after her and Bluebell lets forth this moan that must have been heard clear to Eufala and back while Marge stands there wringing her hands and whimpering.
    “Oh-h-h,” sobs Marge, “please give her back that money, babydoll.”
    I said, “Et tu Brute?” which is from William Shakespeare.
    “Look at the likes of him,” says Eunice, “lying around all day not doing so much as licking a postage stamp.” “Pitiful,” clucks Olivia-Ann.
    “You’d think he was having a baby instead of that poor child.” Eunice speaking.
    Bluebell tosses in her two cents, “Ain’t it the truth?”
    “Well, if it isn’t the old pots calling the kettle black,” says I.
    “After loafing here for three months, does this runt have the audacity to cast aspersions in my direction?” says Eunice.
    I merely flicked a bit of ash from my sleeve and not the least bit fazed said, “Dr. A. N. Carter has informed me that I am in a dangerous scurvy condition and can’t stand the least excitement whatsoever—otherwise I’m liable to foam at the mouth and bite somebody.”
    Then Bluebell says, “Why don’t he go back to that trash in Mobile, Miss Eunice? I’se sick and tired of carryin’ his ol’ slop jar.”
    Naturally that coal-black nigger made me so mad I couldn’t see straight.
    So just as calm as a cucumber I arose and picked up this umbrella off the hat tree and rapped her across the head with it until it cracked smack in two.
    “My real Japanese silk parasol!” shrieks Olivia-Ann.
    Marge cries, “You’ve killed Bluebell, you’ve killed poor old Bluebell!”
    Eunice shoves Olivia-Ann and says, “He’s gone clear out of his head, Sister! Run! Run and get Mr. Tubberville!”
    “I don’t like Mr. Tubberville,” says Olivia-Ann staunchly. “I’ll go get my hog knife.” And she makes a dash for the door, but seeing as I care nothing for death, I brought her down with a sort of tackle. It wrenched my back something terrible.
    “He’s going to kill her!” hollers Eunice loud enough to bring the house down. “He’s going to murder us all! I warned you, Marge. Quick, child, get Papa’s sword!”
    So Marge gets Papa’s sword and hands it to Eunice. Talk about wifely devotion! And, if that’s not bad enough, Olivia-Ann gives me this terrific knee punch and I had to let go. The next thing you know we hear her out in the yard bellowing hymns.
    Mine eyes have seen the glory of the
    coming of the Lord;
    He is trampling out the vintage where
    the grapes of wrath are stored.…
    Meanwhile, Eunice is sashaying all over the place, wildly thrashing Papa’s sword, and somehow I’ve managed to clamber atop the piano.