carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第25部分

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past　twenty　years　docketed　and　outlined　and　complete。　Biff　
beamed　quietly　behind　his　hand　as　he　rubbed　his　jaw。　And　yet　
Alice　had　wanted　him　to　haul　out　the　papers　so　she　could　turn　
the　room　into　a　ladies'　toilet。　That　was　just　what　she　had　
nagged　him　to　do；　but　for　once　he　had　battered　her　down。　For　
that　one　time。　
With　peaceful　absorption　Biff　settled　down　to　the　details　of　
the　newspaper　before　him。　He　read　steadily　and　with　
concentration；　but　from　habit　some　secondary　part　of　him　was　
alert　to　everything　around　him。　Jake　Blount　was　still　talking；　
and　often　he　would　hit　his　fist　on　the　table。　The　mute　sipped　
beer。　Mick　walked　restlessly　around　the　radio　and　stared　at　the　
customers。　Biff　read　every　word　in　the　first　paper　and　made　a　
few　notes　on　the　
margins。　
Then　suddenly　he　looked　up　with　a　surprised　expression。　His　
mouth　had　been　open　for　a　yawn　and　he　snapped　it　shut。　The　
radio　swung　into　an　old　song　that　dated　back　to　the　time　when　
he　and　Alice　were　engaged。　'Just　a　Baby's　Prayer　at　Twilight。'　
They　had　taken　the　streetcar　one　Sunday　to　Old　Sardis　Lake　
and　had　rented　a　rowboat。　At　sunset　he　played　on　the　
mandolin　while　she　sang。　She　had　on　a　sailor　hat；　and　when　he　
put　his　arm　around　her　waist　

she—Alice

A　dragnet　for　lost　feelings。　Biff　folded　the　newspapers114　

and　put　them　back　under　the　counter。　He　stood　on　one　foot　


and　then　the　other。　Finally　he　called　across　the　room　to　Mick。　
'You're　not　listening；　are　you？'　
Mick　turned　off　the　radio。　'No。　Nothing　on　tonight。'　All　of　that　
he　would　keep　out　of　his　mind；　and　concentrate　on　something　
else。　He　leaned　over　the　counter　and　watched　one　customer　
after　another。　Then　at　last　his　attention　rested　on　the　mute　at　
the　middle　table。　He　saw　Mick　edge　gradually　up　to　him　and　
at　his　invitation　sit　down。　Singer　pointed　to　something　on　the　
menu　and　the　waitress　brought　a　Coca…Cola　for　her。　Nobody　
but　a　freak　like　a　deaf…mute；　cut　off　from　other　people；　would　
ask　a　right　young　girl　to　sit　down　to　the　table　where　he　was　
drinking　with　another　man。　Blount　and　Mick　both　kept　their　
eyes　on　Singer。　They　talked；　and　the　mute's　expression　
changed　as　he　watched　them。　It　was　a　funny　thing。　The　reason　
—was　it　in　them　or　in　him？　He　sat　very　still　with　his　hands　in　
his　pockets；　and　because　he　did　not　speak　it　made　him　seem　
superior。　What　did　that　fellow　think　and　realize？　What　did　he　
know？　
Twice　during　the　evening　Biff　started　to　go　over　to　the　middle　
table；　but　each　time　he　checked　himself。　After　they　were　gone　
he　still　wondered　what　it　was　about　this　mute　—and　in　the　
early　dawn　when　he　lay　in　bed　he　turned　over　questions　and　
solutions　in　his　mind　without　satisfaction。　The　puzzle　had　
taken　root　in　him。　It　worried　him　in　the　back　of　his　mind　and　
left　him　uneasy。　There　was　something　wrong。　
＇。ANY　times　Doctor　Copeland　talked　to　Mr。　Singer。　Truly　he　
was　not　like　other　white　men。　He　was　a　wise　man；　and　he　
understood　the　strong；　true　purpose　in　a　way　that　other　white　
men　could　not。　He　listened；　and　in　his　face　there　was　
something　gentle　and　Jewish；　the　knowledge　of　one　who　
belongs　to　a　race　that　is　oppressed。　On　one　occasion　he　took　
Mr。　Singer　with　him　on　his　rounds。　He　led　him　through　cold　
and　narrow　passages　smelling　of　dirt　and　sickness　and　fried　
fatback。　He　showed　him　a　successful　skin　graft　made　on　the　
face　of　a　woman　patient　who　had　been　severely　burned。　He　
treated　a　syphilitic　child　and　pointed　

