The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

Part Three

August 21, 1939

Morning

‘I WILL not be hurried,’ Doctor Copeland said. ‘Just let me be. Kindly allow me to sit here in peace a moment.’

‘Father, us not trying to rush you. But it time now to get gone from here.’

Doctor Copeland rocked stubbornly, his gray shawl drawn close around his shoulders. Although the morning was warm and fresh, a small wood fire burned in the stove. The kitchen was bare of all furniture except the chair in which he sat. The other rooms were empty, too. Most of the furniture had been moved to Portia’s house, and the rest was tied to the automobile outside. All was in readiness except his own mind. But how could he leave when there was neither beginning nor end, neither truth nor purpose in his thoughts? He put up his hand to steady his trembling head and continued to rock himself slowly in the creaking chair.

Behind the closed door he heard their voices: ‘I done all I can. He determined to sit there till he good and ready to leave.’

‘Buddy and me done wrapped the china plates and--’

‘Us should have left before the dew dried,’ said the old man. ‘As is, night liable to catch us on the road.’

Their voices quieted. Footsteps echoed in the empty hallway and he could hear them no more. On the floor beside him was a cup and saucer. He filled it with coffee from the pot on the top of the stove.

As he rocked he drank the coffee and warmed his fingers in the steam. This could not truly be the end. Other voices called wordless in his heart. The voice of Jesus and of John Brown. The voice of the great Spinoza and of Karl Marx. The calling voices of all those who had fought and to whom it had been vouchsafed to complete their missions. The grief-bound voices of his people. And also the voice of the dead. Of the mute Singer, who was a righteous white man of understanding. The voices of the weak and of the mighty. The , rolling voice of his people growing always in strength and in power. The voice of the strong, true purpose. And in answer the words trembled on his lips--the words which ‘ are surely the root of all human grief--so that he almost said aloud: ‘Almighty Host! Utmost power of the universe! I have done those things which I ought not to have done and left undone those things which I ought to have done.

So this cannot truly be the end.’

He had first come into the house with her whom he loved.

And Daisy was dressed in her bridal gown and wore a white lace veil. Her skin was the beautiful color of dark honey and her laughter was sweet. At night he had shut himself in the bright room to study alone. He had tried to cogitate and to discipline himself to study. But with Daisy near him there was a strong desire in him that would not go away with study. So sometimes he surrendered to these feelings, and again he bit his lips and meditated with the books throughout the night.

And then there were Hamilton and Karl Marx and William and Portia. All lost. No one remained.

And Madyben and Benny Mae. And Benedine Madine and Mady Copeland. Those who carried his name. And those whom he had exhorted. But out of the thousands of them where was there one to whom he could entrust the mission and then take ease? , All of his life he had known it strongly. He had known the reason for his working and was sure in his heart because he knew each day what lay ahead of him. He would go with his bag from house to house, and on all things he would talk to them and patiently explain. And then in the night he would be happy in the knowledge that the day had been a day of purpose. And even without Daisy and Hamilton and Karl Marx and William and Portia he could sit by the stove alone and take joy from this knowledge.

He would drink a pot of turnip-green liquor and eat a pone of cornbread. A deep feeling of satisfaction would be in him because the day was good.

There were thousands of such times of satisfaction. But what had been their meaning? Out of all the years he could think of no work of lasting value.

After a while the door to the hall was opened and Portia came in. ‘I reckon I going to have to dress you like a baby,’ she said.

‘Here your shoes and socks. Let me take off your bedroom shoes and put them on. We got to get gone from here pretty soon.’

‘Why have you done this to me?’ he asked bitterly.

‘What I done to you now?’

‘You know full well that I do not want to leave. You pressed me into saying yes when I was in no fit condition to make a decision. I wish to remain where I have always been, and you know it.’

‘Listen to you carry on!’ Portia said angrily. ‘You done grumbled so much that I nearly worn out. You done fumed and fussed so that I right shamed for you.’

‘Pshaw! Say what you will. You only come before me like a gnat. I know what I wish and will not be pestered into doing that which is wrong.’ Portia took off his bedroom shoes and unrolled a pair of clean black cotton socks. ‘Father, less us quit this here argument. Us have all done the best we know how. It entirely the best plan for you to go out with Grandpapa and Hamilton and Buddy. They going to take good care of you and you going to get well.’

‘No, I will not,’ said Doctor Copeland. ‘But I would have recovered here. I know it.’

‘Who you think could pay the note on this here house? How you think us could feed you? Who you think could take care you here? ‘ ‘I have always managed, and I can manage yet.’

‘You just trying to be contrary.’

‘Pshaw! You come before me like a gnat. And I ignore you.’

‘That certainly is a nice way to talk to me while I trying to put on your shoes and socks.’

‘I am sorry. Forgive me, Daughter.’

‘Course you sorry,’ she said. ‘Course we both sorry. Us can’t afford to quarrel. And besides, once we get you settled on the farm you going to like it. They got the prettiest vegetable garden I ever seen. Make my mouth slobber to think about it. And chickens and two breed sows and eighteen peach trees. You just going to be crazy about it there. I sure do wish it was me could get a chance to go.’

‘I wish so, too.’

‘How come you so determined to grieve?’

‘I just feel that I have failed,’ he said.

‘How you mean you done failed?’

‘I do not know. Just leave me be, Daughter. Just let me sit here in peace a moment.’

‘O.K. But us got to get gone from here pretty soon.’ He would be silent. He would sit quietly and rock in the chair until the sense of order was in him once more. His head trembled and his backbone ached.

‘I certainly hope this,’ Portia said. ‘I certainly hope that when I dead and gone as many peoples grieves for me as grieves for Mr. Singer. I sure would like to know I were going to have as sad a funeral as he had and as many peoples--’

‘Hush!’ said Doctor Copeland roughly. ‘You talk too much.’

