Poor Homer Barron
Miss Emily's Wake
The sheriff strode right atop me, as I crouched down below the floorboards. The false floor was put in the house during the Civil War era, as an escape for the cowardly Grierson family to hide from the Yankee troops. Now, the dark hole housed Miss Emily’s wine collection, or I should say what is left of it. Shards of glass littered the dirt floor, and empty bottles lay all about. I drank them over my years of service to Miss Emily, and I now drank them to ease my mounting grief.
You see, I’ve been entrenched here since Miss Emily’s wake this morning. Miss Emily died in a grandiose walnut bed, no doubt carved by the hands of my Negro ancestors, and I found her. For the moment, I stroked her iron hair, and straightened her nightgown, to make her presentable to the townsfolk. And then, I plotted. A Negro discovering a body, even the body of his elderly madam, marked the initiation of a lynching. And Miss Emily and I…we shared unspeakable secrets.
After finding her body, I set to the kitchen to brew tea. Townsfolk would wonder why a Negro entered the sleeping chamber of a white woman, if not for the purpose of molestation. Miss Emily had been sick for years; it was plausible that I would bring her tea, to ease the burning sensation in her throat. So I waited, as Miss Emily’s corpse decomposed several rooms away. You must not mistake my caution for malice; I loved Miss Emily dearly, but I will not have the entire lynching mob of Jefferson, Mississippi thinking I violated an invalid, white woman. Execution aside, I had urgent matters to attend to upstairs.
Yet, these urgent, unforgiveable matters that compelled me to hide in this hole beneath the floorboards have brought you to me. I’ve lived my life with limited companionship, and to have a soul to burry my secrets in removes many of the burdens I suffer, so thank you for that. Do you hear it? That corrosive creaking? Ah, the stairs. They started rotting years ago, along with the rest of the wooden floors of the house. An odd humor exists, doesn’t it? That at any moment, someone could step atop the false planks concealing us and fall right through, right into my facade. And still I hide here, remaining in this house, as the few lingering mourners venture upstairs. You know, they will find something awful up there. Poor Homer Barron…
Mr. Barron said not one word to me during his courtship of Miss Emily. And only at night did Miss Emily acknowledge our relations, long after Mr. Barron returned to his own home. I forewarned you of my secrets, secrets you agreed to keep simply by existing here in this hole with me, and I must confess that Miss Emily and I were in love: a peculiar kind of love, an illicit kind of love. She was nearly 20 years my senior and sprung from the lineage of men who enslaved my ancestors. Yet, a certain animal instinct seizes two lonely people confined within a dying house.
I fondly recall the first night Miss Emily knocked at my chamber door, many years ago. A few months passed since her father’s death, and his absence bred something wild within us. Timidly, I opened the door to see her standing stark naked before me. Her skin was unfathomably white. Not white like the ladies in town, but like dull tissue that hadn’t received adequate sunlight. Her breasts were full, but sagging just above her rounded navel. I moved aside, allowing her to enter my room, as I felt an erection grow steadily beneath my clothing.
I was thirteen the first time Miss Emily lied with me in bed, and she in her thirties, and I must ask that you not reproach us. When one bestows their secrets upon another, it’s not for moral reassurance or punishment, but merely a way to maintain sanity. And I trust you with my sanity, so do hush, and listen.
Yes, we made love, several nights a week and always atop my own bed. Yet, poor, wretched Homer Barron ruined this for me, when he began spending nights with Miss Emily. Mr. Barron did not descend from the aristocratic type of family that Miss Emily did, yet as an old maid desperate to marry, she entertained him as though he were royalty. Though I love her, something sadistic lived inside Miss Emily. After making love to Homer Barron, she would beckon me upstairs to her bedroom under the guise of needing a glass of water. I knew, as well as you now do, that she merely wanted me to see the man who lay comfortably in her bed, while I dwelled on the fact that she only made love to me in secret, within dirty servant chambers. She loved me too, but she was cruel, and poor Homer Barron would find out soon enough.
Don’t mind the screaming. I expected as much when the mourners went upstairs. Because you are entrapped in this hole with me, let me describe for you what the mourners found. Miss Emily’s bedroom door was locked, and after beating it down, they no doubt pushed the door open. The gust of air caused a cloud of dust to spread over the room, making the mourners cough and choke as they walked in. Once they overcame the shock of the filth in the room, they looked around, and as we heard, screamed, as they saw poor Homer Barron’s corpse lying neatly on Miss Emily’s bed.
Do not reproach! You must understand, years ago when Mr. Barron announced that he would be leaving town permanently, Miss Emily ensured he would be hers forever. An arsenic-laced farewell dinner did Mr. Barron in, and Miss Emily kindly asked me to place his body on the right side of her bed. Yes, the smell was wretched for weeks, but after the flesh and organs rotted away, only the bones and cavity-riddled teeth remained behind. You must know, Miss Emily slept by his side, every night, until very recently when her sickness confined her to the walnut bed downstairs. Yes, Miss Emily would still make love to me, and even posthumously, Mr. Barron had the upper-hand as she slept peacefully beside him each night.
Their wailing is growing louder now, the mourners must be coming back downstairs to inform the authorities of what they’ve found. I do hope they leave soon. Though I’ve enjoyed your intimacy, I really must escape this damned hole soon. What’s that you ask? I never told you what I did after brewing the tea?
