Part One

    IN THE town there were two mutes, and they were always

    together. Early every morning they would come out from

    the house where they lived and walk arm in arm down the

    street to work. The two friends were very different. The

    one who always steered the way was an obese and

    dreamy Greek. In the summer he would come out

    wearing a yellow or green polo shirt stuffed sloppily into

    his trousers in front and hanging loose behind. When it

    was colder he wore over this a shapeless gray sweater.

    His face was round and oily, with half-closed eyelids and

    lips that curved in a gentle, stupid smile. The other mute

    was tall. His eyes had a quick, intelligent expression. He

    was always immaculate and very soberly dressed.

    Every morning the two friends walked silently together until

    they reached the main street of the town. Then when they

    came to a certain fruit and candy store they paused for a

    moment on the sidewalk outside. The Greek, Spiros

    Antonapoulos, worked for his cousin, who owned this fruit

    store. His job was to make candies and sweets, uncrate the

    fruits, and to keep the place clean. The thin mute, John Singer,nearly always put his hand on his friend's arm and looked for a

    second into his face before leaving him. Then after this good-

    bye Singer crossed the street and walked on alone to the

    jewelry store where he worked as a silverware engraver.

    In the late afternoon the friends would meet again. Singer

    came back to the fruit store and waited until Antonapoulos

    was ready to go home. The Greek would be lazily unpacking a

    case of peaches or melons, or perhaps

    2

    looking at the funny paper in the kitchen behind the store

    where he cooked. Before their departure Antonapoulos always

    opened a paper sack he kept hidden during the day on one of

    the kitchen shelves. Inside were stored various bits of food he

    had collected—a piece of fruit, samples of candy, or the butt-

    end of a liverwurst. Usually before leaving Antonapoulos

    waddled gently to the glassed case in the front of the store

    where some meats and cheeses were kept. He glided open the back of the case and his fat hand groped lovingly for some

    particular dainty inside which he had wanted. Sometimes his

    cousin who owned the place did not see him. But if he noticed

    he stared at his cousin with a warning in his tight, pale face.

    Sadly Antonapoulos would shuffle the morsel from one corner

    of the case to the other. During these times Singer stood very

    straight with his hands in his pockets and looked in another

    direction. He did not like to watch this little scene between the

    two Greeks. For, excepting drinking and a certain solitary

    secret pleasure, Antonapoulos loved to eat more than anything

    else in the world.

    In the dusk the two mutes walked slowly home together. At

    home Singer was always talking to Antonapoulos. His hands

    shaped the words in a swift series of designs. His face was

    eager and his gray-green eyes sparkled brightly. With his thin,strong hands he told Antonapoulos all that had happened

    during the day.

    Antonapoulos sat back lazily and looked at Singer. It was

    seldom that he ever moved his hands to speak at all— and

    then it was to say that he wanted to eat or to sleep or to drink.

    These three things he always said with the same vague,fumbling signs. At night, if he were not too drunk, he would

    kneel down before his bed and pray awhile. Then his plump

    hands shaped the words 'Holy Jesus,' or 'God,' or 'Darling

    Mary.' These were the only words Antonapoulos ever said.

    Singer never knew just how much his friend understood of all

    the things he told him. But it did not matter.

    They shared the upstairs of a small house near the business

    section of the town. There were two rooms. On the oil stove in

    the kitchen Antonapoulos cooked all of their meals. There

    were straight, plain kitchen chairs for Singer and an

    overstuffed sofa for Antonapoulos. The bedroom

    3

    was furnished mainly with a large double bed covered with an

    eiderdown comforter for the big Greek and a narrow iron cot

    for Singer.

    Dinner always took a long time, because Antonapoulos loved

    food and he was very slow. After they had eaten, the big

    Greek would lie back on his sofa and slowly lick over each

    one of his teeth with his tongue, either from a certain delicacy or because he did not wish to lose the savor of the meal—

    while Singer washed the dishes.

    Sometimes in the evening the mutes would play chess. Singer

    had always greatly enjoyed this game, and years before he had

    tried to teach it to Antonapoulos. At first his friend could not

    be interested in the reasons for moving the various pieces

    about on the board. Then Singer began to keep a bottle of

    something good under the table to be taken out after each

    lesson. The Greek never got on to the erratic movements of

    the knights and the sweeping mobility of the queens, but he

    learned to make a few set, opening moves. He preferred the

    white pieces and would not play if the black men were given

    him. After the first moves Singer worked out the game by

    himself while his friend looked on drowsily. If Singer made

    brilliant attacks on his own men so that in the end the black

    king was killed, Antonapoulos was always very proud and

    pleased.

    The two mutes had no other friends, and except when they

    worked they were alone together. Each day was very much

    like any other day, because they were alone so much that

    nothing ever disturbed them. Once a week they would go to

    the library for Singer to withdraw a mystery book and on

    Friday night they attended a movie. Then on payday they

    always went to the ten-cent photograph shop above the Army

    and Navy Store so that Antonapoulos could have his picture

    taken. These were the only places where they made customary

    visits. There were many parts in the town that they had never

    even seen.

    The town was in the middle of the deep South. The summers

    were long and the months of winter cold were very few.

    Nearly always the sky was a glassy, brilliant azure and the sun

    burned down riotously bright. Then the light, chill rains of

    November would come, and perhaps later there would be frost

    and some short months of cold. The winters were changeable,but the summers always4

    were burning hot. The town was a fairly large one. On the

    main street there were several blocks of two- and three-story

    shops and business offices. But the largest buildings in the

    town were the factories, which employed a large percentage of

    the population. These cotton mills were big and flourishing and most of the workers in the town were very poor. Often in

    the faces along the streets there was the desperate look of

    hunger and of loneliness.

    But the two mutes were not lonely at all. At home they were

    content to eat and drink, and Singer would talk with bis hands

    eagerly to his friend about all that was in his mind. So the

    years passed in this quiet way until Singer reached the age of

    thirty-two and had been in the town with Antonapoulos for ten

    years.

    Then one day the Greek became ill. He sat up in bed with his

    hands on his fat stomach and big, oily tears rolled down his

    cheeks. Singer went to see his friend's cousin who owned the

    fruit store, and also he arranged for leave from his own work.

    The doctor made out a diet for Antonapoulos and said that he

    could drink no more wine. Singer rigidly enforced the doctor's

    orders. All day he sat by his friend's bed and did what he

    could to make the time pass quickly, but Antonapoulos only

    looked at him angrily from the corners of his eyes and would

    not be amused.

    The Greek was very fretful, and kept finding fault with the

    fruit drinks and food that Singer prepared for him. Constantly

    he made his friend help him out of bed so that he could pray.