But truly with the death of that white man a dark sorrow had lain down in his heart. He had talked to him as to no other white man and had trusted him. And the mystery of his suicide had left him baffled and without support. There was neither beginning nor end to this sorrow. Nor understanding. Always he would return in his thoughts to this white man who was not insolent or scornful but who was just. And how can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind? But of all this he must not think. He must thrust it from him now.

For it was discipline he needed. During the past month the black, terrible feelings had arisen again to wrestle with his spirit. There was the hatred that for days had truly let him down into the regions of death. After the quarrel with Mr. Blount, the midnight visitor, there had been in him a murderous darkness. Yet now he could not clearly recall those issues which were the cause of their dispute. And then the different anger that came in him when he looked on the stumps of Willie’s legs. The warring love and hatred--love for his people and hatred for the oppressors of his people--that left him exhausted and sick in spirit ‘Daughter,’ he said. ‘Get me my watch and coat. I am going.’

He pushed himself up with the arms of the chair. The floor seemed a far way from his face and after the long time in bed his legs were very weak. For a moment he felt he would fall.

He walked dizzily across the bare room and stood leaning against the side of the doorway. He coughed and took from his pocket one of the squares of paper to hold over his mouth.

‘Here your coat,’ Portia said. ‘But it so hot outside you not going to need it.’

He walked for the last time through the empty house. The blinds were closed and in the darkened rooms there was the smell of dust. He rested against the wall of the vestibule and then went outside. The morning was bright and warm. Many friends had come to say goodbye the night before and in the very early morning--but now only the family was congregated on the porch. The wagon and the automobile were parked out in the street. ‘Well, Benedict Mady,’ the old man said. ‘I reckon yoa ghy be a little bit homesick these first few days. But won’t be long.’

‘I do not have any home. So why should I be homesick? Portia wet her lips nervously and said: ‘He coming back whenever he get good and ready. Buddy will be glad to ride him to town in the car. Buddy just love to drive.’ The automobile was loaded. Boxes of books were tied to the running-board. The back seat was crowded with two chairs and the filing case. His office desk, legs in the air, had been fastened to the top. But although the car was weighted down the wagon was almost empty. The mule stood patiently, a brick tied to his reins. ‘Karl Marx,’ Doctor Copeland said. ‘Look sharp. Go over the house and make sure that nothing is left. Bring the cup I left on the floor and my rocking-chair.’

‘Less us get started. I anxious to be home by dinnertime, ‘ Hamilton said. At last they were ready. Highboy cranked the automobile. Karl Marx sat at the wheel and Portia, Highboy, and William were crowded together on the back seat. ‘Father, suppose you set on Highboy’s lap. I believe you be more comfortable than scrouged up here with us and all this furniture.’

‘No, it is too crowded. I would rather ride in the wagon.’

‘But you not used to the wagon,’ Karl Marx said. ‘It going to be very bumpy and the trip liable to take all day.’

‘That does not matter. I have ridden in many a wagon before this.’

‘Tell Hamilton to come with us. I sure he rather ride in the automobile.’ Grandpapa had driven the wagon into town the day before. They brought with them a load of produce, peaches and cabbages and turnips, for Hamilton to sell in town. All except a sack of peaches had been marketed. ‘Well, Benedict Mady, I see you riding home with me,’ the old man said. Doctor Copeland climbed into the back of the wagon. He was weary as though his bones were made of lead. His head trembled and a sudden spasm of nausea made him lie down flat on the rough boards.

‘I right glad you coming,’ Grandpapa said. ‘You understand I always had deep respect for scholars. Deep respect I able to overlook and forget a good many things if a man be a scholar.

I very glad to have a scholar like you in the fambly again.’

The wheels of the wagon creaked. They were on the way. ‘I will return soon,’ Doctor Copeland said. ‘After only a month or two I will return.’

‘Hamilton he a right good scholar. I think he favors you some.

He do all my figuring on paper for me and he read the newspapers. And Whitman I think he ghy be a scholar. Right now he able to read the Bible to me. And do number work.

Small a child as he is. I always had a deep respect for scholars.’

The motion of the wagon jolted his back. He looked up at the branches overhead, and then when there was no shade he covered his face with a handkerchief to shield his eyes from the sun. It was not possible that this could be the end. Always he had felt in him the strong, true purpose. For forty years his mission was his life and his life was his mission. And yet all remained to be done and nothing was completed.

‘Yes, Benedict Mady, I right glad to have you with us again. I been waiting to ask you about this peculiar feeling in my right foot. A queer feeling like my foot gone to sleep. I taken and rubbed it with liniment. I hoping you will find me a good treatment.’

‘I will do what I can.’

‘Yes, I glad to have you. I believe in all kinfolks sticking together--blood kin and marriage kin. I believe in all us struggling along and helping each other out, and some day us will have a reward in the Beyond.’

‘Pshaw!’ Doctor Copeland said bitterly. ‘I believe in justice now.’

‘What that you say you believe in? You speak so hoarse I ain’t able to hear you.’

‘In justice for us. Justice for us Negroes!’

‘That right.’

He felt the fire in him and he could not be still. He wanted to sit up and speak in a loud voice-yet when he tried to raise himself he could not find the strength. The words in his heart grew big and they would not be silent But the old man had ceased to listen and there was no one to hear him.

‘Git, Lee Jackson. Git, Honey. Pick up your feets and quit this here poking. Us got a long way to go.’

Afternoon.

