Chapter 28 Part Two-16

The day after this advertising was finished he waited in the front room dressed in a clean shirt and a tie. Nothing happened. The jeweler who gave him overflow work to do at half price sent in a couple of clocks. it hard. He didnt go out to look for other jobs any more, but every minute he had to be busy around the house. He took down the doors and oiled the hinges—whether they needed it or not. and scrubbed the floors upstairs. He worked out a contraption where the water from the ice box could be drained through the kitchen window. He carved some beautiful alphabet blocks for Ralph and invented a little needle-threader. Over the few watches that he had to work on he took great pains.

Mick still followed Mister Singer. But she didnt want to. It was like there was something wrong about her following after him without his knowing. Two or three days she played hookv from school. on the corner near hisstore all day. When he ate his dinner at Mister Brannons she went into the café and spent a nickel for a sack of peanuts. Then at night she followed him on these dark, long walks. She stayed on the opposite side of the street from him and about a block behind. When he stopped, she stopped also—and when he walked fast she ran to keep up with him So long as she could see him and be near him she was right happy. But sometimes this queer feeling would come to her and she knew that she was doing wrong. So she tried hard to keep busy at home.

She and her Dad were alike in the way that now they always had to be fooling with something. She kept up with all that went on in the house and the neighborhood. Spare-ribs big sister won fifty dollars at a movie bank night. Baby Wilson had the bandage off her head now, but her hair was cut short like a boys. She couldnt dance in the soiree this year, and when her mother took her to see it Baby began to yell and cut up during one of the dances. They had to drag her out of the Opera House. And on the sidewalk Mrs. Wilson had to whip her to make her behave. And Mrs. Wilson cried, too. George hated Baby. He would hold his nose and stop up his ears when she passed by the house. Pete Wells ran away from home and was gone three weeks. He came back barefooted and very hungry. He bragged about how he had gone all the way to New Orleans.

Because of Etta, Mick still slept in the living-room. The short sofa cramped her so much that she had to make up sleep in study hall at school. Every other night Bill swapped with her and she slept with George. Then a lucky break came for them. A fellow who had a room upstairs moved away. When after a week had gone by and nobody answered the ad in the paper, their Mama told Bill he could move up to the vacant room. Bill was very pleased to have a place entirely by himself away from the family. She moved in with George. He slept like a little warm kitty and breathed very quiet. She knew the night-time again. But not the same as in the last summer when she walked in the dark by herself and listened to the music and made plans. She knew the night a different way now. In bed she lay awake. queerafraidness came to her. It was like the ceiling was slowly pressing down toward her face. How would it be if the house fell apart? Once their Dad had said the whole place ought to be condemned. Did he mean that maybe some night when they Were asleep the walls would crack and the house collapse? Bury them under all the plaster and broken glass and smashed furniture? So that they could not move or breathe? She lay awake and her muscles were stiff. that somebody walking—somebody else awake besides her—Mister Singer?

She never thought about Harry. She had made up her mind to forget him and she did forget him. He wrote that he had a job with a garage in Birmingham. She answered with a card saying OK as they had planned. three dollars every week. It seemed like a very long time had passed since they went to the woods together. During the day she was busy in the outside room. But at night she was by herself in the dark and figuring was not enough. She wanted somebody. She tried to keep George awake. It sure is fun to stay awake and talk in the dark. Less us talk awhile together.' He made a sleepy answer.

See the stars out the window. If sa hard thing to realize that every single one of those little stars is a planet as large as the earth.' *How do they know that?' They just do. They got ways of measuring. Thats science.' I don't believe in it' She tried to egg him on to an argument so that he would get mad and stay awake. He just let her talk and didnt seem to pay attention. After a while he said: Look, Mick! You see that branch of the tree? it look like a pilgrim forefather lying down with a gun in his hand?' It sure does. Thats exactly what its like. And see over there on the bureau. Dont that bottle look like a funny man with a hat on?'