    His huge buttocks would sag down over his plump little feet

    when he kneeled. He fumbled with his hands to say 'Darling

    Mary' and then held to the small brass cross tied to his neck

    with a dirty string. His big eyes would wall up to the ceiling

    with a look of fear in them, and afterward he was very sulky

    and would not let his friend speak to him.

    Singer was patient and did all that he could. He drew little

    pictures, and once he made a sketch of his friend to amuse

    him. This picture hurt the big Greek's feelings, and he refused

    to be reconciled until Singer had made his face very young

    and handsome and colored his hair bright yellow and his eyes

    china blue. And then he tried not to show his pleasure.

    Singer nursed his friend so carefully that after a week

    5

    Antonapoulos was able to return to his work. But from that

    time on there was a difference in their way of life. Trouble

    came to the two friends.

    Antonapoulos was not ill any more, but a change had come in him. He was irritable and no longer content to spend the

    evenings quietly in their home. When he would wish to go out

    Singer followed along close behind him. Antonapoulos would

    go into a restaurant, and while they sat at the table he slyly put

    lumps of sugar, or a pepper-shaker, or pieces of silverware in

    bis pocket. Singer always paid for what he took and there was

    no disturbance. At home he scolded Antonapoulos, but the big

    Greek only looked at him with a bland smile.

    The months went on and these habits of Antonapoulos grew

    worse. One day at noon he walked calmly out of the fruit store

    of his cousin and urinated in public against the wall of the

    First National Bank Building across the street. At times he

    would meet people on the sidewalk whose faces did not please

    him, and he would bump into these persons and push at them

    with his elbows and stomach. He walked into a store one day

    and hauled out a floor lamp without paying for it, and another

    time he tried to take an electric train he had seen in a

    showcase.

    For Singer this was a time of great distress. He was

    continually marching Antonapoulos down to the courthouse

    during lunch hour to settle these infringements of the law.

    Singer became very familiar with the procedure of the courts

    and he was in a constant state of agitation. The money he had

    saved in the bank was spent for bail and fines. All of his

    efforts and money were used to keep his friend out of jail

    because of such charges as theft, committing public

    indecencies, and assault and battery.

    The Greek cousin for whom Antonapoulos worked did not

    enter into these troubles at all. Charles Parker (for that was the

    name this cousin had taken) let Antonapoulos stay on at the

    store, but he watched him always with his pale, tight face and

    he made no effort to help him. Singer had a strange feeling

    about Charles Parker. He began to dislike him.

    Singer lived in continual turmoil and worry. But

    Antonapoulos was always bland, and no matter what

    happened the gentle, flaccid smile was still on his face. In all6

    the years before it had seemed to Singer that there was

    something very subtle and wise in this smile of his friend. He

    had never known just how much Antonapoulos understood

    and what he was thinking. Now in the big Greek's expression Singer thought that he could detect something sly and joking.

    He would shake his friend by the shoulders until he was very

    tired and explain things over and over with his hands. But

    nothing did any good.

    All of Singer's money was gone and he had to borrow from the

    jeweler for whom he worked. On one occasion he was unable

    to pay bail for bis friend and Antonapoulos spent the night in

    jail. When Singer came to get him out the next day he was

    very sulky. He did not want to leave. He had enjoyed his

    dinner of sowbelly and cornbread with syrup poured over it.

    And the new sleeping arrangements and his cellmates pleased

    him.

    They had lived so much alone that Singer had no one to help

    him in his distress. Antonapoulos let nothing disturb him or

    cure him of his habits. At home he sometimes cooked the new

    dish he had eaten in the jail, and on the streets there was never

    any knowing just what he would do.

    And then the final trouble came to Singer.

    One afternoon he had come to meet Antonapoulos at the fruit

    store when Charles Parker handed him a letter. The letter

    explained that Charles Parker had made arrangements for his

    cousin to be taken to the state insane asylum two hundred

    miles away. Charles Parker had used his influence in the town

    and the details were already settled. Antonapoulos was to

    leave and to be admitted into the asylum the next, week.

    Singer read the letter several times, and for a while he could

    not think. Charles Parker was talking to him across the

    counter, but he did not even try to read his lips and

    understand. At last Singer wrote on the little pad he always

    carried in his pocket:

    You cannot do this. Antonapoulos must stay with me.

    Charles Parker shook his head excitedly. He did not know

    much American. 'None of your business,' he kept saying over

    and over.

    7

    Singer knew that everything was finished. The Greek was

    afraid that some day he might be responsible for his cousin.

    Charles Parker did not know much about the American

    language—but he understood the American dollar very well,and he had used his money and influence to admit his cousin to the asylum without delay.

    There was nothing Singer could do.

    The next week was full of feverish activity. He talked and

    talked. And although his hands never paused to rest he could

    not tell all that he had to say. He wanted to talk to

    Antonapoulos of all the thoughts that had ever been in his

    mind and heart, but there was not time. His gray eyes glittered

    and his quick, intelligent face expressed great strain.

    Antonapoulos watched him drowsily, and his friend did not

    know just what he really understood.

    Then came the day when Antonapoulos must leave. Singer

    brought out Ms own suitcase and very carefully packed the

    best of their joint possessions. Antonapoulos made himself a

    lunch to eat during the journey. In the late afternoon they

    walked arm in arm down the street for the last time together. It

    was a chilly afternoon in late November, and little huffs of

    breath showed in the air before them.

    Charles Parker was to travel with his cousin, but he stood

    apart from them at the station. Antonapoulos crowded into the

    bus and settled himself with elaborate preparations on one of

    the front seats. Singer watched him from the window and his

    hands began desperately to talk for the last time with his

    friend. But Antonapoulos was so busy checking over the

    various items in his lunch box that for a while he paid no

    attention. Just before the bus pulled away from the curb he

    turned to Singer and his smile was very bland and remote—as

    though already they were many miles apart.

    The weeks that followed didn't seem real at all. All day Singer

    worked over his bench in the back of the jewelry store, and

    then at night he returned to the house alone. More than

    anything he wanted to sleep. As soon as he came home from

    work he would lie on his cot and try to doze awhile. Dreams

    came to him when he lay there half-asleep. And in all of them

    Antonapoulos was there. His hands would jerk nervously, for

    in his dreams he was talk-8

    ing to his friend and Antonapoulos was watching him.

    Singer tried to think of the time before he had ever known his

    friend. He tried to recount to himself certain things that had

    happened when he was young. But none of these things he

    tried to remember seemed real.There was one particular fact that he remembered, but it was

    not at all important to him. Singer recalled that, although he

    had been deaf since he was an infant, he had not always been

    a real mute. He was left an orphan very young and placed in

    an institution for the deaf. He had learned to talk with his

    hands and to read. Before he was nine years old he could talk

    with one hand in the American way—and also could employ

    both of his hands after the method of Europeans. He had

    learned to follow the movements of people's lips and to

    understand what they said. Then finally he had been taught to

    speak.

