Following this brief biography, I’ve added O’Connor’s most famous short story “A Good Man is Hard to Find” it’s probably the greatest American short story ever written. It’s disarmingly terrifying. I hope you take the time to read it.  

Novelist, short story writer, and essayist Mary Flannery O'Connor, in her brief life, wrote two novels and 31 short stories.

O'Connor was born on March 25, 1925, in Savannah, Georgia, the only child of Edward Francis O'Connor, a real estate agent, and Regina Cline, both first generation Irish Catholic.

O'Connor was a devout Catholic who kept a prayer journal she was also an avid reader of Christian existentialist philosophers such as Gabriel Marcel, considering herself "a Catholic peculiarly possessed of the modern consciousness"

She believed deeply the Thomist notion that the created in world is charged with God. For her, God was a given of experience, not a mere intuition of the mind or spirit.

During her time at the prestigious Iowa Writers' Workshop, she dropped the name Mary, which gave her the impression of an "Irish washwoman", and became Flannery O'Connor.

O'Connor was a Southern writer who often wrote in a sardonic Southern Gothic style. She relied heavily on regional settings and grotesque characters, often in violent situations.

Her work often reflects her Catholic faith,  and frequently examines questions of morality and ethics. In her own words, "all my stories are about the action of grace on a character who is not very willing to support it, but most people think of these stories as hard, hopeless, brutal, etc."

 O'Connor lived on Andalusia Farm from 1952 until her 1964 death. By the summer of 1952, she  was diagnosed with lupus (as her father had been before her)

O'Connor lived for twelve years after her diagnosis, which was seven years longer than expected. Her daily routine was to attend Mass, write in the morning, then, spend the rest of the day recuperating and reading. Despite the debilitating effects of the steroid drugs used to treat O'Connor's lupus, she nonetheless made over sixty appearances at lectures to read her works.

The writer Alice McDermott explains the impact lupus had on O'Connor's work, saying, "It was the illness, I think, which made her the writer she is".

 

 

A Good Man Is Hard to Find

Flannery O'Connor

 

THE GRANDMOTHER didn't want to go to Florida. She wanted to visit some of her

connections in east Tennessee and she was seizing at every chance to change Bailey's

mind. Bailey was the son she lived with, her only boy. He was sitting on the edge of his chair

at the table, bent over the orange sports section of the Journal. "Now look here, Bailey," she

said, "see here, read this," and she stood with one hand on her thin hip and the other

rattling the newspaper at his bald head. "Here this fellow that calls himself The Misfit is

aloose from  the Federal Pen and headed toward Florida and you read here what it says he

did to these people. Just you read it. I wouldn't take my children in any direction with a

criminal like that aloose in it. I couldn't answer to my conscience if I did."

Bailey didn't look up from his reading so she wheeled around then and faced the children's

mother, a young woman in slacks, whose face was as broad and innocent as a cabbage and was tied around with a green head-kerchief that had two points on the top like rabbit's ears.

She was sitting on the sofa, feeding the baby his apricots out of a jar. "The children have

been to Florida before," the old lady said. "You all ought to take them somewhere else for a

change so they would see different parts of the world and be broad. They never have been

to east Tennessee."

The children's mother didn't seem to hear her but the eight-year-old boy, John Wesley, a

stocky child with glasses, said, "If you don't want to go to Florida, why dontcha stay at

home?" He and the little girl, June Star, were reading the funny papers on the floor.

"She wouldn't stay at home to be queen for a day," June Star said without raising her yellow

head.

"Yes and what would you do if this fellow, The Misfit, caught you?" the grandmother asked.

"I'd smack his face," John Wesley said.

"She wouldn't stay at home for a million bucks," June Star said. "Afraid she'd miss

something. She has to go everywhere we go."

"All right, Miss," the grandmother said. "Just remember that the next time you want me to curl your hair."

June Star said her hair was naturally curly.