?Naw, George said. It dont look a bit like one to me.' She took a drink from a glass of water on the floor. Less me and you play a game—the name game. You can be It if you want to. Whichever you like. You can choose.fHe put his little fists up to his face and breathed in a quiet, even way because he was falling asleep. Wait, George! she said. "This will be fun. Im somebody beginning with an M. Guess who I am." George sighed and his voice was tired. Are you Harpo Marx?' No, Fm not even in the movies.' I don't know.' Sure you do. My name begins with the letter M and I live in

Italy. You ought to guess this.' George turned over on his side and curled up in a ball. ; He did not answer. My name begins with an M but sometimes Im called af name beginning with D. In Italy. You can guess. IThe room was quiet and dark and George was asleep. She pinched him and twisted his ear. fitted in close to him and pressed her face against his hot little naked shoulder. He would sleep all through the night while she was figuring with decimals. Was Mister Singer awake in his room upstairs? Did the ceiling creak because he was walking quietly up and down, drinking a cold orange crush and studying the chess men laid out on the table? Had ever he felt a terrible fear like this one? .

He had never done anything wrong. He had never done wrong and his heart was quiet in the nighttime. Yet at the same time he would understand. If only she could tell him about this, then it would be better. She thought of how she would begin to tell him. Mister Singer—I know this girl not any older than I am— Mister Singer, I dont know whether you understand a thing like this or not—Mister Singer. name over and over. She loved him better than anyone in the family, better even than George or her Dad. It was a different love. It was not like anything she had ever felt in her life before.

In the mornings she and George would dress together and talk. Sometimes she wanted very much to be close to George. He had grown taller and was pale and peaked. His soft, reddish hair lay raggedly over the tops of his little ears. His sharp eyes were always squinted so that his face had a strained look . His permanent teeth were coming in, but they were blue and far apart like his baby teeth had . been. Often his jaw was crooked because he had a habit of feeling out the sore new teeth with his tongue. Listen here, George, she said. Do you love me?' Sure. I love you OK' It was a hot, sunny morning during the last week of school.