Jake ran at a violent, clumsy pace. He went through Weavers Lane and then cut into a side alley, climbed a fence, and hastened onward. Nausea rose in his belly so that there was the taste of vomit in his throat. A barking dog chased beside him until he stopped long enough to threaten it with a rock.

His eyes were wide with horror and he held his hand clapped to his open mouth.

Christ! So this was the finish. A brawl. A riot. A fight with every man for himself. Bloody heads and eyes cut with broken bottles. Christ! And the wheezy music of the flying jinny above the noise. The dropped hamburgers and cotton candy and the screaming younguns. And him in it all. Fighting blind with the dust and sun. The sharp cut of teeth against his knuckles. And laughing. Christ! And the feeling that he had let loose a wild, hard rhythm in him that wouldn’t stop. And then looking close into the dead black face and not knowing.

Not even knowing if he had killed or not. But wait. Christ! Nobody could have stopped it.

Jake slowed and jerked his head nervously to look behind him.

The alley was empty. He vomited and wiped his mouth and forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. Afterward he rested for a minute and felt better. He had run for about eight blocks and with short cuts there was about half a mile to go. The dizziness cleared in his head so that from all the wild feelings he could remember facts. He started off again, this time at a steady jog.

Nobody could have stopped it. All through the summer he had stamped them out like sudden fires. All but this one. And this fight nobody could have stopped. It seemed to blaze up out of nothing. He had been working on the machinery of the swings and had stopped to get a glass of water. As he passed across the grounds he saw a white boy and a Negro walking around each other. They were both drunk. Half the crowd was drunk that afternoon, for it was Saturday and the mills had run full time that week. The heat and the sun were sickening and there was a heavy stink in the air.

He saw the two fighters close in on each other. But he knew that this was not the beginning. He had felt a big fight coming for a long time. And the funny thing was he found time to think of all this. He stood watching for about five seconds before he pushed into the crowd. In that short time he thought of many things. He thought of Singer. He thought of the sullen summer afternoons and the black, hot nights, of all the fights he had broken up and the quarrels he had hushed.

Then he saw the flash of a pocketknife in the sun. He shouldered through a knot of people and jumped on the back of the Negro who held the knife. The man went down with him and they were on the ground together. The smell of sweat on the Negro was mixed with the heavy dust in his lungs. Someone trampled on his legs and his head was kicked. By the time he got to his feet again the fight had become general. The Negroes were fighting the white men and the white men were fighting the Negroes. He saw clearly, second by second. The white boy who had picked the fight seemed a kind of leader. He was the leader of a gang that came often to the show. They were about sixteen years old and they wore white duck trousers and fancy rayon polo shirts.

The Negroes fought back as best they could. Some had razors.

He began to yell out words: Order! Help! Police! But it was like yelling at a breaking dam. There was a terrible sound in his ear--terrible because it was human and yet without words.

The sound rose to a roar that deafened him. He was hit on the head. He could not see what went on around him. He saw only eyes and mouths and fists--wild eyes and half-closed eyes, wet, loose mouths and clenched ones, black fists and white.

He grabbed a knife from a hand and caught an upraised fist.

Then the dust and the sun blinded him and the one thought in his mind was to get out and find a telephone to call for help.

But he was caught. And without knowing when it happened he piled into the fight himself. He hit out with his fists and felt the soft squish of wet mouths. He fought with his eyes shut and his head lowered. A crazy sound came out of his throat. He hit with all his strength and charged with his head like a bull.

Senseless words were in his mind and he was laughing. He did not see who he hit and did not know who hit him. But he knew that the line-up of the fight had changed and now each man was for himself.

Then suddenly it was finished. He tripped and fell over backward. He was knocked out so that it may have been a minute or it may have been much longer before he opened his eyes. A few drunks were still fighting but two dicks were breaking it up fast. He saw what he had tripped over. He lay half on and half beside the body of a young Negro boy. With only one look he knew that he was dead. There was a cut on the side of his neck but it was hard to see how he had died in such a hurry. He knew the face but could not place it. The boy’s mouth was open and his eyes were open in surprise. The ground was littered with papers and broken bottles and trampled hamburgers. The head was broken off one of the jinny horses and a booth was destroyed.

He was sitting up. He saw the dicks and in a panic he started to run. By now they must have lost his track.

There were only four more blocks ahead, and then he would be safe for sure. Fear had shortened his breath so that he was winded. He clenched his fists and lowered his head. Then suddenly he slowed and halted. He was alone in an alley near the main street. On one side was the wall of a building and he slumped against it, panting, the corded vein in his forehead inflamed. In his confusion he had run all the way across the town to reach the room of his friend. And Singer was dead. He began to cry. He sobbed aloud, and water dripped down from his nose and wet his mustache.

A wall, a flight of stairs, a road ahead. The burning sun was like a heavy weight on him. He started back the way he had come. This time he walked slowly, wiping his wet face with the greasy sleeve of his shirt. He could not stop the trembling of his lips and he bit them until he tasted blood.

At the corner of the next block he ran into Simms. The old codger was sitting on a box with his Bible on his knees. There was a tall board fence behind him, and on it a message was written with purple chalk.

He Died to Save You Hear the Story of His Love and Grace Every Nite 7:15 P.M. The street was empty. Jake tried to cross over to the other sidewalk, but Simms caught him by the arm. ‘Come, all ye disconsolate and sore of heart. Lay down your sins and troubles before the blessed feet of Him who died to save you. Wherefore goest thou, Brother Blount? ‘ ‘Home to hockey,’ Jake said. ‘I got to hockey. Does the Saviour have anything against that? ‘ ‘Sinner! The Lord remembers all your transgressions. The Lord has a message for you this very night.’