The next morning the grandmother was the first one in the car, ready to go. She had her big black valise that looked like the head of a hippopotamus in one corner, and underneath it she was hiding a basket with Pitty Sing, the cat, in it. She didn't intend for the cat to be left alone in the house for three days because he would miss her too much and she was afraid he might brush against one of the gas burners and accidentally asphyxiate himself. Her son, Bailey, didn't like to arrive at a motel with a cat.

She sat in the middle of the back seat with John Wesley and June Star on either side of her. Bailey and the children's mother and the baby sat in front and they left Atlanta at eight  forty five with the mileage on the car at 55890. The grandmother wrote this down because she thought it would be interesting to say how many miles they had been when they got back. It  took them twenty minutes to reach the outskirts of the city.

The old lady settled herself comfortably, removing her white cotton gloves and putting them  up with her purse on the shelf in front of the back window. The children's mother still had on slacks and still had her head tied up in a green kerchief, but the grandmother had on a navy blue straw sailor hat with a bunch of white violets on the brim and a navy blue dress with a small white dot in the print. Her collars and cuffs were white organdy trimmed with lace and at her neckline she had pinned a purple spray of cloth violets containing a sachet. In case of an accident, anyone seeing her dead on the highway would know at once that she was a lady.

She said she thought it was going to be a good day for driving, neither too hot nor too cold, and she cautioned Bailey that the speed limit was fifty-five miles an hour and that the  patrolmen hid themselves behind billboards and small clumps of trees and sped out after you before you had a chance to slow down. She pointed out interesting details of the scenery:

Stone Mountain; the blue granite that in some places came up to both sides of the highway;

the brilliant red clay banks slightly streaked with purple; and the various crops that made rows of green lace-work on the ground. The trees were full of silver-white sunlight and the meanest of them sparkled. The children were reading comic magazines and their mother had gone back to sleep.

"Let's go through Georgia fast so we won't have to look at it much," John Wesley said.

"If I were a little boy," said the grandmother, "I wouldn't talk about my native state that way.

Tennessee has the mountains and Georgia has the hills."

"Tennessee is just a hillbilly dumping ground," John Wesley said, "and Georgia is a lousy

state too."

"You said it," June Star said.

"In my time," said the grandmother, folding her thin veined fingers, "children were more

respectful of their native states and their parents and everything else. People did right then.

Oh look at the cute little pickaninny!" she said and pointed to a Negro child standing in the

door of a shack. "Wouldn't that make a picture, now?" she asked and they all turned and

looked at the little Negro out of the back window. He waved.

"He didn't have any britches on," June Star said.

"He probably didn't have any," the grandmother explained. "Little niggers in the country don't

have things like we do. If I could paint, I'd paint that picture," she said.

The children exchanged comic books.

The grandmother offered to hold the baby and the children's mother passed him over the

front seat to her. She set him on her knee and bounced him and told him about the things

they were passing. She rolled her eyes and screwed up her mouth and stuck her leathery

thin face into his smooth bland one. Occasionally he gave her a faraway smile. They passed

a large cotton field with five or six graves fenced in the middle of it, like a small island. "Look

at the graveyard!" the grandmother said, pointing it out. "That was the old family burying

ground. That belonged to the plantation."

"Where's the plantation?" John Wesley asked.

"Gone With the Wind," said the grandmother. "Ha. Ha."

When the children finished all the comic books they had brought, they opened the lunch and

ate it. The grandmother ate a peanut butter sandwich and an olive and would not let

the children throw the box and the paper napkins out the window. When there was nothing

else to do they played a game by choosing a cloud and making the other two guess what

shape it suggested. John Wesley took one the shape of a cow and June Star guessed a cow

and John Wesley said, no, an automobile, and June Star said he didn't play fair, and they

began to slap each other over the grandmother.