    At the school he was thought very intelligent. He learned the

    lessons before the rest of the pupils. But he could never

    become used to speaking with his lips. It was not natural to

    him, and his tongue felt like a whale in his mouth. From the

    blank expression on people's faces to whom he talked in this

    way he felt that his voice must be like the sound of some

    animal or that there was something disgusting in his speech. It

    was painful for him to try to talk with his mouth, but his hands

    were always ready to shape the words he wished to say. When

    he was twenty-two he had come South to this town from

    Chicago and he met Antonapoulos immediately. Since that

    time he had never spoken with his mouth again, because with

    his friend there was no need for this.

    Nothing seemed real except the ten years with Antonapoulos.

    In his half-dreams he saw his friend very vividly, and when he

    awakened a great aching loneliness would be in him.

    Occasionally he would pack up a box for Antonapoulos, but

    he never received any reply. And so the months passed hi this

    empty, dreaming way.

    In the spring a change came over Singer. He could not sleep

    and his body was very restless. At evening he would walk

    monotonously around the room, unable to work off a new

    feeling of energy. If he rested at all it was only during a few

    hours before dawn—then he would drop bluntly into

    9

    a sleep that lasted until the morning light struck suddenly

    beneath his opening eyelids like a scimitar.

    He began spending his evenings walking around the town. He

    could no longer stand the rooms where Antonapoulos had lived, and he rented a place in a shambling boarding-house not

    far from the center of the town.

    He ate his meals at a restaurant only two blocks away. This

    restaurant was at the very end of the long main street and the

    name of the place was the New York Cafe. The first day he

    glanced over the menu quickly and wrote a short note and

    handed it to the proprietor.

    Each morning for breakfast I want an egg, toast, and coffee

    0.15

    For lunch I want soup (any kind), a meat sandwich, and milk

    — 0.25

    Please bring me ut dinner three vegetables (any kind but

    cabbage), fish or meat, and a glass of beer—

    0.35

    Thank you.

    The proprietor read the note and gave him an alert, tactful

    glance. He was a hard man of middle height, with a beard so

    dark and heavy that the lower part of his face looked as

    though it were molded of iron. He usually stood in the corner

    by the cash register, his arms folded over his chest, quietly

    observing all that went on around him. Singer came to know

    this man's face very well, for he ate at one of his tables three

    times a day.

    Each evening the mute walked alone for hours in the street.

    Sometimes the nights were cold with the sharp, wet winds of

    March and it would be raining heavily. But to him this did not

    matter. His gait was agitated and he always kept his hands

    stuffed tight into the pockets of his trousers. Then as the

    weeks passed the days grew warm and languorous. His

    agitation gave way gradually to exhaustion and there was a

    look about him of deep calm. In his face there came to be a

    brooding peace that is seen most often in the faces of the very

    sorrowful or the very wise. But still he wandered through the

    streets of the town, always silent and alone.10

    2

    \_f N A black, sultry night in early summer Biff Brannon

    stood behind the cash register of the New York Cafe. It was

    twelve o'clock. Outside the street lights had already been

    turned off, so that the light from the cafe made a sharp, yellow

    rectangle on the sidewalk. The street was deserted, but inside the cafe there were half a dozen customers drinking beer or

    Santa Lucia wine or whiskey. Biff waited stolidly, his elbow

    resting on the counter and his thumb mashing the tip of his

    long nose. His eyes were intent. He watched especially a

    short, squat man in overalls who had become drunk and

    boisterous. Now and then his gaze passed on to the mute who

    sat by himself at one of the middle tables, or to others of the

    customers before the counter. But he always turned back to

    the drunk in overalls. The hour grew later and Biff continued

    to wait silently behind the counter. Then at last he gave the

    restaurant a final survey and went toward the door at the back

    which led upstairs.

    Quietly he entered the room at the top of the stairs. It was dark

    inside and he walked with caution. After he had gone a few

    paces his toe struck something hard and he reached down and

    felt for the handle of a suitcase on the floor. He had only been

    in the room a few seconds and was about to leave when the

    light was turned on.

    Alice sat up in the rumpled bed and looked at him. 'What you

    doing with that suitcase?' she asked. 'Can't you get rid of that

    lunatic without giving him back what he's already drunk up?'

    'Wake up and go down yourself. Call the cop and let him get

    soused on the chain gang with cornbread and peas. Go to it,Misses Brannon.'

    'I will all right if he's down there tomorrow. But you leave that

    bag alone. It don't belong to that sponger any more.'

    'I know spongers, and Blount's not one,' Biff said. 'Myself—I

    don't know so well. But I'm not that kind of a thief.'

    Calmly Biff put down the suitcase on the steps outside.

    11

    The air was not so stale and sultry in the room as it was

    downstairs. He decided to stay for a short while and douse his

    face with cold water before going back.

    'I told you already what I'll do if you don't get rid of that

    fellow for good tonight. In the daytime he takes them naps at

    the back, and then at night you feed him dinners and beer. For

    a week now he hasn't paid one cent. And all his wild talking

    and carrying-on will ruin any decent trade.'

    'You don't know people and you don't know real business,'

    Biff said. The fellow in question first came in here twelve days ago and he was a stranger in the town. The first week he

    gave us twenty dollars' worth of trade. Twenty at the

    minimum.'

    'And since then on credit,' Alice said. Tive days on credit, and

    so drunk it's a disgrace to the business. And besides, he's

    nothing but a bum and a freak.'

    'I like freaks,' Biff said.

    'I reckon you dol I just reckon you certainly ought to, Mister

    Brannon—being as you're one yourself.'

    He rubbed his bluish chin and paid her no attention. For the

    first fifteen years of their married life they had called each

    other just plain Biff and Alice. Then in one of their quarrels

    they had begun calling each other Mister and Misses, and

    since then they had never made it up enough to change it.

    Tm just warning you he'd better not be there when I come

    down tomorrow.'

    Biff went into the bathroom, and after he had bathed his face

    he decided that he would have time for a shave. His beard was

    black and heavy as though it had grown for three days. He

    stood before the mirror and rubbed his cheek meditatively. He

    was sorry he had talked to Alice. With her, silence was better.

    Being around that woman always made him different from his

    real self. It made him tough and small and common as she

    was. Biff's eyes were cold and staring, half-concealed by the

    cynical droop of his eyelids. On the fifth finger of his

    calloused hand there was a woman's wedding ring. The door

    was open behind him, and in the mirror he could see Alice

    lying in the bed.