‘Does the Lord remember that dollar I gave you last week? ‘ ‘Jesus has a message for you at seven-fifteen tonight. You be here on time to hear His Word.’ Jake licked his mustache. ‘You have such a crowd every night I can’t get up close enough to hear.’

‘There is a place for scoffers. Besides, I have had a sign that soon the Saviour wants me to build a house for Him. On that lot at the corner of Eighteenth Avenue and Sixth Street.

A tabernacle large enough to hold five hundred people. Then you scoffers will see. The Lord prepareth a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; he anoint-eth my head with oil. My cup runneth--‘ ‘I can round you up a crowd tonight,’ Jake said.

‘How?’

‘Give me your pretty colored chalk. I promise a big crowd.’

‘I’ve seen your signs,’ Simms said. ‘‘Workers! America Is the Richest Country in the World Yet a Third of Us Are Starving. When Will We Unite and Demand Our Share?’--all that. Your signs are radical. I wouldn’t let you use my chalk.’

‘But I don’t plan to write signs.’ Simms fingered the pages of his Bible and waited suspiciously.

‘Til get you a fine crowd. On the pavements at each end of the block I’ll draw you some good-looking naked floozies. All in color with arrows to point the way. Sweet, plump, bare-tailed--’

‘Babylonian!’ the old man screamed. ‘Child of Sodom! God will remember this.’

Jake crossed over to the other sidewalk and started toward the house where he lived. ‘So long, Brother.’

‘Sinner,’ the old man called. ‘You come back here at seven-fifteen sharp. And hear the message from Jesus that will give you faith. Be saved.’

Singer was dead. And the way he had felt when he first heard that he had killed himself was not sad--it was angry. He was before a wall. He remembered all the innermost thoughts that he had told to Singer, and with his death it seemed to him that they were lost. And why had Singer wanted to end his life? Maybe he had gone insane. But anyway he was dead, dead, dead. He could not be seen or touched or spoken to, and the room where they had spent so many hours had been rented to a girl who worked as a typist. He could go there no longer. He was alone.

A wall, a flight of stairs, an open road.

Jake locked the door of his room behind him. He was hungry and there was nothing to eat. He was thirsty and only a few drops of warm water were left in the pitcher by the table. The bed was unmade and dusty fluff had accumulated on the floor.

Papers were scattered all about the room, because recently he had written many short notices and distributed them through the town. Moodily he glanced at one of the papers labeled ‘The T.W.O.C. Is Your Best Friend.’ Some of the notices consisted of only one sentence, others were longer. There was one full-page manifesto entitled ‘The Affinity Between Our Democracy and, Fascism.’

For a month he had worked on these papers, scribbling them during working hours, typing and making carbons on the typewriter at the New York Cafe, distributing them by hand.

He had worked day and night. But who read them? What good had any of it done? A town this size was too big for any one man. And now he was leaving.

But where would it be this time? The names of cities called to him--Memphis, Wilmington, Gastonia, New Orleans. He would go somewhere. But not out of the South. The old restlessness and hunger were in him again. It was different this time. He did not long for open space and freedom--just the reverse. He remembered what the Negro, Copeland, had said to him, ‘Do not attempt to stand alone.’ There were times when that was best.

Jake moved the bed across the room. On the part of the floor the bed had hidden there were a suitcase and a pile of books and dirty clothes. Impatiently he began to pack. The old Negro’s face was in his mind and some of the words they had said came back to him. Copeland was crazy. He was a fanatic, so that it was maddening to try to reason with him. Still the terrible anger that they had felt that night had been hard to understand. Copeland knew. And those who knew were like a handful of naked soldiers before an armed battalion. And what had they done? They had turned to quarrel with each other.

Copeland was wrong--yes--he was crazy. But on some points they might be able to work together after all. If they didn’t talk too much. He would go and see him. A sudden urge to hurry came in him. Maybe that would be the best thing after all. Maybe that was the sign, the hand he had so long awaited.

Without pausing to wash the grime from his face and hands he strapped his suitcase and left the room. Outside the air was sultry and there was a foul odor in the street. Clouds had formed in the sky. The atmosphere was so still that the smoke from a mill in the district went up in a straight, unbroken line.

As Jake walked the suitcase bumped awkwardly against his knees, and often he jerked his head to look behind him.

Copeland lived all the way across the town, so there was need to hurry. The clouds in the sky grew steadily denser, and foretold a heavy summer rain before nightfall.

When he reached the house where Copeland lived he saw that the shutters were drawn. He walked to the back and peered through the window at the abandoned kitchen. A hollow, desperate disappointment made his hands feel sweaty and his heart lose the rhythm of its beat He went to the house on the left but no one was at home. There was nothing to do except to go to the Kelly house and question Portia.

He hated to be near that house again. He couldn’t stand to see the hat rack in the front hall and the long flight of stairs he had climbed so many times. He walked slowly back across the town and approached by way of the alley. He went in the rear door. Portia was in the kitchen and the little boy was with her.

‘No, sir, Mr. Blount,’ Portia said. ‘I know you were a mighty good friend of Mr. Singer and you understand what Father thought of him. But we taken Father out in the country this morning and I know in my soul I got no business telling you exactly where he is. If you don’t mind I rather speak out and not minch the matter.’

‘You don’t have to minch anything,’ Jake said. ‘But why?’

‘After the time you come to see us Father were so sick us expected him to die. It taken us a long time to get him able to sit up. He doing right well now. He going to get a lot stronger where he is now. But whether you understand this or not he right bitter against white peoples just now and he very easy to upset. And besides, if you don’t mind speaking out, what you want with Father, anyway?’

‘Nothing,’ Jake said. ‘Nothing you would understand.’

‘Us colored peoples have feelings just like anybody else. And I stand by what I said, Mr. Blount. Father just a sick old colored man and he had enough trouble already. Us got to look after him. And he not anxious to see you--I know that.’