 

The grandmother said she would tell them a story if they would keep quiet. When she told a

story, she rolled her eyes and waved her head and was very dramatic. She said once when

she was a maiden lady she had been courted by a Mr. Edgar Atkins Teagarden from Jasper,

Georgia. She said he was a very good-looking man and a gentleman and that he brought her

a watermelon every Saturday afternoon with his initials cut in it, E. A. T. Well, one Saturday,

she said, Mr. Teagarden brought the watermelon and there was nobody at home and he left

it on the front porch and returned in his buggy to Jasper, but she never got the watermelon,

she said, because a nigger boy ate it when he saw the initials, E. A. T.! This story tickled

John Wesley's funny bone and he giggled and giggled but June Star didn't think it was any

good. She said she wouldn't marry a man that just brought her a watermelon on Saturday.

The grandmother said she would have done well to marry Mr. Teagarden because he was a

gentleman and had bought Coca-Cola stock when it first came out and that he had died only

a few years ago, a very wealthy man.

They stopped at The Tower for barbecued sandwiches. The Tower was a part stucco and

part wood filling station and dance hall set in a clearing outside of Timothy. A fat man named

Red Sammy Butts ran it and there were signs stuck here and there on the building and for

miles up and down the highway saying, TRY RED SAMMY'S FAMOUS BARBECUE. NONE

LIKE FAMOUS RED SAMMY'S! RED SAM! THE FAT BOY WITH THE HAPPY LAUGH. A

VETERAN! RED SAMMY'S YOUR MAN!

Red Sammy was lying on the bare ground outside The Tower with his head under a truck

while a gray monkey about a foot high, chained to a small chinaberry tree, chattered nearby.

The monkey sprang back into the tree and got on the

highest limb as soon as he saw the children jump out

of the car and run toward him.

Inside, The Tower was a long dark room with a counter at one end and tables at the other

and dancing space in the middle. They all sat down at a board table next to the nickelodeon

and Red Sam's wife, a tall burnt-brown woman with hair and eyes lighter than her skin, came

and took their order. The children's mother put a dime in the machine and played "The

Tennessee Waltz," and the grandmother said that tune always made her want to dance. She

asked Bailey if he would like to dance but he only glared at her. He didn't have a naturally

sunny disposition like she did and trips made him nervous. The grandmother's brown eyes

were very bright. She swayed her head from side to side and pretended she was dancing in

her chair. June Star said play something she could tap to so the children's mother put in

another dime and played a fast number and June Star stepped out onto the dance floor and

did her tap routine.

"Ain't she cute?" Red Sam's wife said, leaning over the counter. "Would you like to come be

my little girl?"

"No I certainly wouldn't," June Star said. "I wouldn't live in a broken-down place like this for a

minion bucks!" and she ran back to the table.

"Ain't she cute?" the woman repeated, stretching her mouth politely.

"Arn't you ashamed?" hissed the grandmother.

Red Sam came in and told his wife to quit lounging on the counter and hurry up with these

people's order. His khaki trousers reached just to his hip bones and his stomach hung over

them like a sack of meal swaying under his shirt. He came over and sat down at a table

nearby and let out a combination sigh and yodel. "You can't win," he said. "You can't win,"

and he wiped his sweating red face off with a gray handkerchief. "These days you don't know

who to trust," he said. "Ain't that the truth?"

"People are certainly not nice like they used to be," said the grandmother.

"Two fellers come in here last week," Red Sammy said, "driving a Chrysler. It was a old beatup car but it was a good one and these boys looked all right to me. Said they worked

at the mill and you know I let them fellers charge the gas they bought? Now why did I do

that?"

"Because you're a good man!" the grandmother said at once.

"Yes'm, I suppose so," Red Sam said as if he were struck with this answer.

His wife brought the orders, carrying the five plates all at once without a tray, two in each

hand and one balanced on her arm. "It isn't a soul in this green world of God's that you can

trust," she said. "And I don't count nobody out of that, not nobody," she repeated, looking at

Red Sammy.

"Did you read about that criminal, The Misfit, that's escaped?" asked the grandmother.

