carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第55章

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it。　When　he　could　lie　with　a　woman　no　longer。　Mothero…eod！　
So　that　at　first　it　seemed　everything　was　gone。　
Lucile　always　understood　the　whole　set…up。　She　knew　the　kind　
of　woman　Alice　was。　Maybe　she　knew　about　him；202　

too。　Lucile　would　urge　them　to　get　a　divorce。　And　she　did　all　a　
person　could　to　try　to　straighten　out　their　messes。　


Biff　winced　suddenly。　He　jerked　his　hands　from　the　strings　of　
the　mandolin　so　that　a　phrase　of　music　was　chopped　off。　He　
sat　tense　in　his　chair。　Then　suddenly　he　laughed　quietly　to　
himself。　What　had　made　him　come　across　this？　Ah；　Lordy　
Lordy　Lord！　It　was　the　day　of　his　twenty…ninth　birthday；　and　
Lucile　had　asked　him　to　drop　by　her　apartment　when　he　
finished　with　an　appointment　at　the　dentist's。　He　expected　
from　this　some　little　remembrance—a　plate　of　cherry　tarts　or　a　
good　shirt。　She　met　him　at　the　door　and　blindfolded　his　eyes　
before　he　entered。　Then　she　said　she　would　be　back　in　a　
second。　In　the　silent　room　he　listened　to　her　footsteps　and　
when　she　had　reached　the　kitchen　he　broke　wind。　He　stood　in　
the　room　with　his　eyes　blindfolded　and　pooted。　Then　all　at　
once　he　knew　with　horror　he　was　not　alone。　There　was　a　titter　
and　soon　great　rolling　whoops　of　laughter　deafened　him。　At　
that　minute　Lucile　came　back　and　undid　his　eyes。　She　held　a　
caramel　cake　on　a　platter。　The　room　was　full　of　people。　Leroy　
and　that　bunch　and　Alice；　of　course。　He　wanted　to　crawl　up　
the　wall。　He　stood　there　with　his　bare　face　hanging　out；　
burning　hot　all　over。　They　kidded　him　and　the　next　hour　was　
almost　as　bad　as　the　death　of　his　mother—　the　way　he　took　it。　
Later　that　night　he　drank　a　quart　of　
whiskey。　And　for　weeks　afterMotherogod！　
Biff　chuckled　coldly。　He　plucked　a　few　chords　on　his　
mandolin　and　started　a　rollicking　cowboy　song。　His　voice　was　
a　mellow　tenor　and　he　closed　his　eyes　as　he　sang。　The　room　
was　almost　dark。　The　damp　chill　penetrated　to　his　bones　so　
that　his　legs　ached　with　rheumatism。　。　
At　last　he　put　away　his　mandolin　and　rocked　slowly　in　。　the　
darkness。　Death。　Sometimes　he　could　almost　feel　it　in　the　
room　with　him。　He　rocked　to　and　fro　in　the　chair。　What　did　he　
understand？　Nothing。　Where　was　he　headed？　Nowhere。　What　
did　he　want？　To　know。　What？　A　mean…ing。　Why？　A　riddle。　
Broken　pictures　lay　like　a　scattered　jigsaw　puzzle　in　his　head。　
Alice　soaping　in　the　bathtub。　Mussolini's　mug。　Mick　pulling　
the　baby　in　a　wagon。　A　roast　turkey　on　display。　Blount's　
mouth。　The　face　of　Singer。　He　felt　himself　wait


f　

ing。　The　room　was　completely　dark。　From　the　kitchen　he　
could　hear　Louis　singing。　
Biff　stood　up　and　touched　the　arm　of　his　chair　to　still　its　
rocking。　When　he　opened　the　door　the　hall　outside　was　very　
warm　and　bright。　He　remembered　that　perhaps　Mick　would　
come。　He　straightened　his　clothes　and　smoothed　back　his　hair。　
A　warmth　and　liveliness　returned　to　him。　The　restaurant　was　
in　a　hubbub。　Beer　rounds　and　Sunday　supper　had　begun。　He　
smiled　genially　to　young　Harry　and　settled　himself　behind　the　
cash　register。　He　took　in　the　room　with　a　glance　like　a　lasso。　
The　place　was　crowded　and　humming　with　noise。　The　bowl　of　
fruit　in　the　window　was　a　genteel；　artistic　display。　He　watched　
the　door　and　continued　to　examine　the　room　with　a　practiced　
eye。　He　was　alert　and　intently　waiting。　Singer　came　finally　
and　wrote　with　his　silver　pencil　that　he　wanted　only　soup　and　
whiskey　as　he　had　a　cold。　But　Mick　did　not　come。　
9　
i5　HE　never　even　had　a　nickel　to　herself　any　more。　They　were　
that　poor。　Money　was　the　main　thing。　All　the　time　it　was　
money；　money；　money。　They　had　to　pay　through　the　nose　for　
Baby　Wilson's　private　room　and　private　nurse。　But　even　that　
was　just　one　bill。　By　the　time　one　thing　was　paid　for　
something　else　always　would　crop　up。　They　owed　around　two　
hundred　dollars　that　had　to　be　paid　right　away。　They　lost　the　
house。　Their　Dad　got　a　hundred　dollars　out　of　the　deal　and　let　
the　bank　take　over　the　mortgage。　Then　he　borrowed　another　
fifty　dollars　and　Mister　Singer　went　on　the　note　with　him。　
Afterward　they　had　to　worry　about　rent　every　month　instead　
of　taxes。　They　were　mighty　near　as　poor　as　factory　folks。　Only　
nobody　could　look　down　on　them。　
Bill　had　a　job　in　a　bottling　plant　and　made　ten　dollars　a　week。　
Hazel　worked　as　a　helper　in　a　beauty　parlor　for　eight　dollars。　
Etta　sold　tickets　at　a　movie　for　five　dollars。　Each　of　them　paid　
half　of　what　they　earned　for　their　keep。　Then　the　house　had　six　
boarders　at　five　dollars　a　head。　And　Mister　Singer；　who　paid　


