Vernon and the Fish Witness — As I Lay Dying

It was nigh to midnight and it had set in to rain when Cora says it is Addie Bundren gone at last because Peabody's team came up lathered with the broke harness dragging. Vernon says when folks wants a fellow it is best to wait till they sends for him, and he will not hitch. Cora calls it her Christian duty. Then the knocking comes low on the door, steady, and Vernon never noticed how low till he opens it and sees nothing until he looks down.

Vardaman stands there like a drowned puppy, splashed to his knees after four miles in mud. You mind that ere fish, he says. You was there. You seen it laying there. Cash is fixing to nail her up, and it was a-laying right there on the ground. You seen the mark in the dirt. The rain never come up till after he left, so they can get back in time. Cora pulls him in and orders Vernon to hitch while she wraps her Bible in oilcloth.

They ride through hard rain with Vardaman between them, Cora singing judgment on Anse, the boy leaning forward like the mules are not fast enough. Vernon helps nail the box long past midnight while Cash saws and Anse stands like a scarecrow knee-deep in a pond. Dawn: Addie in the box, window open, rain blowing on her, till they nail it down. Next morning Vardaman sleeps on the floor in his shirttail, the lid bored full of holes, Cash's auger broken, two holes bored on into her face. It ain't right, Vernon thinks. Suffer little children don't make it right. What is a neighbour supposed to do when waiting to be asked leaves a child walking four miles through mud about a fish?