"I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he didn't attact this place right here," said the woman. "If he

hears about it being here,I wouldn't be none surprised to see him. If he hears it's two cent in

the cash register, I wouldn't be a tall surprised if he . . ."

"That'll do," Red Sam said. "Go bring these people their Co'-Colas," and the woman went off

to get the rest of the order.

"A good man is hard to find," Red Sammy said. "Every- thing is getting terrible. I remember

the day you could go off and leave your screen door unlatched. Not no more."

He and the grandmother discussed better times. The old lady said that in her opinion Europe

was entirely to blame for the way things were now. She said the way Europe acted you

would think we were made of money and Red Sam said it was no use talking about it, she

was exactly right. The children ran outside into the white sunlight and looked at the monkey

in the lacy chinaberry tree. He was busy catching fleas on himself and biting each one

carefully between his teeth as if it were a delicacy.

They drove off again into the hot afternoon. The grand- mother took cat naps and woke up

every few minutes with her own snoring. Outside of Toombsboro she woke up and recalled

an old plantation that she had visited in this neighborhood once when she was a young lady.

She said the house had six white columns across the front and that there was an avenue of

oaks leading up to it and two little wooden trellis

arbors on either side in front where you sat down with your suitor after a stroll in the garden.

She recalled exactly which road to turn off to get to it. She knew that Bailey would not be

willing to lose any time looking at an old house, but the more she talked about it, the more

she wanted to see it once again and find out if the little twin arbors were still standing. "There

was a secret panel in this house," she said craftily, not telling the truth but wishing that she

were, "and the story went that all the family silver was hidden in it when Sherman came

through but it was never found . . ."

"Hey!" John Wesley said. "Let's go see it! We'll find it! We'll poke all the woodwork and find it!

Who lives there? Where do you turn off at? Hey Pop, can't we turn off there?"

"We never have seen a house with a secret panel!" June Star shrieked. "Let's go to the

house with the secret panel! Hey Pop, can't we go see the house with the secret panel!"

"It's not far from here, I know," the grandmother said. "It wouldn't take over twenty minutes."

Bailey was looking straight ahead. His jaw was as rigid as a horseshoe. "No," he said.

The children began to yell and scream that they wanted to see the house with the secret

panel. John Wesley kicked the back of the front seat and June Star hung over her mother's

shoulder and whined desperately into her ear that they never had any fun even on their

vacation, that they could never do what THEY wanted to do. The baby began to scream and

John Wesley kicked the back of the seat so hard that his father could feel the blows in his

kidney.

"All right!" he shouted and drew the car to a stop at the side of the road. "Will you all shut up?

Will you all just shut up for one second? If you don't shut up, we won't go anywhere.

"It would be very educational for them," the grandmother murmured.

 

"All right," Bailey said, "but get this: this is the only time we're going to stop for anything like

this. This is the one and only time."

"The dirt road that you have to turn down is about a mile back," the grandmother directed. "I

marked it when we passed."

"A dirt road," Bailey groaned.

After they had turned around and were headed toward the dirt road, the grandmother

recalled other points about the house, the beautiful glass over the front doorway and the

candle-lamp in the hall. John Wesley said that the secret panel was probably in the fireplace.

"You can't go inside this house," Bailey said. "You don't know who lives there."

"While you all talk to the people in front, I'll run around behind and get in a window," John

Wesley suggested.

"We'll all stay in the car," his mother said. They turned onto the dirt road and the car raced

roughly along in a swirl of pink dust. The grandmother recalled the times when there were no

paved roads and thirty miles was a day's journey. The dirt road was hilly and there were

sudden washes in it and sharp curves on dangerous embankments. All at once they would

be on a hill, looking down over the blue tops of trees for miles around, then the next minute,

they would be in a red depression with the dust-coated trees looking down on them.

"This place had better turn up in a minute," Bailey said, "or I'm going to turn around."

The road looked as if no one had traveled on it in months.