his　rent　very　prompt。　With　what　their　Dad　picked　up　it　all　
came　to　about　two　hundred204　

dollars　a　month—and　out　of　that　they　had　to　feed　the　six　
boarders　pretty　good　and　feed　the　family　and　pay　rent　for　the　
whole　house　and　keep　up　the　payments　on　the　furniture。　
George　and　her　didn't　get　any　lunch　money　now。　She　had　to　
stop　the　music　lessons。　Portia　saved　the　leftovers　from　the　
dinner　for　her　and　George　to　eat　after　school。　All　the　time　they　
had　their　meals　in　the　kitchen。　Whether　Bill　and　Hazel　and　
Etta　sat　with　the　boarders　or　ate　in　the　kitchen　depended　on　
how　much　food　there　was。　In　the　kitchen　they　had　grits　and　
grease　and　side　meat　and　coffee　for　breakfast。　For　supper　they　
had　the　same　thing　along　with　whatever　could　be　spared　from　
the　dining…room。　The　big　kids　griped　whenever　they　had　to　eat　
in　the　kitchen。　And　sometimes　she　and　George　were　
downright　hungry　for　two　or　three　days。　
But　this　was　in　the　outside　room。　It　had　nothing　to　do　with　
music　and　foreign　countries　and　the　plans　she　made。　The　
winter　was　cold。　Frost　was　on　the　windowpanes。　At　night　the　
fire　in　the　living…room　crackled　very　warm。　All　the　family　sat　
by　the　fire　with　the　boarders；　so　she　had　the　middle　bedroom　
to　herself。　She　wore　two　sweaters　and　a　pair　of　Bill's　outgrown　
corduroy　pants。　Excitement　kept　her　warm。　She　would　bring　
out　her　private　box　from　under　the　bed　and　sit　on　the　floor　to　
work。　
In　the　big　box　there　were　the　pictures　she　had　painted　at　the　
government　free　art　class。　She　had　taken　them　out　of　Bill's　
room。　Also　in　the　box　she　kept　three　mystery　books　her　Dad　
had　given　her；　a　compact；　a　box　of　watch　parts；　a　rhinestone　
necklace；　a　hammer；　and　some　notebooks。　One　notebook　was　
marked　on　the　top　with　red　crayon—　PRIVATE。　KEEP　OUT。　
PRIVATE—and　tied　with　a　string。　
She　had　worked　on　music　in　this　notebook　all　the　winter。　She　
quit　studying　school　lessons　at　night　so　she　could　have　more　
time　to　spend　on　music。　Mostly　she　had　written　just　little　
tunes—songs　without　any　words　and　without　even　any　bass　
notes　to　them。　They　were　very　short。　But　even　if　the　tunes　
were　only　half　a　page　long　she　gave　them　names　and　drew　her　
initials　underneath　them。　Nothing　in　this　book　was　a　real　piece　


or　a　composition。　They　were　just　songs　in　her　mind　she　
wanted　to　remember。　She　named　

them　how　they　reminded　her—'Africa'　and　'A　Big　Fighf　and　
The　Snowstorm。'　
She　couldn't　write　the　music　just　like　it　sounded　in　her　mind。　
She　had　to　thin　it　down　to　only　a　few　notes；　otherwise　she　got　
too　mixed　up　to　go　further。　There　was　so　much　she　didn't　
know　about　how　to　write　music。　But　maybe　after　she　learned　
how　to　write　these　simple　tunes　fairly　quick　she　could　begin　to　
put　down　the　whole　music　in　her　mind。　
In　January　she　began　a　certain　very　wonderful　piece　called　
'This　Thing　I　Want；　I　Know　Not　What'　It　was　a　beautiful　and　
marvelous　song—very　slow　and　soft。　At　first　she　had　started　
to　write　a　poem　along　with　it；　but　she　couldn't　think　of　ideas　to　
fit　the　music。　Also　it　was　hard　to　get　a　word　for　the　third　line　
to　rhyme　with　what。　This　new　song　made　her　feel　sad　and　
excited　and　happy　all　at　once。　Music　beautiful　as　this　was　hard　
to　work　on。　Any　song　was　hard　to　write。　Something　she　could　
hum　in　two　minutes　meant　a　whole　week's　work　before　it　was　
down　in　the　notebook—after　she　had　figured　up　the　scale　and　
the　time　and　every　note。　
She　had　to　concentrate　hard　and　sing　it　many　times。　Her　voice　
was　always　hoarse。　Her　Dad　said　this　was　because　she　had　
bawled　so　much　when　she　was　a　baby。　Her　Dad　would　have　to　
get　up　and　walk　with　her　every　night