Out in the street again he saw that the clouds had turned a deep, angry purple. In the stagnant air there was a storm smell.

The vivid green of the trees along the sidewalk seemed to steal into the atmosphere so that there was a strange greenish glow over the street. All was so hushed and still that Jake paused for a moment to sniff the air and look around him. Then he grasped his suitcase under his arm and began to run toward the awnings of the main street. But he was not quick enough.

There was one metallic crash of thunder and the air chilled suddenly. Large silver drops of rain hissed on the pavement.

An avalanche of water blinded him. When he reached the New York Cafe his clothes clung wet and shriveled to his body and his shoes squeaked with water.

Brannon pushed aside his newspaper and leaned his elbows on the counter. ‘Now, this is really curious. I had this intuition you would come here just after the rain broke. I knew in my bones you were coming and that you would make it just too late.’ He mashed his nose with this thumb until it was white and flat. ‘And a suitcase?’

‘It looks like a suitcase,’ Jake said. ‘And it feels like a suitcase. So if you believe in the actuality of suitcases I reckon this is one, all right.’

‘You ought not to stand around like this. Go on upstairs and throw me down your clothes. Louis will run over them with a hot iron.’

Jake sat at one of the back booth tables and rested his head in his hands. ‘No, thanks. I just want to rest here and get my wind again.’

‘But your lips are turning blue. You look all knocked up.’

‘I’m all right. What I want is some supper.’

‘Supper won’t be ready for half an hour,’ Brannon said patiently.

‘Any old leftovers will do. Just put them on a plate. You don’t even have to bother to heat them.’

The emptiness in him hurt. He wanted to look neither backward nor forward. He walked two of his short, chunky fingers across the top of the table. It was more than a year now since he had sat at this table for the first time. And how much further was he now than then? No further. Nothing had happened except that he had made a friend and lost him. He had given Singer everything and then the man had killed himself. So he was left out on a limb. And now it was up to him to get out of it by himself and make a new start again. At the thought of it panic came in him. He was tired. He leaned his head against the wall and put his feet on the seat beside him.

‘Here you are,’ Brannon said. ‘This ought to help out.’

He put down a glass of some hot drink and a plate of chicken pie. The drink had a sweet, heavy smell. Jake inhaled the steam and closed his eyes. ‘What’s in it?’

‘Lemon rind rubbed on a lump of sugar and boiling water with rum. It’s a good drink.’

‘How much do I owe you?’

‘I don’t know offhand, but I’ll figure it out before you leave.’

Jake took a deep draught of the toddy and washed it around in his mouth before swallowing. ‘You’ll never get the money,’ he said. ‘I don’t have it to pay you--and if I did I probably wouldn’t anyway.’

‘Well, have I been pressing you? Have I ever made you out a bill and asked you to pay up?’

‘No,’ Jake said. ‘You been very reasonable. And since I think about it you’re a right decent guy--from the personal perspective, that is.’

Brannon sat across from him at the table. Something was on his mind. He slid the salt-shaker back and forth and kept smoothing his hair. He smelled like perfume and his striped blue shirt was very fresh and clean. The sleeves were rolled and held in place by old-fashioned blue sleeve garters.

At last he cleared his throat in a hesitating way and said: ‘I was glancing through the afternoon paper just before you came. It seems you had a lot of trouble at your place today. ‘That’s right. What did it say?’

‘Wait. I’ll get it.’ Brannon fetched the paper from the counter and leaned against the partition of the booth. ‘It says on the front page that at the Sunny Dixie Show, located so and so, there was a general disturbance. Two Negroes were fatally injured with wounds inflicted by knives. Three others suffered minor wounds and were taken for treatment to the city hospital. The dead were Jimmy Macy and Lancy Davis. The wounded were John Hamlin, white, of Central Mill City, Various Wilson, Negro, and so forth and so on. Quote: ‘A number of arrests were made. It is alleged that the disturbance was caused by labor agitation, as papers of a subversive nature were found on and about the site of disturbance. Other arrests are expected shortly.’ Brannon clicked his teeth together. ‘The setup of this paper gets worse every day. Subversive spelled with a u in the second syllable and arrests with only one r.’

‘They’re smart, all right,’ Jake said sneeringly. ‘Caused by labor agitation.’

‘That’s remarkable.’

‘Anyway, the whole thing is very unfortunate.’ Jake held his hand to his mouth and looked down at his empty plate. ‘What do you mean to do now? Tm leaving. I’m getting out of here this afternoon.’ Brannon polished his nails on the palm of his hand. ‘Well, of course it’s not necessary--but it might be a good thing. Why so headlong? No sense in starting out this time of day.’

‘I just father.’

‘I do not think it behooves you to make a new start. At the same time why don’t you take my advice on this? Myself--I’m a conservative and of course I think your opinions are radical. But at the same time I like to know all sides of a matter. Anyway, I want to see you straighten out. So why don’t you go some place where you can meet a few people more or less like yourself? And then settle down? ‘ Jake pushed his plate irritably away from him. ‘I don’t know where I’m going. Leave me’alone. I’m tired.’ Brannon shrugged his shoulders and went back to the counter. He was tired enough. The hot rum and the heavy sound of the rain made him drowsy. It felt good to be sitting safe in a booth and to have just eaten a good meal. If he wanted to he could lean over and take a nap--a short one. Already his head felt swollen and heavy and he was more comfortable with his eyes closed. But it would have to be a short sleep because soon he must get out of here.

‘How long will this rain keep on?’

Brannon’s voice had drowsy overtones. ‘You can’t tell--a tropical cloudburst. Might clear up suddenly--or might thin a little and set in for the night.’