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out　to　Mr。　Singer　the　scaling　eruption　on　the　palms　of　the　
hand；　the　dull；　opaque　surface　of　the　eye；　the　sloping　upper　
front　incisors。　They　visited　two…room　shacks　that　housed　as　


many　as　twelve　or　fourteen　persons。　In　a　room　where　the　fire
burned　low　and　orange　on　the　hearth　they　were　helpless　while
an　old　man　strangled　with　pneumonia。　Mr。　Singer　walked
behind　him　and　watched　and　understood。　He　gave　nickels　to
the　children；　and　because　of　his　quietness　and　decorum　he　did
not　disturb　the　patients　as　would　have　another　visitor。
The　days　were　chilly　and　treacherous。　In　the　town　there　was
an　outbreak　of　influenza　so　that　Dr。　Copeland　was　busy　most
of　the　hours　of　the　day　and　night。　He　drove　through　the　Negro
sections　of　the　town　in　the　high　Dodge　automobile　he　had
used　for　the　past　nine　years。　He　kept　the　isinglass　curtains
snapped　to　the　windows　to　cut　off　the　draughts；　and　tight
around　his　neck　he　wore　his　gray　wool　shawl。　During　this　time
he　did　not　see　Portia　or　William　or　Highboy；　but　often　he
thought　of　them。　Once　when　he　was　away　Portia　came　to　see
him　and　left　a　note　and　borrowed　half　a　sack　of　meal。
There　came　a　night　when　he　was　so　exhausted　that；　although
there　were　other　calls　to　make；　he　drank　hot　milk　and　went　to
bed。　He　was　cold　and　feverish　so　that　at　first　he　could　not　rest。
Then　it　seemed　that　he　had　only　begun　to　sleep　when　a　voice
called　him。　He　got　up　wearily　and；　still　in　his　long　flannel
nightshirt；　he　opened　the　front　door。　It　was　Portia。
〃The　Lord　Jesus　help　us；　Father；'　she　said。　Doctor　Copeland
stood　shivering　with　his　nightshirt　drawn　close　around　his
waist。　He　held　his　hand　to　his　throat　and　looked　at　her　and
waited。
'It　about　our　Willie。　He　been　a　bad　boy　and　done　got　hisself　in
mighty　bad　trouble。　And　us　got　to　do　something。'　Doctor
Copeland　walked　from　the　hall　with　rigid　steps。　He　stopped　in
the　bedroom　for　his　bathrobe；　shawl；　and　slippers　and　went
back　to　the　kitchen。　Portia　was　waiting　for　him　there。　The
kitchen　was　lifeless　and　cold。　'All　right。　What　has　he　done？
What　is　it？'　'Just　wait　a　minute。　Just　let　me　find　brain　room　so
I　can　study　it　all　out　and　tell　it　to　you　plain。
'
He　crushed　some　sheets　of　newspaper　lying　on　the116


hearth　and　picked　up　a　few　sticks　of　kindling。
'Let　me　make　the　fire；'　Portia　said。　'You　just　sit　down　at　the
table；　and　soon　as　this　here　stove　is　hot　us　going　to　have　a　cup
of　coffee。　Then　maybe　it　all　won't　seem　so　bad。
'