    'Listen,' he said. The trouble with you is that you don't have

    any real kindness. Not but one woman Fve ever known had

    this real kindness I'm talking about'12

    'Well, I've known you to do things no man in this world would

    be proud of. I've known you to------'

    'Or maybe it's curiosity I mean. You don't ever see or notice

    anything important that goes on. You never watch and think

    and try to figure anything out. Maybe that's the biggest

    difference between you and me, after all.'

    Alice was almost asleep again, and through the mirror he

    watched her with detachment. There was no distinctive point about her on which he could fasten his attention, and his gaze

    glided from her pale brown hair to the stumpy outline of her

    feet beneath the cover. The soft curves of her face led to the

    roundness of her hips and thighs. When he was away from her

    there was no one feature that stood out in his mind and he

    remembered her as a complete, unbroken figure.

    The enjoyment of a spectacle is something you have never

    known,' he said.

    Her voice was tired. That fellow downstairs is a spectacle, all

    right, and a circus too. But I'm through putting up with him.'

    'Hell, the man don't mean anything to me. He's no relative or

    buddy of mine. But you don't know what it is to store up a

    whole lot of details and then come upon something real.' He

    turned on the hot water and quickly began to shave.

    It was the morning of May 15, yes, that Jake Blount had come

    in. He had noticed him immediately and watched. The man

    was short, with heavy shoulders like beams. He had a small,ragged mustache, and beneath this his lower lip looked as

    though it had been stung by a wasp. There were many things

    about the fellow that seemed contrary. His head was very

    large and well-shaped, but his neck was soft and slender as a

    boy's. The mustache looked false, as if it had been stuck on for

    a costume party and would fall off if he talked too fast. It

    made him seem almost middle-aged, although his face with its

    high, smooth forehead and wide-open eyes was young. His

    hands were huge, stained, and calloused, and he was dressed

    in a cheap white-linen suit. There was something very funny

    about the man, yet at the same time another feeling would not

    let you laugh.

    He ordered a pint of liquor and drank it straight in half an

    hour. Then he sat at one of the booths and ate a big

    13

    chicken dinner. Later he read a book and drank beer. That was

    the beginning. And although Biff had noticed Blount very

    carefully he would never have guessed about the crazy things

    that happened later. Never had he seen a man change so many

    times in twelve days. Never had he seen a fellow drink so

    much, stay drunk so long.

    Biff pushed up the end of his nose with his thumb and shaved his upper lip. He was finished and his face seemed cooler.

    Alice was asleep when he went through the bedroom on the

    way downstairs.

    The suitcase was heavy. He carried it to the front of the

    restaurant, behind the cash register, where he usually stood

    each evening. Methodically he glanced around the place. A

    few customers had left and the room was not so crowded, but

    the set-up was the same. The deaf-mute still drank coffee by

    himself at one of the middle tables. The drunk had not stopped

    talking. He was not addressing anyone around him in

    particular, nor was anyone listening. When he had come into

    the place that evening he wore those blue overalls instead of

    the filthy linen suit he had been wearing the twelve days. His

    socks were gone and his ankles were scratched and caked with

    mud.

    Alertly Biff picked up fragments of his monologue. The

    fellow seemed to be talking some queer kind of politics again.

    Last night he had been talking about places he had been—

    about Texas and Oklahoma and the Carolinas. Once he had

    got on the subject of cat-houses, and afterward his jokes got so

    raw he had to be hushed up with beer. But most of the time

    nobody was sure just what he was saying. Talk—talk—talk.

    The words came out of his throat like a cataract. And the thing

    was that the accent he used was always changing, the kinds of

    words he used. Sometimes he talked like a linthead and

    sometimes nice a professor. He would use words a foot long

    and then slip up on his grammar. It was hard to tell what kind

    of folks he had or what part of the country he was from. He

    was always changing. Thoughtfully Biff fondled the tip of his

    nose. There was no connection. Yet connection usually went

    with brains. This man had a good mind, all right, but he went

    from one thing to another without any reason behind it at all.

    He was like a man thrown off his track by something.14

    Biff leaned his weight on the counter and began to peruse the

    evening newspaper. The headlines told of a decision by the

    Board of Aldermen, after four months' deliberation, that the

    local budget could not afford traffic lights at certain dangerous

    intersections of the town. The left column reported on the war

    in the Orient. Biff read them both with equal attention. As his eyes followed the print the rest of his senses were on the alert

    to the various commotions that went on around him. When he

    had finished the articles he still stared down at the newspaper

    with his eyes half-closed. He felt nervous. The fellow was a

    problem, and before morning he would have to make some

    sort of settlement with him. Also, he felt without knowing

    why that something of importance would happen tonight. The

    fellow could not keep on forever.

    Biff sensed that someone was standing in the entrance and he

    raised his eyes quickly. A gangling, towheaded youngster, a

    girl of about twelve, stood looking in the doorway. She was

    dressed in khaki shorts, a blue shirt, and tennis shoes—so that

    at first glance she was like a very young boy. Biff pushed

    aside the paper when he saw her, and smiled when she came

    up to him.

    'Hello, Mick. Been to the Girl Scouts?'

    'No,' she said. 'I don't belong to them.'

    From the corner of his eye he noticed that the drunk slammed

    his fist down on a table and turned away from the men to

    whom he had been talking. Biffs voice roughened as he spoke

    to the youngster before him.

    'Your folks know you're out after midnight?'

    'It's O.K. There's a gang of kids playing out late on our block

    tonight.'

    He had never seen her come into the place with anyone her

    own age. Several years ago she had always tagged behind her

    older brother. The Kellys were a good-sized family in

    numbers. Later she would come in pulling a couple of snotty

    babies in a wagon. But if she wasn't nursing or trying to keep

    up with the bigger ones, she was by herself. Now the kid stood

    there seeming not to be able to make up her mind what she

    wanted. She kept pushing back her damp, whitish hair with

    the palm of her hand.

    'I'd like a pack of cigarettes, please. The cheapest kind'.

    Biff started to speak, hesitated, and then reached his

    IS

    hand inside the counter. Mick brought out a handkerchief and

    began untying the knot in the corner where she kept her

    money. As she gave the knot a jerk the change clattered to the floor and rolled toward Blount, who stood muttering to

    himself. For a moment he stared in a daze at the coins, but

    before the kid could go after them he squatted down with

    concentration and picked up the money. He walked heavily to

    the counter and stood jiggling the two pennies, the nickel, and

    the dime in his palm.

    'Seventeen cents for cigarettes now?'

    Biff waited, and Mick looked from one of them to the other.