"It's not much farther," the grandmother said and just as she said it, a horrible thought came

to her. The thought was so embarrassing that she turned red in the face and her eyes dilated

and her feet jumped up, upsetting her valise in the corner. The instant the valise moved, the

newspaper top she had over the basket under it rose with a snarl and Pitty Sing,the cat,

sprang onto Bailey's shoulder.

The children were thrown to the floor and their mother, clutching the baby, was thrown out

the door onto the ground; the old lady was thrown into the front seat. The car turned over

once and landed right-side-up in a gulch off the side of the road. Bailey remained in the

driver's seat with the cat-gray-striped with a broad white face and an orange nose-clinging to

his neck like a caterpillar.

As soon as the children saw they could move their arms and legs, they scrambled out of the

car, shouting, "We've had an ACCIDENT!" The grandmother was curled up under the

dashboard, hoping she was injured so that Bailey's wrath would not come down on her all at

once. The horrible thought she had had before the accident was that the house she had

remembered so vividly was not in Georgia but in Tennessee.

Bailey removed the cat from his neck with both hands and flung it out the window against the

side of a pine tree. Then he got out of the car and started looking for the children's mother.

She was sitting against the side of the red gutted ditch, holding the screaming baby, but she

only had a cut down her face and a broken shoulder. "We've had an ACCIDENT!" the

children screamed in a frenzy of delight.

"But nobody's killed," June Star said with disappointment as the grandmother limped out of

the car, her hat still pinned to her head but the broken front brim standing up at a jaunty

angle and the violet spray hanging off the side. They all sat down in the ditch, except the

children, to recover from the shock. They were all shaking.

"Maybe a car will come along," said the children's mother hoarsely.

"I believe I have injured an organ," said the grandmother, pressing her side, but no one

answered her. Bailey's teeth were clattering. He had on a yellow sport shirt with bright blue

parrots designed in it and his face was as yellow as the l shirt. The grandmother decided that

she would not mention that the house was in Tennessee.

The road was about ten feet above and they could see only the tops of the trees on the other

side of it. Behind the ditch they were sitting in there were more woods, tall and dark and

deep. In a few minutes they saw a car some distance away on top of a hill, coming slowly as

if the occupants were watching them. The grandmother stood up and waved both arms

dramatically to attract their attention. The car continued to come on slowly, disappeared

around a bend and appeared again, moving even slower, on top of the hill they had gone

over. It was a big black battered hearse-like automobile. There were three men in it.

It came to a stop just over them and for some minutes, the driver looked down with a steady

expressionless gaze to where they were sitting, and didn't speak. Then he turned his

head and muttered something to the other two and they got out. One was a fat boy in black

trousers and a red sweat shirt with a silver stallion embossed on the front of it. He moved

around on the right side of them and stood staring, his mouth partly open in a kind of loose

grin. The other had on khaki pants and a blue striped coat and a gray hat pulled down very

low, hiding most of his face. He came around slowly on the left side. Neither spoke.

The driver got out of the car and stood by the side of it, looking down at them. He was an

older man than the other two. His hair was just beginning to gray and he wore silver- rimmed

spectacles that gave him a scholarly look. He had a long creased face and didn't have on

any shirt or undershirt. He had on blue jeans that were too tight for him and was holding a

black hat and a gun. The two boys also had guns.

"We've had an ACCIDENT!" the children screamed.

The grandmother had the peculiar feeling that the bespectacled man was someone she

knew. His face was as familiar to her as if she had known him au her life but she could not

recall who he was. He moved away from the car and began to come down the embankment,

placing his feet carefully so that he wouldn't slip. He had on tan and white shoes and no

socks, and his ankles were red and thin. "Good afternoon," he said. "I see you all had you a

little spill."

"We turned over twice!" said the grandmother.

"Once"," he corrected. "We seen it happen. Try their car and see will it run, Hiram," he said

quietly to the boy with the gray hat.

"What you got that gun for?" John Wesley asked. "Whatcha gonna do with that gun?"