Jake laid his head down on his arms. The sound of the rain was nice the swelling sound of the sea. He heard a clock tick and the far-off rattle of dishes. Gradually his hands relaxed.

They lay open, palm upward, on the table.

Then Brannon was shaking him by the shoulders and looking into his face. A terrible dream was in his mind. ‘Wake up,’ Brannon was saying. ‘You’ve had a nightmare. I looked over here and your mouth was open and you were groaning and shuffling your feet on the floor. I never saw anything to equal it.’

The dream was still heavy in his mind. He felt the old terror that always came as he awakened. He pushed Brannon away and stood up. ‘You don’t have to tell me I had a nightmare. I remember just how it was. And I’ve had the same dream for about fifteen times before.’

He did remember now. Every other time he had been unable to get the dream straight in his waking mind. He had been walking among a great crowd of people--like at the show. But there was also something Eastern about the people around him. There was a terrible bright sun and the people were half-naked. They were silent and slow and their faces had a look in them of starvation. There was no sound, only the sun, and the silent crowd of people. He walked among them and he carried a huge covered basket. He was taking the basket somewhere but he could not find the place to leave it And in the dream there was a peculiar horror in wandering on and on through the crowd and not knowing where to lay down the burden he had carried in his arms so long.

‘What was it?’ Brannon asked. ‘Was the devil chasing you?’ Jake stood up and went to the mirror behind the counter. His face was dirty and sweaty. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. He wet his handkerchief under the fountain faucet and wiped off his face. Then he took out a pocket comb and neatly combed his mustache.

‘The dream was nothing. You got to be asleep to understand why it was such a nightmare.’

The clock pointed to five-thirty. The rain had almost stopped.

Jake picked up his suitcase and went to the front door. ‘So long. I’ll send you a postcard maybe.’

‘Wait,’ Brannon said. ‘You can’t go now. It’s still raining a little.’

‘Just dripping off the awning. I rather get out of town before dark.’

‘But hold on. Do you have any money? Enough to keep going for a week?’

‘I don’t need money. I been broke before.’ Brannon had an envelope ready and in it were two twenty-dollar bills. Jake looked at them on both sides and put them in his pocket. ‘God knows why you do it. You’ll never smell them again. But thanks. I won’t forget.’

‘Good luck. And let me hear from you.’

‘Adios! ‘Goodbye.’

The door closed behind him. When he looked back at the end of the block, Brannon was watching from the sidewalk. He walked until he reached the railroad tracks. On either side there were rows of dilapidated two-room houses. In the cramped back yards were rotted privies and lines of torn, smoky rags hung out to dry. For two miles there was not one sight of comfort or space or cleanliness. Even the earth itself seemed filthy and abandoned. Now and then there were signs that a vegetable row had been attempted, but only a few withered collards had survived. And a few fruitless, smutty fig trees. Little younguns swarmed in this filth, the smaller of them stark naked. The sight of this poverty was so cruel and hopeless that Jake snarled and clenched his fists.

He reached the edge of town and turned off on a highway.

Cars passed him by. His shoulders were too wide and his arms too long. He was so strong and ugly that no one wanted to take him in. But maybe a truck would stop before long. The late afternoon sun was out again. Heat made the steam rise from the wet pavement. Jake walked steadily.

As soon as the town was behind a new surge of energy came to him. But was this flight or was it onslaught? Anyway, he was going. All this to begin another time. The road ahead lay to the north and slightly to the west. But he would not go too far away. He would not leave the South. That was one clear thing. There was hope in him, and soon perhaps the outline of his journey would take form.

Evening.

WHAT good was it? That was the question she would like to know. What the hell good was it. All the plans she had made, and the music. When all that came of it was this trap--the store, then home to sleep, and back at the store again. The clock in front of the place where Mister Singer used to work pointed to seven. And she was just getting off. Whenever there was overtime the manager always told her to stay.

Because she could stand longer on her feet and work harder before giving out than any other girl. The heavy rain had left the sky a pale, quiet blue. Dark was coming. Already the lights were turned on. Automobile horns honked in the street and the newsboys hollered out the headlines in the papers. She didn’t want to go home. If she went home now she would lie down on the bed and bawl. That was how tired she was. But if she went into the New York Cafe and ate some ice cream she might feel O.K. And smoke and be by herself a little while.

The front part of the cafe was crowded, so she went to the very last booth. It was the small of her back and her face that got so tired. Their motto was supposed to be ‘Keep on your toes and smile.’ Once she was out of the store she had to frown a long time to get her face natural again. Even her ears were tired. She took off the dangling green earrings and pinched the lobes of her ears. She had bought the earrings the week before--and also a silver bangle bracelet. At first she had worked in Pots and Pans, but now they had changed her to Costume Jewelry.

‘Good evening, Mick,’ Mister Brannon said. He wiped the bottom of a glass of water with a napkin and set it on the table.

‘I want me a chocolate sundae and a nickel glass of draw beer.’

‘Together?’ He put down a menu and pointed with Ms little finger that wore a lady’s gold ring. ‘See--here’s some nice roast chicken or some veal stew. Why don’t you have a little supper with me?’

‘No, thanks. All I want is the sundae and the beer. Both plenty cold.’

Mick raked her hair from her forehead. Her mouth was open so that her cheeks seemed hollow. There were these two things she could never believe. That Mister Singer had killed himself and was dead. And that she was grown and had to work at Woolworth’s.

