Sue Lee to come stay with her, and Clyde drug Jack Bull over there the next night. That left Holt and me in the dugout. The two of them set out like it was a lark. All kinds of backslapping and winking went on.
I hoped they were shot at, but not hit.
Maybe they could be hit just slightly.
It was kind of glum for me in the dugout. It was awful cold out. Winter is mostly melancholic. It is especially so underground.
Holt was barely more company than a rock. He had to be coaxed and goaded to say “Pass the taters.” I was not exactly windy of nature myself, but I wanted some conversation.
“Pick a topic,” I said.
He just looked at me, his black skin blacker in the poor-lighted corner.
“Pick a topic,” I chorused. “You are going to talk to me, Holt.”
His head shook, and his hands flinched and he said, “It’s not my habit.”
Everything he said he said fine enough, but he didn’t seem to believe it. Actually he said things as good as anybody. A lot of niggers I had known blathered hoodoo nonsense to where you wanted to gag them, but here I was, alone, with a well-spoken nigger who had a terrible case of silence. It is always something.
“I’ll pick the topic,” I finally said. I had to lure this fellow into conviviality. I tried to think of some topic we could both discuss. I didn’t want it one-sided. “Let’s talk about—dirt. Dirt is our topic.”
When he still failed to respond, I began to suspect that he was not bashful but ornery.
“Dirt, damn it, Holt. Tell me all you know about dirt.”
He looked at me. His eyes were shaded toward the oriental in shape. I don’t think I impressed him at all.
“Dirt is good,” he said. For no more exercise than it got, his tone was rich. “Everywhere is dirt. Dirt is good.”
“Well, now, that’s dandy,” I said. “It’s just you and me here, Holt. We need to talk or we’ll be crazed by the wind moans.”
There was some suspicion in me that Holt found my company comfortable. It was a slow thing with him, friendliness was. Somewhere in him I felt there was a great goo of warmth that he stored slyly.
“Is that all you know of dirt?” I asked. A long response would not have pained me.
“It is dark,” he said. You could parade his voice at a songfest and not get hooted. It was that pleasant. “Do you think George will marry?”
“Not in these times,” I said. “After this war is gone, he will. I reckon we’ll all have to.”
“Aha,” he hummed. “The trick is us passing through these times.”
Holt was a sensible creature with opinions that were succinct. I could not fail to note it.
“Just so,” I said.
Well, we stared at the shadows on the walls for a spell to regain our breath after such a spurt of chat. It looked like cities. The shadows peaked and valleyed all across the dugout and for flashes of time they designed out tall buildings and great avenues that resembled precisely no city I’d ever heard of, but they diverted nonetheless.
“There is something I like,” Holt said. His smart face straightened at me.
“Oh, what would that be?”
“You might not care for it, Roedel.”
“Try me. I can be generous when the cost is low.”
He studied me closely, then said, “You ain’t the same as some of the boys. I have watched you. It’s a thing I have seen.”
“How nice of you to like that,” I said.
“That ain’t it. Not what I like.” An expression very like that of an unfed puppy was on him. It had its endearing aspects. “I like it when you read.”
“Read what?”
“The mails. When you read them mails out loud it is something the likes I never heard before.”
The mail pouch was baggage I toted the same way others rub quartz rocks—it was part of my luck. I knew I’d had some to be yet nearly whole. But I had not read the letters. That might not be something that should be done.
“Oh, they might not be too amusing,” I said. “It might just be a bunch of boring thoughts one stranger sent to another.”
This comment made him look down. He brushed dust from his britches and stared away from me.
“The one you read from the mother was fine,” he said. “I heard that from you in the spring. Do you recall it?”
“Yes.”
“She said things I enjoy to hear.”
There was nothing for it