"Lady," the man said to the children's mother, "would you mind calling them children to sit

down by you? Children make me nervous. I want all you all to sit down right together there

where you're at."

"What are you telling US what to do for?" June Star asked.

Behind them the line of woods gaped like a dark open mouth. "Come here," said their

mother.

"Look here now," Bailey began suddenly, "we're in a predicament! We're in . . ."

The grandmother shrieked. She scrambled to her feet and stood staring. "You're The Misfit!"

she said. "I recognized you at once!"

"Yes'm," the man said, smiling slightly as if he were pleased in spite of himself to be known,

"but it would have been better for all of you, lady, if you hadn't of reckernized me."

Bailey turned his head sharply and said something to his mother that shocked even the

children. The old lady began to cry and The Misfit reddened.

"Lady," he said, "don't you get upset. Sometimes a man says things he don't mean. I don't

reckon he meant to talk to you thataway."

"You wouldn't shoot a lady, would you?" the grandmother said and removed a clean

handkerchief from her cuff and began to slap at her eyes with it.

The Misfit pointed the toe of his shoe into the ground and made a little hole and then covered

it up again. "I would hate to have to," he said.

"Listen," the grandmother almost screamed, "I know you're a good man. You don't look a bit

like you have com- mon blood. I know you must come from nice people!"

"Yes mam," he said, "finest people in the world." When he smiled he showed a row of strong

white teeth. "God never made a finer woman than my mother and my daddy's heart was pure

gold," he said. The boy with the red sweat shirt had come around behind them and was

standing with his gun at his hip. The Misfit squatted down on the ground. "Watch them

children, Bobby Lee," he said. "You know they make me nervous." He looked at the six of

them huddled together in front of him and he seemed to be embarrassed as if he couldn't

think of anything to say. "Ain't a cloud in the sky," he remarked, looking up at it. "Don't see no

sun but don't see no cloud neither."

"Yes, it's a beautiful day," said the grandmother. "Listen," she said, "you shouldn't call

yourself The Misfit because I know you're a good man at heart. I can just look at you and tell

"

"Hush!" Bailey yelled. "Hush! Everybody shut up and let me handle this!" He was squatting in

the position of a runner about to sprint forward but he didn't move.

"I prechate that, lady," The Misfit said and drew a little circle in the ground with the butt of his

gun.

"It'll take a half a hour to fix this here car," Hiram called, looking over the raised hood of it.

"Well, first you and Bobby Lee get him and that little boy to step over yonder with you," The

Misfit said, pointing to Bailey and John Wesley. "The boys want to ast you some- thing," he

said to Bailey. "Would you mind stepping back in them woods there with them?"

"Listen," Bailey began, "we're in a terrible predicament! Nobody realizes what this is," and his

voice cracked. His eyes were as blue and intense as the parrots in his shirt and he remained

perfectly still.

The grandmother reached up to adjust her hat brim as if she were going to the woods with

him but it came off in her hand. She stood staring at it and after a second she let it fall on the

ground. Hiram pulled Bailey up by the arm as if he were assisting an old man. John Wesley

caught hold of his father's hand and Bobby Lee followed. They went off toward the woods

and just as they reached the dark edge, Bailey turned and supporting himself against a gray

naked pine trunk, he shouted, "I'll be back in a minute, Mamma, wait on me!"

"Come back this instant!" his mother shrilled but they all disappeared into the woods.

"Bailey Boy!" the grandmother called in a tragic voice but she found she was looking at The

Misfit squatting on the ground in front of her. "I just know you're a good man," she said

desperately. "You're not a bit common!"

"Nome, I ain't a good man," The Misfit said after a second as if he had considered her

statement carefully, "but I ain't the worst in the world neither. My daddy said I was a different

breed of dog from my brothers and sisters. 'You know,' Daddy said, 'it's some that can live

their whole life out without asking about it and it's others has to know why it is, and this boy is

one of the latters. He's going to be into every- thing!'" He put on his black hat and looked up

suddenly and then away deep into the woods as if he were embarrassed again. "I'm sorry I

don't have on a shirt before you ladies," he said, hunching his shoulders slightly. "We buried

our clothes that we had on when we escaped and we're just

making do until we can get better. We borrowed these from some folks we met," he

explained.