    The drunk stacked the money into a little pile on the counter,still protecting it with his big, dirty hand. Slowly he picked up

    one penny and flipped it down.

    'Five mills for the crackers who grew the weed and five for the

    dupes who rolled it,' he said. 'A cent for you, Biff.' Then he

    tried to focus his eyes so that he could read the mottoes on the

    nickel and dime. He kept fingering the two coins and moving

    them around in a circle. At last he pushed them away. 'And

    that's a humble homage to liberty. To democracy and tyranny.

    To freedom and piracy.'

    Calmly Biff picked up the money and rang it into the till.

    Mick looked as though she wanted to hang around awhile. She

    took in the drunk with one long gaze, and then she turned her

    eyes to the middle of the room where the mute sat at his table

    alone. After a moment Blount also glanced now and then in

    the same direction. The mute sat silently over his glass of

    beer, idly drawing on the table with the end of a burnt

    matchstick.

    Jake Blount was the first to speak. 'It's funny, but I been seeing

    that fellow in my sleep for the past three or four nights. He

    won't leave me alone. If you ever noticed, he never seems to

    say anything.'

    It was seldom that Biff ever discussed one customer with

    another. 'No, he don't,' he answered noncommittally.

    'It's funny.'

    Mick shifted her weight from one foot to the other and fitted

    the package of cigarettes into the pocket of her shorts. 'It's not

    funny if you know anything ahout him,' she said. 'Mister

    Singer lives with us. He rooms in our house.'

    'Is that so?' Biff asked. 'I declare—I didn't know that'16

    Mick walked toward the door and answered him without looking around. Sure. He's been with us three months now.'

    Biff unrolled his shirt-sleeves and then folded them up

    carefully again. He did not take his eyes from Mick as she left

    the restaurant. And even after she had been gone several

    minutes he still fumbled with his shirt-sleeves and stared at

    the empty doorway. Then he locked his arms across his chest

    and turned back to the drunk again.

    Blount leaned heavily on the counter. His brown eyes were

    wet-looking and wide open with a dazed expression. He

    needed a bath so badly that he stank like a goat. There were

    dirt beads on his sweaty neck and an oil stain on his face. His

    lips were thick and red and his brown hair was matted on his

    forehead. His overalls were too short in the body and he kept

    pulling at the crotch of them.

    'Man, you ought to know better,' Biff said finally. 'You can't

    go around like this. Why, I'm surprised you haven't been

    picked up for vagrancy. You ought to sober up. You need

    washing and your hair needs cutting. Motherogod! You're not

    fit to walk around amongst people.'

    Blount scowled and bit his lower lip.

    'Now, don't take offense and get your dander up. Do what I tell

    you. Go back in the kitchen and tell the colored boy to give

    you a big pan of hot water. Tell Willie to give you a towel and

    plenty of soap and wash yourself good. Then eat you some

    milk toast and open up your suitcase and put you on a clean

    shirt and a pair of britches that fit you. Then tomorrow you

    can start doing whatever you're going to do and working

    wherever you mean to work and get straightened out.'

    'You know what you can do,' Blount said drunkenly. You can

    just------'

    'All right,' Biff said very quietly. 'No, I can't Now you just

    behave yourself.'

    Biff went to the end of the counter and returned with two

    glasses of draught beer. The drunk picked up his glass so

    clumsily that beer slopped down on his hands and messed the

    counter. Biff sipped his portion with careful relish. He

    regarded Blount steadily with half-closed eyes. Blount was not

    a freak, although when you first saw him he gave you that

    impression. It was like something was17

    deformed about him—but when you looked at him closely

    each part of him was normal and as it ought to be. Therefore if

    this difference was not in the body it was probably in the

    mind. He was like a man who had served a term in prison or

    had been to Harvard College or had lived for a long time with

    foreigners in South America. He was like a person who had

    been somewhere that other people are not likely to go or had

    done something that others are not apt to do.

    Biff cocked his head to one side and said, 'Where are you

    from?'

    Nowhere.'

    Now, you have to be born somewhere. North Carolina —

    Tennessee—Alabama—some place.'

    Blount's eyes were dreamy and unfocused. 'Carolina,' he said.

    'I can tell you've been around,' Biff hinted delicately.

    But the drunk was not listening. He had turned from the

    counter and was staring out at the dark, empty street. After a

    moment he walked to the door with loose, uncertain steps.

    'Adios,' he called back.

    Biff was alone again and he gave the restaurant one of his

    quick, thorough surveys. It was past one in the morning, and

    there were only four or five customers in the room. The mute

    still sat by himself at the middle table. Biff stared at him idly

    and shook the few remaining drops of beer around in the

    bottom of his glass. Then he finished his drink in one slow

    swallow and went back to the newspaper spread out on the

    counter.

    This time he could not keep his mind on the words before him.

    He remembered Mick. He wondered if he should have sold

    her the pack of cigarettes and if it were really harmful for kids

    to smoke. He thought of the way Mick narrowed her eyes and

    pushed back the bangs of her hair with the palm of her hand.

    He thought of her hoarse, boyish voice and of her habit of

    hitching up her khaki shorts and swaggering like a cowboy in

    the picture show. A feeling of tenderness came in him. He was

    uneasy.

    Restlessly Biff turned his attention to Singer. The mute sat

    with his hands in his pockets and the half-finished glass of

    beer before him had become warm and stagnant. He18would offer to treat Singer to a slug of whiskey before he left.

    What he had said to Alice was true—he did like freaks. He

    had a special friendly feeling for sick people and cripples.

    Whenever somebody with a harelip or T.B. came into the

    place he would set him up to beer. Or if the customer were a

    hunchback or a bad cripple, then it would be whiskey on the

    house. There was one fellow who had had his peter and his

    left leg blown off in a boiler explosion, and whenever he came

    to town there was a free pint waiting for him. And if Singer

    were a drinking kind of man he could get liquor at half price

    any time he wanted it. Biff nodded to himself. Then neatly he

    folded his newspaper and put it under the counter along with

    several others. At the end of the week he would take them all

    back to the storeroom behind the kitchen, where he kept a

    complete file of the evening newspapers that dated back

    without a break for twenty-one years.

    At two o'clock Blount entered the restaurant again. He

    , brought in with him a tall Negro man carrying a black bag.

    \The drunk tried to bring him up to the counter for a

    drink, but the Negro left as soon as he realized why he had

    been led inside. Biff recognized him as a Negro doctor who

    had practiced in the town ever since he could remember.

    He was related in some way to young Willie back in the

    kitchen. Before he left Biff saw him turn on Blount with

    a look of quivering hatred.

    The drunk just stood there.