George was dressed and he lay on the floor doing his number work. His dirty little fingers squeezed the pencil tight and he kept breaking the lead point. When he was finished she held him by the shoulders and looked hard into his face. I mean a lot. A whole lot.' Lemme go. Sure I love you. Aint you my sister?' I know. But suppose I wasn't your sister. Would you love me then?' George backed away. He had run out of shirts and wore a dirty pullover sweater. His wrists were thin and blue-veined. The sleeves of the sweater had stretched so that they hung loose and made his hands look very small. If you wasn't my sister then I might not know you. So I couldn't love you.' ?But if you did know me and I wasn't your sister.' *But how do you know I would? You cant prove it.' ?Well, just take it for granted and pretend.' I reckon I would like you all right. But I still say you cant prove-------' Prove! You got that word on the brain. Ptove and trick. Everything is either a trick or its got to be proven. I cant stand you, George Kelly. I hate you.' OK Then I dont like you none either.' He crawled down under the bed for something. *What you want under there? You better leave my things alone. If I ever caught you meddling in my private box Id bust your head against the side of the wall. I would. Id stomp on your brains.' George came out from under the bed with his spelling book. His dirty little paw reached in a hole in the mattress where he hid his marbles. Nothing could faze that kid. He took his time about choosing three brown agates to take with him. Aw , shucks, Mick, he answered her. George was too little and too tough. There wasn't any sense in loving him. He knew even less about things than she did. School was out and she had passed every subject—some with A plus and some by the skin of her teeth. The days were long and hot. Finally she was able to work hard at music again. piano. She wrote songs. Always music was in her mind. She listened to Mister Singers radio and wandered around the house thinking about the programs she had heard. ?What ails Mick? Portia asked. What kind of cat is it got her tongue? She walk around and dont say a word. She not even greedy like she used to be. She getting to be a regular lady these days.' It was as though in some way she was waiting—but what she waited for she did not know. The sun burned down glaring and white-hot in the streets. During the day she either worked hard at music or messed with kids. And waited . Sometimes she would look all around her quick and this panic would come in her. Then in late June there was a sudden happening so important that it changed everything. That night they were all out on the porch. The twilight was blurred and soft. Supper was almost ready and the smell of cabbage floated to them from the open hall. All of them were together except Hazel, who had not come home from work, and Etta, who still lay sick in bed. Their Dad leaned back in a chair with his sock-feet on the banisters. Bill was on the steps with the kids. Their Mama sat on the swing fanning herself with the newspaper. Across the street a girl new in the neighborhood skated up and down the sidewalk on one roller skate. The lights on the block were just beginning to be turned on, and far away a man was calling someone. Then Hazel come home. Her high heels clopped up the steps and she leaned back lazily on the banisters. In the half-dark her fat, soft hands were very white as she felt the back of her braided hair. I sure do wish Etta was able to work, she said. I found out about this job today.' What kind of a job? asked their Dad. Anything I could do, or just for girls?' Just for a girl. A clerk down at Woolworths is going to get married next week.' "The ten-cent store------ Mick said. You interested?' The question took her by surprise. She had just been thinking about a sack of wintergreen candy she had bought there the day before. She felt hot and tense. She rubbed her bangs up from her forehead and counted the first few stars. Their Dad flipped his cigarette down to the sidewalk. ?No, he said. We dont want Mick to take on too much responsibility at her age. Let her get her growth out. Her growth through with, anyway.' I agree with you, Hazel said. I really do think it would be a mistake for Mick to have to work regular. I dont think it would be right.' Bill put Ralph down from his lap and shuffled his feet on the steps. Nobody ought to work until theyre around sixteen. Mick should have two more years and finish at Vocational—if we can make it.' Even if we have to give up the house and move down in mill town, their Mama said. I rather keep Mick at home for a while.' For a minute she had been scared they would try to corner her into taking the job. She would have said she would run away from home. But the way they took the attitude they did touched her. her—and in a kindly way. She was ashamed for the first scared feeling that had come to her. Of a sudden she loved all of the family and a tightness came in her throat. About how much money is in it? she asked. Ten dollars.' Ten dollars a week?' Sure, Hazel said. Did you think it would be only ten a month?' Portia don't make but about that much.' Oh, colored people------ Hazel said. Mick rubbed the top of her head with her fist Thats a whole lot of money. A good deal.' Its not to be grinned at, Bill said. "Thats what I make." Micks tongue was dry. She moved it around in her mouth to gather up spit enough to talk. Ten dollars a week would buy about fifteen fried chickens. Or five pairs of shoes or five dresses. piano, but she did not mention that aloud. It would tide us over, their Mama said. *But at the same time I rather keep Mick at home for a while. Now, when Etta------' Wait! She felt hot and reckless. I want to take the job. I can hold it down. I know I can. Listen to