It’s simple really. I finally made love to Miss Emily in her own bed.
You see, I’ve been entrenched here since Miss Emily’s wake this morning. Miss Emily died in a grandiose walnut bed, no doubt carved by the hands of my Negro ancestors, and I found her. For the moment, I stroked her iron hair, and straightened her nightgown, to make her presentable to the townsfolk. And then, I plotted. A Negro discovering a body, even the body of his elderly madam, marked the initiation of a lynching. And Miss Emily and I…we shared unspeakable secrets.
After finding her body, I set to the kitchen to brew tea. Townsfolk would wonder why a Negro entered the sleeping chamber of a white woman, if not for the purpose of molestation. Miss Emily had been sick for years; it was plausible that I would bring her tea, to ease the burning sensation in her throat. So I waited, as Miss Emily’s corpse decomposed several rooms away. You must not mistake my caution for malice; I loved Miss Emily dearly, but I will not have the entire lynching mob of Jefferson, Mississippi thinking I violated an invalid, white woman. Execution aside, I had urgent matters to attend to upstairs.
Yet, these urgent, unforgiveable matters that compelled me to hide in this hole beneath the floorboards have brought you to me. I’ve lived my life with limited companionship, and to have a soul to burry my secrets in removes many of the burdens I suffer, so thank you for that. Do you hear it? That corrosive creaking? Ah, the stairs. They started rotting years ago, along with the rest of the wooden floors of the house. An odd humor exists, doesn’t it? That at any moment, someone could step atop the false planks concealing us and fall right through, right into my facade. And still I hide here, remaining in this house, as the few lingering mourners venture upstairs. You know, they will find something awful up there. Poor Homer Barron…
Mr. Barron said not one word to me during his courtship of Miss Emily. And only at night did Miss Emily acknowledge our relations, long after Mr. Barron returned to his own home. I forewarned you of my secrets, secrets you agreed to keep simply by existing here in this hole with me, and I must confess that Miss Emily and I were in love: a peculiar kind of love, an illicit kind of love. She was nearly 20 years my senior and sprung from the lineage of men who enslaved my ancestors. Yet, a certain animal instinct seizes two lonely people confined within a dying house.
I fondly recall the first night Miss Emily knocked at my chamber door, many years ago. A few months passed since her father’s death, and his absence bred something wild within us. Timidly, I opened the door to see her standing stark naked before me. Her skin was unfathomably white. Not white like the ladies in town, but like dull tissue that hadn’t received adequate sunlight. Her breasts were full, but sagging just above her rounded navel. I moved aside, allowing her to enter my room, as I felt an erection grow steadily beneath my clothing.
I was thirteen the first time Miss Emily lied with me in bed, and she in her thirties, and I must ask that you not reproach us. When one bestows their secrets upon another, it’s not for moral reassurance or punishment, but merely a way to maintain sanity. And I trust you with my sanity, so do hush, and listen.
Yes, we made love, several nights a week and always atop my own bed. Yet, poor, wretched Homer Barron ruined this for me, when he began spending nights with Miss Emily. Mr. Barron did not descend from the aristocratic type of family that Miss Emily did, yet as an old maid desperate to marry, she entertained him as though he were royalty. Though I love her, something sadistic lived inside Miss Emily. After making love to Homer Barron, she would beckon me upstairs to her bedroom under the guise of needing a glass of water. I knew, as well as you now do, that she merely wanted me to see the man who lay comfortably in her bed, while I dwelled on the fact that she only made love to me in secret, within dirty servant chambers. She loved me too, but she was cruel, and poor Homer Barron would find out soon enough.
Don’t mind the screaming. I expected as much when the mourners went upstairs. Because you are entrapped in this hole with me, let me describe for you what the mourners found. Miss Emily’s bedroom door was locked, and after beating it down, they no doubt pushed the door open. The gust of air caused a cloud of dust to spread over the room, making the mourners cough and choke as they walked in. Once they overcame the shock of the filth in the room, they looked around, and as we heard, screamed, as they saw poor Homer Barron’s corpse lying neatly on Miss Emily’s bed.
Do not reproach! You must understand, years ago when Mr. Barron announced that he would be leaving town permanently, Miss Emily ensured he would be hers forever. An arsenic-laced farewell dinner did Mr. Barron in, and Miss Emily kindly asked me to place his body on the right side of her bed. Yes, the smell was wretched for weeks, but after the flesh and organs rotted away, only the bones and cavity-riddled teeth remained behind. You must know, Miss Emily slept by his side, every night, until very recently when her sickness confined her to the walnut bed downstairs. Yes, Miss Emily would still make love to me, and even posthumously, Mr. Barron had the upper-hand as she slept peacefully beside him each night.
Their wailing is growing louder now, the mourners must be coming back downstairs to inform the authorities of what they’ve found. I do hope they leave soon. Though I’ve enjoyed your intimacy, I really must escape this damned hole soon. What’s that you ask? I never told you what I did after brewing the tea?
It’s simple really. I finally made love to Miss Emily in her own bed.
♠ ♠ ♠
There is something oddly eerie about reading this to classical music. I recommend Requiem for Mass in D Minor, composed by Mozart.