    ·Don't you know you can't bring no nigger in a place where

    white men drink?' someone asked him.

    Biff watched this happening from a distance. Blount was very

    angry, and now it could easily be seen how drunk he was.

    'I'm part nigger myself,' he called out as a challenge.

    Biff watched him alertly and the place was quiet. With his

    thick nostrils and the rolling whites of his eyes it looked a

    little as though he might be telling the truth.

    'I'm part nigger and wop and bohunk and chink. All of those.'

    There was laughter.

    'And I'm Dutch and Turkish and Japanese and American.' He

    walked in zigzags around the table where the mute drank his

    coffee. His voice was loud and cracked.19

    Tm one who knows. I'm a stranger in a strange land.'

    ·Quiet down,' Biff said to him.

    Blount paid no attention to anyone in the place except the

    mute. They were both looking at each other. The mute's eyes

    were cold and gentle as a cat's and all his body seemed to

    listen. The drunk man was in a frenzy.

    ·You're the only one in this town who catches what I mean,'

    Blount said. 'For two days now 1 been talking to you in my

    mind because I know you understand the things I want to

    mean.'

    Some people in a booth were laughing because without

    knowing it the drunk had picked out a deaf-mute to try to talk

    with. Biff watched the two men with little darting glances and

    listened attentively.

    Blount sat down to the table and leaned over close to Singer.

    There are those who know and those who don't know. And

    for every ten thousand who don't know there's only one who

    knows. Thaf s the miracle of all time—the fact that these

    millions know so much but don't know this. It's like in the

    fifteenth century when everybody believed the world was flat

    and only Columbus and a few other fellows knew the truth.

    But it's different in that it took talent to figure that the earth is

    round. While this truth is so obvious it's a miracle of all

    history that people don't know. You savvy.'

    Biff rested his elbows on the counter and looked at Blount

    with curiosity. 'Know what?' he asked.

    Don't listen to him,' Blount said. 'Don't mind that flat-footed,blue-jowled, nosy bastard. For you see, when us people who

    know run into each other mat's an event. It almost never

    happens. Sometimes we meet each other and neither guesses

    that the other is one who knows. That's a bad thing. It's

    happened to me a lot of times. But you see there are so few of

    us.'

    'Masons?' Biff asked.

    'Shut up, you! Else 111 snatch your arm off and beat you

    black with it,' Blount bawled. He hunched over close to the

    mute and his voice dropped to a drunken whisper. 'And how

    come? Why has this miracle of ignorance endured? Because

    of one thing. A conspiracy. A vast and insidious conspiracy. Obscurantism.'

    The men in the booth were still laughing at the drunk20

    who was trying to hold a conversation with the mute. Only

    Biff was serious. He wanted to ascertain if the mute really

    understood what was said to him. The fellow nodded

    frequently and his face seemed contemplative. He was only

    slow—that was all. Blount began to crack a few jokes along

    with this talk about knowing. The mute never smiled until

    several seconds after the funny remark had been made; then

    when the talk was gloomy again the smile still hung on his

    face a little too long. The fellow was downright uncanny.

    People felt themselves watching him even before they knew

    that there was anything different about him. His eyes made a

    person think that he heard things nobody else had ever heard,that he knew things no one had ever guessed before. He did

    not seem quite human.

    Jake Blount leaned across the table and the words came out as

    though a dam inside him had broken. Biff could not

    understand him any more. Blount's tongue was so heavy with

    drink and he talked at such a violent pace that the sounds were

    all shaken up together. Biff wondered where he would go

    when Alice turned him out of the place. And in the morning

    she would do it, too—like she said.

    Biff yawned wanly, patting his open mouth with his fingertips

    until his jaw had relaxed. It was almost three o'clock, the most

    stagnant hour in the day or night

    The mute was patient. He had been listening to Blount for

    almost an hour. Now he began to look at the clock

    occasionally. Blount did not notice this and went on without a

    pause. At last he stopped a to roll a cigarette, and then the

    mute nodded his head in the direction of the clock, smiled in

    that hidden way of his, and got up from the table. His hands

    stayed stuffed in his pockets as always. He went out quickly.

    Blount was so drunk that he did not know what had happened.

    He had never even caught on to the fact that the mute made no

    answers. He began to look around the place with his mouth

    open and his eyes rolling and fuddled. A red vein stood out on

    his forehead and he began to hit the table angrily with his

    fists. His bout could not last much longer now.'Come on over,' Biff said kindly. Your friend has gone.'

    21

    The fellow was still hunting for Singer. He had never seemed

    really drunk like that before. He had an ugly look.

    'I have something for you over here and I want to speak with

    you a minute,' Biff coaxed.

    Blount pulled himself up from the table and walked with big,loose steps toward the street again.

    Biff leaned against the wall. In and out—in and out. After all,it was none of his business. The room was very empty and

    quiet. The minutes lingered. Wearily he let his head sag

    forward. All motion seemed slowly to be leaving the room.

    The counter, faces, the booths and tables, the radio in the

    corner, whirring fans on the ceiling—all seemed to become

    very faint and still.

    He must have dozed. A hand was shaking his elbow. His wits

    came back to him slowly and he looked up to see what was

    wanted. Willie, the colored boy in the kitchen, stood before

    him dressed in his cap and his long white apron. Willie

    stammered because he was excited about whatever he was

    trying to say.

    'And so he were 1-1-lamming his fist against this here brick w-

    w-wall.'

    'What's that?'

    'Right down one of them alleys two d-d-doors away.'

    Biff straightened bis slumped shoulders and arranged his tie.

    'What?'

    'And they means to bring him in here and they liable to pile in

    any minute------'

    'Willie,' Biff said patiently. 'Start at the beginning and let me

    get this straight.'

    'It this here short white man with the m-m-mustache.'

    ·Mr. Blount. Yes>

    'Well—I didn't see how it commenced. I were standing in the

    back door when I heard this here commotion. Sound like a big

    fight in the alley. So I r-r-run to see. And this here white man

    had just gone hog wild. He were butting bis head against the

    side of this brick wall and hitting with his fists. He were

    cussing and fighting like I never seen a white man fight before. With just this here wall. He liable to broken his own

    head the way he were carrying on. Then two white mens who

    had heard the commotion come up and stand around and

    look------'22

    'So what happened?'

    'Well—you know this here dumb gentleman—hands in

    pockets—this here------'

    'Mr. Singer.'

    'And he come along and just stood looking around to see what

    it were all about. And Mr. B-B-Blount seen him and

    commenced to talk and holler. And then all of a sudden he

    fallen down on the ground. Maybe he done really busted his

    head open. A p-p-p-police come up and somebody done told

    him Mr. Blount been staying here.'