"That's perfectly all right," the grandmother said. "Maybe Bailey has an extra shirt in his

suitcase."

"I'll look and see terrectly," The Misfit said.

"Where are they taking him?" the children's mother screamed.

"Daddy was a card himself," The Misfit said. "You couldn't put anything over on him. He

never got in trouble with the Authorities though. Just had the knack of handling them."

"You could be honest too if you'd only try," said the grandmother. "Think how wonderful it

would be to settle down and live a comfortable life and not have to think about some- body

chasing you all the time."

The Misfit kept scratching in the ground with the butt of his gun as if he were thinking about

it. "Yes'm, somebody is always after you," he murmured.

The grandmother noticed how thin his shoulder blades were just behind-his hat because she

was standing up looking down on him. "Do you ever pray?" she asked.

He shook his head. All she saw was the black hat wiggle between his shoulder blades.

"Nome," he said.

There was a pistol shot from the woods, followed closely by another. Then silence. The old

lady's head jerked around. She could hear the wind move through the tree tops like a long

satisfied insuck of breath. "Bailey Boy!" she called.

"I was a gospel singer for a while," The Misfit said. "I been most everything. Been in the arm

service, both land and sea, at home and abroad, been twict married, been an undertaker,

been with the railroads, plowed Mother Earth, been in a tornado, seen a man burnt alive

oncet," and he looked up at the children's mother and the little girl who were sitting close

together, their faces white and their eyes glassy; "I even seen a woman flogged," he said.

"Pray, pray," the grandmother began, "pray, pray . . ."

"I never was a bad boy that I remember of," The Misfit said in an almost dreamy voice, "but

somewheres along the line I done something wrong and got sent to the penitentiary. I was

buried alive," and he looked up and held her attention to him by a steady stare.

"That's when you should have started to pray," she said "What did you do to get sent to the

penitentiary that first time?"

"Turn to the right, it was a wall," The Misfit said, looking up again at the cloudless sky. "Turn

to the left, it was a wall. Look up it was a ceiling, look down it was a floor. I forget what I

done, lady. I set there and set there, trying to remember what it was I done and I ain't

recalled it to this day. Oncet in a while, I would think it was coming to me, but it never come."

"Maybe they put you in by mistake," the old lady said vaguely.

"Nome," he said. "It wasn't no mistake. They had the papers on me."

"You must have stolen something," she said.

The Misfit sneered slightly. "Nobody had nothing I wanted," he said. "It was a head-doctor at

the penitentiary said what I had done was kill my daddy but I known that for a lie. My daddy

died in nineteen ought nineteen of the epidemic flu and I never had a thing to do with it. He

was buried in the Mount Hopewell Baptist churchyard and you can go there and see for

yourself."

"If you would pray," the old lady said, "Jesus would help you."

"That's right," The Misfit said.

"Well then, why don't you pray?" she asked trembling with delight suddenly.

"I don't want no hep," he said. "I'm doing all right by myself."

Bobby Lee and Hiram came ambling back from the woods. Bobby Lee was dragging a yellow

shirt with bright blue parrots in it.

"Thow me that shirt, Bobby Lee," The Misfit said. The shirt came flying at him and landed on

his shoulder and he put it on. The grandmother couldn't name what the shirt reminded her of.

"No, lady," The Misfit said while he was buttoning it up, "I found out the crime don't matter.

You can do one thing or you can do another, kill a man or take a tire off his car, because

sooner or later you're going to forget what it was you done and just be punished for it."

The children's mother had begun to make heaving noises as if she couldn't get her breath.

"Lady," he asked, "would you and that little girl like to step off yonder with Bobby Lee and

Hiram and join your husband?"