little Mick, Bill said. Their Dad picked his teeth with a matchstick and took his feet down from the banisters. Now, lets not rush into anything. I rather Mick take her time and think this out. somehow without her working. I meant to increase my watch work by sixty per cent soon as------' I forgot, Hazel said. I think theres a Christmas bonus every year.' Mick frowned. "But I wouldn't be working then. Id be in school. I just want to work during vacation and then go back to school. Sure, Hazel said quickly. "But tomorrow I'll go down with you and take the job if I can get it' It was as though a great worry and tightness left the family. In the dark they began to laugh and talk. Their Dad did a trick for George with a matchstick and a handkerchief. Then he gave the kid fifty cents to go down to the corner store for Coca-Colas to be drunk after supper. The smell of cabbage was stronger in the hall and pork chops were frying. Portia called. The boarders already waited at the table. Mick had supper in the dining-room. The cabbage leaves were limp and yellow on her plate and she couldn't eat. When she reached for the bread she knocked a pitcher of iced tea over the table. Then later she waited on the front porch by herself for Mister Singer to come home. In a desperate way she wanted to see him. The excitement of the hour before had died down and she was sick to the stomach. a ten-cent store and she did not want to work there. It was like she had been trapped into something. The job wouldn't be just for the summer—but for a long time, as long as she could see ahead. Once they were used to the money coming in it would be impossible to do without again. That was the way things were. She stood in the dark and held tight to the banisters. A long time passed and Mister Singer still did not come. At eleven oclock shewent out to see if she could find him. But suddenly she got frightened in the dark and ran back home. Then in the morning she bathed and dressed very carefully. Hazel and Etta loaned her the clothes to wear and primped her to look nice. She wore Hazels green silk dress and a green hat and high-heeled pumps with silk stockings. They fixed her face with rouge and lipstick and plucked her eyebrows. She looked at least sixteen years old when they were finished. It was too late to back down now. She was really grown and ready to earn her keep. Yet if she would go to her Dad and tell him how she felt he would tell her to wait a year. And Hazel and Etta and Bill and their Mama, even now, would say that she didnt have to go. But she couldnt do it. She couldnt lose face like that. She went up to see Mister Singer. The words came all in a rush: Listen—I believe I got this job. What do you think? Do you think its a good idea? Do you think its OK to drop out of school and work now? You think its good?' At first he did not understand. His gray eyes half-closed and he stood with his hands deep down in his pockets. There was the old feeling that they waited to tell each other things that had never been told before. say now was not much. But what he had to tell her would be right—and if he said the job sounded OK then she would feel better about it. She repeated the words slowly and waited. You think its good?' Mister Singer considered. Then he nodded yes. She got the job. The manager took her and Hazel back to a little office and talked with them. Afterward she couldnt remember how the manager looked or anything that had been said. But she was hired, and on the way out of the place she bought ten cents worth of Chocolate and a little modeling clay set for George. On June the fifth she was to start work. She stood for a long while before the window of Mister Singers jewelry store. Then she hung around on the corner.TT CARSON Me CULLERS_l HE time had come for Singer to go to Antonapoulos again. The journey was a long one. For, although the distance between them was something less than two hundred miles, the train meant to points far out of the way and stopped for long hours at certain stations during the night. Singer would leave the town in the afternoon and travel all through the night and until the early morning of the next day. As usual, he was ready far in advance. He planned to have a full week with his friend this visit. His clothes had been sent to the cleaners, his hat blocked, and his bags were in readiness. The gifts he would carry were wrapped in colored tissue paper—and in addition there was a deluxe basket of fruits done up in cellophane and a crate of late-shipped strawberries. On the morning before his departure Singer cleaned his room. In his ice box he found a bit of left-over goose liver and took it out to the alley for the neighborhood cat. On his door he tackled the same sign he had posted there before, stating that he would be absent for several days on business. During all these preparations he moved about leisurely with two vivid spots of color on his cheekbones. His face was very solemn. Then at last the hour for departure was at hand. He stood on the platform, burdened with his suitcases and gifts, and watched the train roll in on the station tracks. He found himself a seat in the day coach and hoisted his luggage on the rack above his head. The car was crowded, for the most part with mothers and children. The green plush seats had a grimy smell. The windows of the car were dirty and rice thrown at some recent bridal pair lay scattered on the floor. Singer smiled cordially to his fellow-travelers and leaned back in his seat. He closed his eyes. The lashes made a dark, curved fringe above the hollows of his cheeks. His right hand moved nervously inside his pocketFor a while his thoughts lingered in the town he was leaving behind him. He saw Mick and Doctor Copeland and Jake Blount and Biff Brannon. The faces crowded in on him out of the