    Biff bowed his head and organized the story he had just heard

    into a neat pattern. He rubbed his nose and thought for a

    minute.

    They liable to pile in here any minute.' Willie went to the

    door and looked down the street 'Here they all come now.

    They having to drag him.'

    A dozen onlookers and a policeman all tried to crowd into the

    restaurant. Outside a couple of whores stood looking in

    through the front window. It was always funny how many

    people could crowd in from nowhere when anything out of the

    ordinary happened.

    'No use creating any more disturbance than necessary,' Biff

    said. He looked at the policeman who supported the drunk.

    'The rest of them might as well clear out.'

    The policeman put the drunk in a chair and hustled the little

    crowd into the street again. Then he turned to Biff: 'Somebody

    said he was staying here with you.'

    'No. But he might as well be,' Biff said.

    'Want me to take him with me?'

    Biff considered. 'He won't get into any more trouble tonight.

    Of course I can't be responsible—but I think this will calm

    him down.'

    'O.K. I'll drop back in again before I knock off.'

    Biff, Singer, and Jake Blount were left alone. For the first

    time since he had been brought in, Biff turned his attention to the drunk man. It seemed that Blount had hurt his jaw very

    badly. He was slumped down on the table with his big hand

    over his mouth, swaying backward and forward. There was a

    gash in his head and the blood ran from his temple. His

    knuckles were skinned raw, and he was so filthy that he

    looked as if he had been pulled by the scruff of the neck from

    a sewer. All the juice had

    23

    spurted out of him and he was completely collapsed. The mute

    sat at the table across from him, taking it all in with his gray

    eyes.

    Then Biff saw that Blount had not hurt his jaw, but he was

    holding his hand over his mouth because bis lips were

    trembling. The tears began to roll down his grimy face. Now

    and then he glanced sideways at Biff and Singer, angry that

    they should see him cry. It was embarrassing. Biff shrugged

    his shoulders at the mute and raised his eyebrows with a what-

    to-do? expression. Singer cocked his head on one side.

    Biff was in a quandary. Musingly he wondered just how he

    should manage the situation. He was still trying to decide

    when the mute turned over the menu and began to write.

    you cannot think of any place for him to go he can go home

    with me. First some soup and coffee would be good for him.

    With relief Biff nodded vigorously.

    On the table he placed three special plates of the last evening

    meal, two bowls of soup, coffee, and dessert. But Blount

    would not eat. He would not take his hand away from his

    mouth, and it was as though his lips were some very secret

    part of himself which was being exposed. His breath came in

    ragged sobs and his big shoulders jerked nervously. Singer

    pointed to one dish after the other, but Blount just sat with his

    hand over his mouth and shook his head.

    Biff enunciated slowly so that the mute could see. 'The

    jitters------' he said conversationally.

    The steam from the soup kept floating up into Blount's face,and after a little while he reached shakily for his spoon. He

    drank the soup and ate part of his dessert. His thick, heavy lips

    still trembled and he bowed his head far down over his plate.

    Biff noted this. He was thinkng that in nearly every person there was some special physical part kept always guarded.

    With the mute his hands. The kid Mick picked at the front of

    her blouse to keep the cloth from rubbing the new, tender

    nipples beginning to come out on her24

    breast. With Alice it was her hair; she used never to let him

    sleep with her when he rubbed oil in his scalp. And with

    himself?

    Lingeringly Biff turned the ring on his little finger. Anyway

    he knew what it was not. Not. Any more. A sharp line cut into

    his forehead. His hand in his pocket moved nervously toward

    his genitals. He began whistling a song and got up from the

    table. Funny to spot it in other people, though.

    They helped Blount to his feet. He teetered weakly. He was

    not crying any more, but he seemed to be brooding on

    something shameful and sullen. He walked in the direction he

    was led. Biff brought out the suitcase from behind the counter

    and explained to the mute about it. Singer looked as though he

    could not be surprised at anything.

    Biff went with them to the entrance. 'Buck up and keep your

    nose clean,' he said to Blount.

    The black night sky was beginning to lighten and turn a deep

    blue with the new morning. There were but a few weak,silvery stars. The street was empty, silent, almost cool. Singer

    carried the suitcase with his left hand, and with his free hand

    he supported Blount. He nodded goodbye to Biff and they

    started off together down the sidewalk. Biff stood watching

    them. After they had gone hah a block away only their black

    forms showed in the blue darkness —the mute straight and

    firm and the broad-shouldered, stumbling Blount holding on

    to him. When he could see them no longer, Biff waited for a

    moment and examined the sky. The vast depth of it fascinated

    and oppressed him. He rubbed his forehead and went back

    into the sharply lighted restaurant.

    He stood behind the cash register, and his face contracted and

    hardened as he tried to recall the things that had happened

    during the night. He had the feeling that he wanted to explain

    something to himself. He recalled the incidents in tedious

    detail and was still puzzled.

    The door opened and closed several times as a sudden spurt of customers began to come in. The night was over. Willie

    stacked some of the chairs up on the tables and mopped at the

    floor. He was ready to go home and was singing. Willie was

    lazy. In the kitchen he was always stopping to play for a while

    on the harmonica he carried

    25

    around with him. Now he mopped the floor with sleepy

    strokes and hummed his lonesome Negro music steadily.

    The place was still not crowded—it was the hour when men

    who have been up all night meet those who are freshly

    wakened and ready to start a new day. The sleepy waitress

    was serving both beer and coffee. There was no noise or

    conversation, for each person seemed to be alone. The mutual

    distrust between the men who were just awakened and those

    who were ending a long night gave everyone a feeling of

    estrangement.

    The bank building across the street was very pale in the dawn.

    Then gradually its white brick walls grew more distinct. When

    at last the first shafts of the rising sun began to brighten the

    street, Biff gave the place one last survey and went upstairs.

    Noisily he rattled the doorknob as he entered so that Alice

    would be disturbed. 'Motherogod!' he said. 'What a night!'

    Alice awoke with caution. She lay on the rumpled bed like a

    sulky cat and stretched herself. The room was drab in the

    fresh, hot morning sun, and a pair of silk stockings hung limp

    and withered from the cord of the window-shade.

    'Is that drunk fool still hanging around downstairs?' she

    demanded.

    Biff took off his shirt and examined the collar to see if it were

    clean enough to be worn again. 'Go down and see for yourself.

    I told you nobody will hinder you from kicking him out.'

    Sleepily Alice reached down and picked up a Bible, the blank

    side of a menu, and a Sunday-School book from the floor

    beside the bed. She rustled through the tissue pages of the

    Bible until she reached a certain passage and began reading,pronouncing the words aloud with painful concentration. It

    was Sunday, and she was preparing the weekly lesson for her

    class of boys in the Junior Department of her church. 'Now as

    he walked by the sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and Andrew his brother casting a net into the sea: for they were fishers.