She was the one who found him. They had thought the noise was a backfire from a car, and it was not until the next day that they knew. She went in to play the radio. The blood was all over his neck and when her Dad came he pushed her out of the room. She had run into the dark and hit herself with her fists. And then the next night he was in a coffin in the living-room. The undertaker had put rouge and lipstick on his face to make him look natural. But he didn’t look natural. He was very dead. And mixed with the smell of flowers there was this other smell so that she couldn’t stay in the room. But through ail those days she held down the job. She wrapped packages and handed them across the counter and rung the money in the till. She walked when she was supposed to walk and ate when she sat down to the table. Only at first when she went to bed at night she couldn’t sleep. But now she slept like she was supposed to, also.

Mick turned sideways in the seat so that she could cross her legs. There was a run in her stocking. It had started while she was walking to work and she had spit on it Then later the run had gone farther and she had stuck a little piece of chewing-gum on the end. But even that didn’t help. Now she would have to go home and sew. It was hard to know what she could do about stockings. She wore them out so fast Unless she was the kind of common girl that would wear cotton stockings.

She oughtn’t to have come in here. The bottoms of her shoes were clean worn out. She ought to have saved the twenty cents toward a new half-sole. Because if she kept on standing on a shoe with a hole in it what would happen? A blister would come on her foot. And she would have to pick it with a burnt needle. She would have to stay home from work and be fired.

And then what would happen? ‘Here you are,’ said Mister Brannon. ‘But I never heard of such a combination before.’

He put the sundae and the beer on the table. She pretended to clean her fingernails because if she noticed him he would start talking. He didn’t have this grudge against her any more, so he must have forgotten about the pack of gum. Now he always wanted to talk to her. But she wanted to be quiet and by herself. The sundae was O.K., covered all over with chocolate and nuts and cherries. And the beer was relaxing. The beer had a nice bitter taste after the ice cream and it made her drunk. Next to music beer was best.

But now no music was in her mind. That was a funny thing. It was like she was shut out from the inside room. Sometimes a quick little tune would come and go--but she never went into the inside room with music like she used to do. It was like she was too tense. Or maybe because it was like the store took all her energy and time. Woolworth’s wasn’t the same as school.

When she used to come home from school she felt good and was ready to start working on the music. But now she was always tired. At home she just ate supper and slept and then ate breakfast and went off to the store again. A song she had started in her private notebook two months before was still not finished. And she wanted to stay in the inside room but she didn’t know how. It was like the inside room was locked somewhere away from her. A very hard thing to understand.

Mick pushed her broken front tooth with her thumb. But she did have Mister Singer’s radio. All the installments hadn’t been paid and she took on the responsibility. It was good to have something that had belonged to him. And maybe one of these days she might be able to set aside a little for a second-hand piano. Say two bucks a week. And she wouldn’t let anybody touch this private piano but her--only she might teach George little pieces. She would keep it in the back room and play on it every night. And all day Sunday. But then suppose some week she couldn’t make a payment. So then would they come to take it away like the little red bicycle? And suppose like she wouldn’t let them.

Suppose she hid the piano under the house. Or else she would meet them at the front door. And fight. She would knock down both the two men so they would have shiners and broke noses and would be passed out on the hall floor.

Mick frowned and rubbed her fist hard across her forehead.

That was the way things were. It was like she was mad all the time. Not how a kid gets mad quick so that soon it is all over--but in another way. Only there was nothing to be mad at.

Unless the store. But the store hadn’t asked her to take the job.

So there was nothing to be mad at. It was like she was cheated. Only nobody had cheated her. So there was nobody to take it out on. However, just the same she had that feeling.

Cheated.

But maybe it would be true about the piano and turn out O.K.

Maybe she would get a chance soon. Else what the hell good had it all been--the way she felt about music and the plans she had made in the inside room? It had to be some good if anything made sense. And it was too and it was too and it was too and it was too. It was some good.

All right! O.K! Some good.

Night. ALL was serene. As Biff dried his face and hands a breeze tinkled the glass pendants of the little Japanese pagoda on the table. He had just awakened from a nap and had smoked his night cigar. He thought of Blount and wondered if by now he had traveled far. A bottle of Agua Florida was on the bathroom shelf and he touched the stopper to his temples. He whistled an old song, and as he descended the narrow stairs the tune left a broken echo behind him. Louis was supposed to be on duty behind the counter.

But he had soldiered on the job and the place was deserted.

The front door stood open to the empty street. The clock on the wall pointed to seventeen minutes before midnight. The radio was on and there was talk about the crisis Hitler had cooked up over Danzig. He went back to the kitchen and found Louis asleep in a chair. The boy had taken off his shoes and unbuttoned his trousers. His head drooped on his chest. A long wet spot on his shirt showed that he had been sleeping a good while. His arms hung straight down at his sides and the wonder was that he did not fall forward on his face. He slept soundly and there was no use to wake him. The night would be a quiet one.

Biff tiptoed across the kitchen to a shelf which held a basket of tea olive and two water pitchers full of zinnias. He carried the flowers up to the front of the restaurant and removed the cellophane-wrapped platters of the last special from the display window. He was sick of food. A window of fresh summer flowers--that would be good. His eyes were closed as he imagined how it could be arranged. A foundation of the tea olive strewn over the bottom, cool and green. The red pottery tub filled with the brilliant zinnias. Nothing more. He began to arrange the window carefully. Among the flowers there was a freak plant, a zinnia with six bronze petals and two red. He examined this curio and laid it aside to save. Then the window was finished and he stood in the street to regard his handiwork. The awkward stems of the flowers had been bent to just the right degree of restful looseness. The electric lights detracted, but when the sun rose the display would show at its best advantage. Downright artistic.

The black, starlit sky seemed close to the earth. He strolled along the sidewalk, pausing once to knock an orange peel into the gutter with the side of his foot. At the far end of the next block two men, small from the distance and motionless, stood arm in arm together. No one else could be seen. His place was the only store on all the street with an open door and lights inside.