darkness so that he felt smothered. He thought of the quarrel between Blount and the Negro. was hopelessly c onfused in his mind —but each of them had on several occasions broke out into a bitter tirade against the other, the absent one. He had agreed with each of them in turn, though what it was they wanted him to sanction he did not know And Mick —her face was urgent and she said a good deal that he did not understand in the least. And then Biff Brannon at the New York Café. Brannon with his dark, iron-like jaw and his watchful eyes. And strangers who followed him about the streets and buttonholed him for unexplainable reasons. The Turk at the linen shop who flung his hands up in his face and babbled with his tongue to make words the shape of which Singer had never imagined before. A certain mill foreman and an old black woman. A businessman on the main street and an urchin who solicited soldiers for a whorehouse near the river. Singer wriggled his shoulders uneasily. The train rocked with a smooth, easy motion. His head nodded to rest on his shoulder and for a short while he slept. When he opened his eyes again the town was far behind him. The town was forgotten. Outside the dirty window there was the brilliant midsummer countryside. The sun slanted in strong, bronze-colored rays over the green fields of the new cotton. There were acres of tobacco, the plants heavy and green like some monstrous jungle weed. The orchards of peaches with the lush fruit weighting down the dwarfed trees. There were miles of pastures and tens of miles of wasted, washed-out land abandoned to the harder weeds . The train cut through deep green pine forests where the ground was covered with the slick brown needles and the tops of the trees stretched up virgin and tall into the sky. And farther, a long way south of the town, the cypress swamps—with the gnarled roots of the trees writhing down into the brackish waters, where the gray, tattered moss trailed from the branches, where tropical water flowers blossomed in dankness and gloom. Then out again into the open beneath the sun and the i ndigo-blue sky. Singer sat solemn and timid, his face turned fully toward the window. The great sweeps of space and the hard, elemental coloring almost blinded him. This kaleidoscopic variety of scene, this abundance of growth and color, seemed somehow connected with his friend". His thoughts were with Antonapoulos. The bliss of their reunion almost stifled him . His nose was pinched and he breathed with quick, short breaths through his slightly open mouth. Antonapoulos would be glad to see him. He would enjoy the fresh fruits and the presents. By now he would be out of the sick ward and able to go on an excursion to the movies, and afterward to the hotel where they had eaten dinner on the first visit. Singer had written many letters to Antonapoulos, but he had not posted them. He rendered himself wholly to thoughts of his friend. The half-year since he had last been with him seemed neither a long nor a short span of time. Behind each waking moment there had always been his friend. And this submerged communion with Antonapoulos had grown and changed as though they were together in the flesh. Sometimes he thought of Antonapoulos with awe and self-abasement, sometimes with pride—always with love unchecked by criticism, freed of will. When he dreamed at night the face of his friend was always before him, massive and gentle. And in his waking thoughts they were eternally united. The summer evening came slowly. The sun sank down behind a ragged line of trees in the distance and the sky paled. The twilight was languid and soft. There was a white full moon, and low purple clouds lay over the horizon. The earth, the trees, the unpainted rural dwellings darkened slowly. At intervals mild summer lightning quivered in the air. Singer watched all of this intently until at last the night had come, and his own face was reflected in the glass before him. Children staggered up and down the aisle of the car with dripping paper cups of water. An old man in overalls who had the seat before Singer drank whiskey from time to time from a Coca-Cola bottle. Between swallows he plugged the bottle carefully with a wad of paper. A little girl on the right combed her hair with a sticky red lollipop. Shoeboxes were opened and trays of supper were brought in from the dining-car. Singer did not eat. He leaned back in his seat and kept desirable account of all that went on around him. At last the car settled down. Children lay on the broad plush seats and slept, while men and women doubled up with their pillows and rested as best they could. Singer did not sleep. He pressed his face close against the glass and strained to see into the night. The darkness was heavy and velvety. Sometimes there was a patch of moonlight or the flicker of a lantern from the window of some house along the way . From the moon he saw that the train had turned from its southward course and was headed toward the east. The eagerness he felt was so keen that his nose was too pinched to breathe through and his cheeks were scarlet. He sat there, his face pressed close against the cold, sooty glass of the window, through most of the long night journey. The train was more than an hour late, and the fresh, bright summer morning was well under way when they arrived. Singer went immediately to the hotel, a very good hotel where he had made reservations in advance. He unpacked his bags and arranged the presents he would take to Antonapoulos on the bed. From the menu the bellboy brought him he selected a luxurious breakfast—broiled bluefish hominy French toast, and hot black coffee. After breakfast he rested before the electric fan in his underwear. At noon he began to dress. He bathed and shaved and laid out fresh linen and his best seersucker suit