Free Requiem for a Nun by William Faulkner

sixth. ‘You have a week yet until the thirteenth. But where will you go then?’ signed Gavin.
    She folds the paper back into its old creases, folds it still again. Stevens watches her.

    Stevens
    Well? This is the eleventh. Is that the coincidence?

    Temple
    No. This is.

    (she drops, tosses the folded paper onto the table, turns)

    It was that afternoon—the sixth. We were on the beach, Bucky and I. I was reading, and he was—oh, talking mostly, you know—‘Is California far from Jefferson, mamma?’ and I say ‘Yes, darling’—you know: still reading or trying to, and he says, ‘How long will we stay in California, mamma?’ and I say, ‘Until we get tired of it’ and he says, ‘Will we stay here until they hang Nancy, mamma?’ and it’s already too late then; I should have seen it coming but it’s too late now; I say, ‘Yes, darling’ and then he drops it right in my lap, right out of the mouths of—how is it?—babes and sucklings. ‘Where will we go then, mamma?’ And then we come back to the hotel, and there you are too. Well?

    Stevens
    Well what?

    Temple
    All right. Let’s for God’s sake stop.

    (goes to a chair)

    Now that I’m here, no matter whose fault it was, what do you want? A drink? Will you drink? At least, put your coat and hat down.

    Stevens
    I dont even know yet. That’s why you came back—

    Temple
    (interrupts)

    I came back? It wasn’t I who—

    Stevens
    (interrupts)

    â€”who said, let’s for God’s sake stop.
    They stare at each other: a moment.

    Temple
    All right. Put down your coat and hat.
    Stevens lays his hat and coat on a chair. Temple sits down. Stevens takes a chair opposite, so that the sleeping child on the sofa is between them in background.

    Temple
    So Nancy must be saved. So you send for me, or you and Bucky between you, or anyway here you are and here I am. Because apparently I know something I haven’t told yet, or maybe you know something I haven’t told yet. What do you think you know?

    (quickly; he says nothing)

    All right. What do you know?

    Stevens
    Nothing. I dont want to know it. All I—

    Temple
    Say that again.

    Stevens
    Say what again?

    Temple
    What is it you think you know?

    Stevens
    Nothing. I—

    Temple
    All right. Why do you think there is something I haven’t told yet?

    Stevens
    You came back. All the way from California—

    Temple
    Not enough. Try again.

    Stevens
    You were there.

    (with her face averted, Temple reaches her hand to the table, fumbles until she finds the cigarette box, takes a cigarette and with the same hand fumbles until she finds the lighter, draws them back to her lap)

    At the trial. Every day. All day, from the time court opened—

    Temple
    (still not looking at him, supremely casual, puts the cigarette into her mouth, talking around it, the cigarette bobbing)

    The bereaved mother—

    Stevens
    Yes, the bereaved mother—

    Temple
    (the cigarette bobbing: still not looking at him)

    â€”herself watching the accomplishment of her revenge; the tigress over the body of her slain cub—

    Stevens
    â€”who should have been too immersed in grief to have thought of revenge—to have borne the very sight of her child’s murderer . . .

    Temple
    (not looking at him)

    Methinks she doth protest too much?
    Stevens doesn’t answer. She snaps the lighter on, lights the cigarette, puts the lighter back on the table. Leaning, Stevens pushes the ashtray along the table until she can reach it. Now she looks at him.

    Temple
    Thanks. Now let grandmamma teach you how to suck an egg. It doesn’t matter what I know, what you think I know, what might have happened. Because we wont even need it. All we need is an affidavit. That she is crazy. Has been for years.

    Stevens
    I thought of that too. Only it’s too late. That should have been done about five months ago.