〃There　is　not　any　coffee。　I　used　the　last　of　it　yesterday。'　》　
When　he　said　this　Portia　began　to　cry。　Savagely　she　stuffed　
paper　and　wood　into　the　stove　and　lighted　it　with　a　trembling　
hand。　〃This　here　the　way　it　is；'　she　said。　'Willie　and　Highboy　
were　messing　around　tonight　at　a　place　where　they　got　no　
business　being。　You　know　how　I　feels　like　I　always　got　to　
keep　my　Willie　and　my　Highboy　close　to　me？　Well；　if　I'd　been　
there　none　of　this　trouble　would　of　come　about。　But　I　were　at　
the　Ladies'　Meeting　at　the　church　and　them　boys　got　restless。　
They　went　down　to　Madame　Reba's　Palace　of　Sweet　Pleasure。　
And　Father；　this　is　sure　one　bad；　wicked　place。　They　got　a　
man　sells　tickets　on　the　bug—　but　they　also　got　these　strutting；　
bad…blood；　tail…shaking　nigger　gals　and　these　here　red　satin　
curtains　and'　
'Daughter；'　said　Doctor　Copeland　irritably。　He　pressed　his　
hands　to　the　side　of　bis　head。　'I　know　the　place。　Get　to　the　
point。'　
'Love　Jones　were　there—and　she　is　one　bad　colored　gal。　
Willie　he　drunk　liquor　and　shimmied　around　with　her　until　
first　thing　you　know　he　were　in　a　fight。　He　were　in　a　fight　with　
this　boy　named　Junebug—over　Love。　And　for　a　while　they　
fights　there　with　their　hands　and　then　this　Junebug　got　out　his　
knife。　Our　Willie　didn't　have　no　knife；　so　he　commenced　to　
bellow　and　run　around　the　parlor。　Then　finally　Highboy　found　
Willie　a　razor　and　he　backed　up　and　nearbout　cut　this　
Junebug's　head　off。'　
Doctor　Copeland　drew　his　shawl　closer　around　him。　'Is　he　
dead？'　
〃That　boy　too　mean　to　die。　He　in　the　hospital；　but　he　going　to　
be　out　and　making　trouble　again　before　long。'　
'And　William？'　
'The　police　come　in　and　taken　him　to　the　jail　in　the　Black　
Maria。　He　still　locked　up。'　
'And　he　did　not　get　hurt？'　
'Oh；　he　got　a　busted　eye　and　a　little　chunk　cut　out　his　behind。　
But　it　won't　bother　him　none。　What　I　can't　understand　is　how　
come　he　would　be　messing　around　with　that　Love。　She　at　least　
ten　shades　blacker　than　I　is　and　she　

117　
the　ugliest　nigger　I　ever　seen。　She　walk　like　she　have　a　egg　


between　her　legs　and　don't　want　to　break　it。　She　ain't　even　
clean。　And　here　Willie　done　cut　the　buck　like　this　over　her。'　
Doctor　Copeland　leaned　closer　to　the　stove　and　groaned。　He　
coughed　and　his　face　stiffened。　He　held　his　paper　
handkerchief　to　his　mouth　and　it　became　spotted　with　blood。　
The　dark　skin　of　his　face　took　on　a　greenish　pallor。　
'Course　Highboy　come　and　tell　me　soon　as　it　all　happened。　
Understand；　my　Highboy　didn't　have　nothing　to　do　with　these　
here　bad　gals。　He　were　just　keeping　Willie　company。　He　so　
grieved　about　Willie　he　been　sitting　out　on　the　street　curb　in　
front　of　the　jail　ever　since。'　The　fire…colored　tears　rolled　down　
Portia's　face。　'You　know　how　us　three　has　always　been。　Us　
haves　our　own　plan　and　nothing　ever　went　wrong　with　it　
before。　Even　money　hasn't　bothered　us　none。　Highboy　he　pay　
the　rent　and　I　buys　the　food…—and　Willie　he　takes　care　of　
Saturday　Night。　Us　has　always　been　like　three…piece　twinses。'　
At　last　it　was　morning。　The　mill　whistles　blew　for　the　first　
shift。　The　sun　came　out　and　brightened　the　clean　saucepans　
hanging　on　the　wall　above　the　stove。　They　sat　for　a　long　time。　
Portia　pulled　at　the　rings　on　her　ears　until　her　lobes　were　
irritated　and　purplish　red。　Doctor　Copeland　still　held　his　head　
in　his　hands。　
'Seem　to　me；'　Portia　said　finally；　'if　us　can　just　get　a　lot　of　
white　peoples　to　write　letters　about　Willie　it　might　help　out　
some。　I　already　been　to　see　Mr。　Brannon。　He　written　exactly　
what　I　told　him　to。　He　were　at　his　cafe　after　it　all　happened　
like　he　is　ever　night。　So　I　just　went　in　there　and　explained　how　
it　was。　I　taken　the　letter　home　with　me。　I　done　put　it　in　the　
Bible　so　I　won't　lose　it　or　dirty　it'　
'What　did　the　letter　say？'　
'Mr。　Brannon　he　wrote　just　hike　I　asked　him　to。　The　letter　tell　
about　how　Willie　has　been　working　for　Mr。　Brannon　going　on　
three　year。　It　tell　how　Willie　is　one　fine　upstanding　colored　
boy　and　how　he　hasn't　ever　been　in　no　trouble　before　now。　It　
tell　how　he　always　had　plenty　chances　to　take　things　in　the　
cafe　if　he　were　like　some　other　type　of　colored　boy　and　
how'　
'Pshaw！'　said　Doctor　Copeland。　'All　that　is　no　good。'　
'Us　just　can't　sit　aro