And why? What was the reason for keeping the place open all through the night when every other cafe in the town was closed? He was often asked that question and could never speak the answer out in words. Not money. Sometimes a party would come for beer and scrambled eggs and spend five or ten dollars. But that was rare. Mostly they came one at a time and ordered little and stayed long. And on some nights, between the hours of twelve and five o’clock, not a customer would enter. There was no profit in it--that was plain.

But he would never close up for the night--not as long as he stayed in the business. Night was the time. There were those he would never have seen otherwise. A few came regularly several times a week. Others had come into the place only once, had drunk a Coca-Cola, and never returned.

Biff folded his arms across his chest and walked more slowly.

Inside the arc of the street light his shadow showed angular and black. The peaceful silence of the night settled in him.

These were the hours for rest and meditation. Maybe that was why he stayed downstairs and did not sleep. With a last quick glance he scanned the empty street and went inside.

The crisis voice still talked on the radio. The fans on the ceiling made a soothing whirl. From the kitchen came the sound of Louis snoring. He thought suddenly of poor Willie and decided to send him a quart of whiskey sometime soon.

He turned to the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. There was a picture of a woman to identify in the center. He recognized her and wrote the name--Mona Lisa--across the first spaces. Number one down was a word for beggar, beginning with m and nine letters long. Mendicant. Two horizontal was some word meaning to remove afar off. A six- letter word beginning with e. Elapse? He sounded trial combinations of letters aloud. Eloign. But he had lost interest There were puzzles enough without this kind. He folded and put away the paper. He would come back to it later.

He examined the zinnia he had intended to save. As he held it in the palm of his hand to the light the flower was not such a curious specimen after all. Not worth saving. He plucked the soft, bright petals and the last one came out on love. But who? Who would he be loving now? No one person. Anybody decent who came in out of the street to sit for an hour and have a drink. But no one person. He had known his loves and they were over. Alice, Madeline and Gyp. Finished. Leaving him either better or worse. Which? However you looked at it.

And Mick. The one who in the last months had lived so strangely in his heart. Was that love done with too? Yes. It was finished. Early in the evenings Mick came in for a cold drink or a sundae. She had grown older. Her rough and childish ways were almost gone. And instead there was something ladylike and delicate about her that was hard to point out. The earrings, the dangle of her bracelets, and the new way she crossed her legs and pulled the hem of her skirt down past her knees. He watched her and felt only a sort of gentleness. In him the old feeling was gone. For a year this love had blossomed strangely. He had questioned it a hundred times and found no answer. And now, as a summer flower shatters in September, it was finished. There was no one.

Biff tapped his nose with his forefinger. A foreign voice was now speaking over the radio. He could not decide for certain whether the voice was German, French, or Spanish. But it sounded like doom. It gave him the jitters to listen to it. When he turned it off the silence was deep and unbroken. He felt the night outside. Loneliness gripped him so that his breath quickened. It was far too late to call Lucile on the telephone and speak to Baby. Nor could he expect a customer to enter at this hour. He went to the door and looked up and down the street. All was empty and dark.

‘Louis!’ he called. ‘Are you awake, Louis?’

No answer. He put his elbows on the counter and held his head in his hands. He moved his dark bearded jaw from side to side and slowly his forehead lowered in a frown.

The riddle. The question that had taken root in him and would not let him rest. The puzzle of Singer and the rest of them.

More than a year had gone by since it had started. More than a year since Blount had hung around the place on his first long drunk and seen the mute for the first time. Since Mick had begun to follow him in and out. And now for a month Singer had been dead and buried. And the riddle was still in him, so that he could not be tranquil. There was something not natural about it all--something like an ugly joke. When he thought of it he felt uneasy and in some unknown way afraid.

He had managed about the funeral. They had left all that to him. Singer’s affairs were in a mess. There were installments due on everything he owned and the beneficiary of his life insurance was deceased. There was just enough to bury him.

The funeral was at noon. The sun burned down on them with savage heat as they stood around the open dank grave. The flowers curled and turned brown in the sun. Mick cried so hard that she choked herself and her father had to beat her on the back. Blount scowled down at the grave with his fist to his mouth. The town’s Negro doctor, who was somehow related to poor Willie, stood on the edge of the crowd and moaned to himself. And there were strangers nobody had ever seen or heard of before. God knows where they came from or why they were there.

The silence in the room was deep as the night itself. Biff stood transfixed, lost in his meditations. Then suddenly he felt a quickening in him. His heart turned and he leaned his back against the counter for support. For in a swift radiance of illumination he saw a glimpse of human struggle and of valor.

Of the endless fluid passage of humanity through endless time. And of those who labor and of those who--one word--love. His soul expanded. But for a moment only. For in him he felt a warning, a shaft of terror. Between the two worlds he was suspended. He saw that he was looking at his own face in the counter glass before him. Sweat glistened on his temples and his face was contorted. One eye was opened wider than the other. The left eye delved narrowly into the past while the right gazed wide and affrighted into a future of blackness, error, and ruin. And he was suspended between radiance and darkness. Between bitter irony and faith. Sharply he turned away.

‘Louis!’ he called. ‘Louis! Louis!’ Again there was no answer. But, motherogod, was he a sensible man or was he not? And how could this terror throttle him nice this when he didn’t even know what caused it? And would he just stand here like a jittery ninny or would he pull himself together and be reasonable? For after all was he a sensible man or was he not? Biff wet his handkerchief beneath the water tap and patted his drawn, tense face. Somehow he remembered that the awning had not yet been raised. As he went to the door his walk gained steadiness. And when at last he was inside again he composed himself soberly to await the morning sun.

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