    And Jesus said unto them, Come ye after me, and I will make

    you to become fishers of men. And straightway they forsook

    their nets, and followed him.'26

    Biff went into the bathroom to wash himself. The silky

    murmuring continued as Alice studied aloud. He listened. \ ..

    and in the morning, rising up a great while before day, He

    went out, and departed into a solitary place, and there prayed.

    And Simon and they that were with Him followed after Him.

    And when they had found Him, they said unto Him, All men

    seek for Thee. '

    She had finished. Biff let the words revolve again gently

    inside him. He tried to separate the actual words from the

    sound of Alice's voice as she had spoken them. He wanted to

    remember the passage as his mother used to read it when he

    was a boy. With nostalgia he glanced down at the wedding

    ring on his fifth finger that had once been hers. He wondered

    again how she would have felt about bis giving up church and

    religion.

    'The lesson for today is about the gathering of the disciples,'

    Alice said to herself in preparation. 'And the text is, All men

    seek for Thee. '

    Abruptly Biff roused himself from meditation and turned on

    the water spigot at full force. He stripped off his undervest

    and began to wash himself. Always he was scrupulously clean

    from the belt upward. Every morning he soaped his chest and

    arms and neck and feet—and about twice during the season he

    got into the bathtub and cleaned all of his parts.

    Biff stood by the bed, waiting impatiently for Alice to get up.

    From the window he saw that the day would be windless and

    burning hot. Alice had finished reading the lesson. She still

    lay lazily across the bed, although she knew that he was

    waiting. A calm, sullen anger rose in him. He chuckled

    ironically. Then he said with bitterness: 'If you like I can sit

    and read the paper awhile. But I wish you would let me sleep

    now.'

    Alice began dressing herself and Biff made up the bed. Deftly

    he reversed the sheets in all possible ways, putting the top one

    on the bottom, and turning them over and upside down. When the bed was smoothly made he waited until Alice had left the

    room before he slipped off his trousers and crawled inside.

    His feet jutted out from beneath the cover and his wiry-haired

    chest was very dark against the pillow. He was glad he had not

    told Alice about what had happened to the drunk. He had

    wanted to talk

    27

    to somebody about it, because maybe if he told all the facts

    out loud he could put his finger on the thing that puzzled him.

    The poor son-of-a-bitch talking and talking and not ever

    getting anybody to understand what he meant. Not knowing

    himself, most likely. And the way he gravitated around the

    deaf-mute and picked him out and tried to make him a free

    present of everything in him.

    Why?

    Because in some men it is in them to give up everything

    personal at some time, before it ferments and poisons—throw

    it to some human being or some human idea. They have to. In

    some men it is in them—The text is 'All men seek for Thee.'

    Maybe that was why—maybe—He was a Chinaman, the

    fellow had said. And a nigger and a wop and a Jew. And if he

    believed it hard enough maybe it was so. Every person and

    every thing he said he was------

    Biff stretched both of his arms outward and crossed his naked

    feet. His face was older in the morning light, with the closed,shrunken eyelids and the heavy, iron-like beard on his cheeks

    and jaw. Gradually his mouth softened and relaxed. The hard,yellow rays of the sun came in through the window so that the

    room was hot and bright. Biff turned wearily and covered his

    eyes with his hands. And he was nobody but—Bartholomew

    —old Biff with two fists and a quick tongue—Mister Brannon

    —by himself.

    J. HE sun woke Mick early, although she had stayed out mighty

    late the night before. It was too hot even to drink coffee for

    breakfast, so she had ice water with syrup in it and cold

    biscuits. She messed around the kitchen for a while and then

    went out on the front porch to read the funnies. She had

    thought maybe Mister Singer would be reading the paper on

    the porch like he did most Sunday mornings. But Mister Singer was not there, and later on her Dad said he came in

    very late the night before and had company in his room. She

    waited for Mister Singer a long time. All the other boarders

    came down except him. Fi-28

    29

    nally she went back in the kitchen and took Ralph out of his

    high chair and put a clean dress on him and wiped off his face.

    Then when Bubber got home from Sunday School she was

    ready to take the kids out. She let Bubber ride in the wagon

    with Ralph because he was barefooted and the hot sidewalk

    burned his feet. She pulled the wagon for about eight blocks

    until they came to the big, new house that was being built. The

    ladder was still propped against the edge of the roof, and she

    screwed up nerve and began to climb.

    'You mind Ralph,' she called back to Bubber. 'Mind the gnats

    don't sit on his eyelids.'

    Five minutes later Mick stood up and held herself very

    straight. She spread out her arms like wings. This was the

    place where everybody wanted to stand. The very top. But not

    many kids could do it. Most of them were scared, for if you

    lost your grip and rolled off the edge it would kill you. All

    around were the roofs of other houses and the green tops of

    trees. On the other side of town were the church steeples and

    the smokestacks from the mills. The sky was bright blue and

    hot as fire. The sun made everything on the ground either

    dizzy white or black.

    She wanted to sing. All the songs she knew pushed up toward

    her throat, but there was no sound. One big boy who had got

    to the highest part of the roof last week let out a yell and then

    started hollering out a speech he had learned at High School

    —'Friends, Romans, Countrymen, Lend me your ears!' There

    was something about getting to the very top that gave you a

    wild feeling and made you want to yell or sing or raise up

    your arms and fly.

    She felt the soles of her tennis shoes slipping, and eased

    herself down so that she straddled the peak of the roof. The

    house was almost finished. It would be one of the largest

    buildings in the neighborhood—two stories, with very high ceilings and the steepest roof of any house she had ever seen.

    But soon the work would all be finished. The carpenters

    would leave and the kids would have to find another place to

    play.

    She was by herself. No one was around and it was quiet and

    she could think for a while. She took from the pocket of her

    shorts the package of cigarettes she had bought the night

    before. She breathed in the smoke slowly. The ciga-

    rette gave her a drunk feeling so that her head seemed heavy

    and loose on her shoulders, but she had to finish it.

    M.K.—That was what she would have written on everything

    when she was seventeen years old and very famous. She

    would ride back home in a red-and-white Packard automobile

    with her initials on the doors. She would have M.K. written in

    red on her handkerchiefs and underclothes. Maybe she would

    be a great inventor. She would invent little tiny radios the size

    of a green pea that people could carry around and stick in their

    ears. Also flying machines people could fasten on their backs

    like knapsacks and go zipping all over the world. After that

    she would be the first one to make a large t ......