At three oclock the hospital was open for visiting hours. It was Tuesday and the eighteenth of July. At the asylum he sought Antonapoulos first in the sick ward where he had been confined before. But at the doorway of the room he saw immediately that his friend was not there. Next he found his way through the corridors to the office where he had been taken the time before. He had his question already written on one of the cards he carried about with him. The person behind the desk was not the same as the one who had been there before. He was a young man, almost a boy, with a half-formed, immature face and a lank mop of hair. Singer handed him the card and stood quietly, his arms heaped with packages, his weight resting on his heels. The young man shook his head. He leaned over the desk and scribbled loosely on a pad of paper. Singer read what he had written and the spots of color drained from his cheekbones instantly. He looked at the note a long time, his eyes cut sideways and his head bowed. For it was written there that Antonapoulos was dead. On the way back to the hotel he was careful not to crush the fruit he had brought with him. He took the packages up to his room and then wandered down to the lobby. Behind a potted palm tree there was a slot machine. He inserted a nickel but when he tried to pull the lever he found that the machine was jammed. Over this incident he made a great to-do. He cornered the clerk and furiously demonstrated what had happened. himself that tears rolled down the ridges of his nose. He flailed his hands and even stamped once with his long, narrow, elegantly shoed foot on the plush carpet. Nor was he satisfied when his coin was refunded, but insisted on checking out immediately. He packed his bag and was obliged to work energetically to make it close again. For in addition to the articles he had brought with him he carried away three towels, two cakes of soap, a pen and a bottle of ink, a roll of toilet paper, and a Holy Bible. He paid his bill and wa lked to the railway station to put his belongings in custody. The train did not leave until nine in the evening and he had the empty afternoon before him. This town was smaller than the one in which he lived. The business streets intersected to form the shape of a cross. The stores had a counted look; there were harnesses and sacks of feed in half of the display windows. sidewalks. His throat felt swollen and he wanted to swallow but was unable to do so. To relieve this strangled feeling he bought a drink in one of the drugstores. He idled in the barber shop and purchased a few trifles at the ten-cent store. He looked no one full in the face and his head drooped down to one side like a sick animals. The afternoon was almost ended when a strange thing happened to Singer. He had been walking slowly and irregularly along the curb of the street. The sky was overcast and the air humid. Singer did not raise his head, but as he passed the town pool room he caught a sidewise glance of something that disturbed him. He passed the pool room and then stopped in the middle of the street. Listlessly he retraced his steps and stood before the opendoor of the place. There were three mutes inside and they were talking with their hands together. All three of them were coatless. They wore bowler hats and bright ties. Each of them held a glass of beer in his left hand. Singer went inside. For a moment he had trouble taking his hand from his pocket. Then clumsily he formed a word of greeting. He was clapped on the shoulder. A cold drink was ordered. They surrounded him and the fingers of their hands shot out like pistons as they questioned him. He told his own name and the name of the town where he lived. After that he could think of nothing else to tell about himself. He asked if they knew Spiros Antonapoulos. His head was still inclined to one side and his glance was oblique. He was so listless and cold that the three mutes in the bowler hats looked at him queerly. After a while they left him out of their conversation. And when they had paid for the rounds of beers and were ready to depart they did not suggest that he join them. Although Singer had been adrift on the streets for half a day he almost missed his train. It was not clear to him how this happened or how he had spent the hours before. He reached the station two minutes before the train pulled out, and barely had time to drag his luggage aboard and find a seat. The car he chose was almost empty. When he was settled he opened the crate of strawberries and picked them over with finicky care. The berries were of a giant size, large as walnuts and in full-blown ripeness. The green leaves at the top of the rich-colored fruit were like tiny bouquets. Singer put a berry in his mouth and though the juice had a lush, wild sweetness there was already a subtle flavor of decay. He ate until his palate was dulled by the taste and then rewrapped the crate and placed it on the rack above him. At midnight he drew the window-shade and lay down on the seat. He was curled in a ball, his coat pulled over his face and head. In this position he lay in a stupor of half-sleep for about twelve hours. The conductor had to shake him when they arrived. Singer left his luggage in the middle of the station floor. Then he walked to the shop. He greeted the jeweler for whom he worked with a listless turn of his head. Whenhe went out again there was something heavy in his pocket For a while he rambled with bent head along the streets. But the unrefracted brilliance of the sun, the humid heat, oppressed him. He returned to his room with swollen eyes and an aching head. After resting he drank a glass of iced coffee and smoked a cigarette. Then when he had washed the ash tray and the glass he brought out a pistol from his pocket and put a bullet in his chest.