"Yes, thank you," the mother said faintly. Her left arm dangled helplessly and she was

holding the baby, who had gone to sleep, in the other. "Hep that lady up, Hiram," The Misfit

said as she struggled to climb out of the ditch, "and Bobby Lee, you hold onto that little girl's

hand."

"I don't want to hold hands with him," June Star said. "He reminds me of a pig."

The fat boy blushed and laughed and caught her by the arm and pulled her off into the

woods after Hiram and her mother.

Alone with The Misfit, the grandmother found that she had lost her voice. There was not a

cloud in the sky nor any sun. There was nothing around her but woods. She wanted to tell

him that he must pray. She opened and closed her mouth several times before anything

came out. Finally she found herself saying, "Jesus. Jesus," meaning, Jesus will help you, but

the way she was saying it, it sounded as if she might be cursing.

"Yes'm," The Misfit said as if he agreed. "Jesus shown everything off balance. It was the

same case with Him as with me except He hadn't committed any crime and they could prove

I had committed one because they had the papers on me. Of course," he said, "they never

shown me my papers. That's why I sign myself now. I said long ago, you get you a signature

and sign everything you do and keep a copy of it. Then you'll know what you done and you

can hold up the crime to the punishment and see do they match and in the end you'll have

something to prove you ain't been treated right. I call myself The Misfit," he said, "because I

can't make what all I done wrong fit what all I gone through in punishment."

There was a piercing scream from the woods, followed closely by a pistol report. "Does it

seem right to you, lady, that one is punished a heap and another ain't punished at all?"

 

"Jesus!" the old lady cried. "You've got good blood! I know you wouldn't shoot a lady! I know

you come from nice

 people! Pray! Jesus, you ought not to shoot a lady. I'll

give you all the money I've got!"

"Lady," The Misfit said, looking beyond her far into the woods, "there never was a body that

give the undertaker a tip."

There were two more pistol reports and the grandmother raised her head like a parched old

turkey hen crying for water and called, "Bailey Boy, Bailey Boy!" as if her heart would break.

"Jesus was the only One that ever raised the dead," The Misfit continued, "and He shouldn't

have done it. He shown everything off balance. If He did what He said, then it's nothing for

you to do but thow away everything and follow Him, and if He didn't, then it's nothing for you

to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best way you can-by killing somebody or

burning down his house or doing some other meanness to him. No pleasure but meanness,"

he said and his voice had become almost a snarl.

"Maybe He didn't raise the dead," the old lady mumbled, not knowing what she was saying

and feeling so dizzy that she sank down in the ditch with her legs twisted under her.

"I wasn't there so I can't say He didn't," The Misfit said. "I wisht I had of been there," he said,

hitting the ground with his fist. "It ain't right I wasn't there because if I had of been there I

would of known. Listen lady," he said in a high voice, "if I had of been there I would of known

and I wouldn't be like I am now." His voice seemed about to crack and the grandmother's

head cleared for an instant. She saw the man's face twisted close to her own as if he were

going to cry and she murmured, "Why you're one of my babies. You're one of my own

children!" She reached out and touched him on the shoulder. The Misfit sprang back as if a

snake had bitten him and shot her three times through the chest. Then he put his gun down

on the ground and took off his glasses and began to clean them.

Hiram and Bobby Lee returned from the woods and stood over the ditch, looking down at the

grandmother who half sat and half lay in a puddle of blood with her legs crossed under her

like a child's and her face smiling up at the cloudless sky.

Without his glasses, The Misfit's eyes were red-rimmed and pale and defenseless-looking.

"Take her off and thow her where you shown the others," he said, picking up the cat that was

rubbing itself against his leg.

"She was a talker, wasn't she?" Bobby Lee said, sliding down the ditch with a yodel.

"She would of been a good woman," The Misfit said, "if it had been somebody there to shoot

her every minute of her life."

"Some fun!" Bobby Lee said.

"Shut up, Bobby Lee" The Misfit said. "It's no real pleasure in life."