carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第78章

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his　head　lowered。　A　crazy　sound　came　out　of　his　throat。　He　hit　
with　all　his　strength　and　charged　with　his　head　like　a　bull。　
Senseless　words　were　in　his　mind　and　he　was　laughing。　He　did　
not　see　who　he　hit　and　did　not　know　who　hit　him。　But　he　knew　
that　the　line…up　of　the　fight　had　changed　and　now　each　man　
was　for　himself。　
Then　suddenly　it　was　finished。　He　tripped　and　fell　over　
backward。　He　was　knocked　out　so　that　it　may　have　been　a　
minute　or　it　may　have　been　much　longer　before　he　opened　his　
eyes。　A　few　drunks　were　still　fighting　but　two　dicks　were　
breaking　it　up　fast。　He　saw　what　he　had　tripped　over。　He　lay　
half　on　and　hah*　beside　the　body　of　a　young　Negro　boy。　With　
only　one　look　he　knew　that　he　was　dead。　There　was　a　cut　on　
the　side　of　his　neck　but　it　was　hard　to　see　how　he　had　died　in　
such　a　hurry。　He　knew　the　face　but　could　not　place　it。　The　
boy's　mouth　was　open　and　his　eyes　were　open　in　surprise。　The　
ground　was　littered　with　papers　and　broken　bottles　and　
trampled　hamburgers。　The　head　was290　

broken　off　one　of　the　jinny　horses　and　a　booth　was　destroyed。　
He　was　sitting　up。　He　saw　the　dicks　and　in　a　panic　he　started　
to　run。　By　now　they　must　have　lost　his　track。　
There　were　only　four　more　blocks　ahead；　and　then　he　would　
be　safe　for　sure。　Fear　had　shortened　his　breath　so　that　he　was　
winded。　He　clenched　bis　fists　and　lowered　his　head。　Then　
suddenly　he　slowed　and　halted。　He　was　alone　in　an　alley　near　
the　main　street。　On　one　side　was　the　wall　of　a　building　and　he　
slumped　against　it；　panting；　the　corded　vein　in　his　forehead　
inflamed。　In　his　confusion　he　had　run　all　the　way　across　the　
town　to　reach　the　room　of　his　friend。　And　Singer　was　dead。　He　
began　to　cry。　He　sobbed　aloud；　and　water　dripped　down　from　
his　nose　and　wet　his　mustache。　
A　wall；　a　flight　of　stairs；　a　road　ahead。　The　burning　sun　was　
like　a　heavy　weight　on　him。　He　started　back　the　way　he　had　
come。　This　time　he　walked　slowly；　wiping　his　wet　face　with　


the　greasy　sleeve　of　his　shirt。　He　could　not　stop　the　trembling　
of　his　lips　and　he　bit　them　until　he　tasted　blood。　
At　the　corner　of　the　next　block　he　ran　into　Simms。　The　old　
codger　was　sitting　on　a　box　with　his　Bible　on　his　knees。　There　
was　a　tall　board　fence　behind　him；　and　on　it　a　message　was　
written　with　purple　chalk。　

He　Died　to　Save　You　

Hear　the　Story　of　His　Love　and　Grace
Every　Nite　7。15　P。M。
The　street　was　empty。　Jake　tried　to　cross　over　to　the　other
sidewalk；　but　Simms　caught　him　by　the　arm。
'Come；　all　ye　disconsolate　and　sore　of　heart。　Lay　down　your
sins　and　troubles　before　the　blessed　feet　of　Him　who　died　to
save　you。　Wherefore　goest　thou；　Brother　Blount？
'
〃Home　to　hockey；'　Jake　said。　'I　got　to　hockey。　Does　the
Saviour　have　anything　against　that？
'
'Sinner！　The　Lord　remembers　all　your　transgressions。　The
Lord　has　a　message　for　you　this　very　night。
'
'Does　the　Lord　remember　that　dollar　I　gave　you　last　week？
'
'Jesus　has　a　message　for　you　at　seven…fifteen　tonight。　You　be
here　on　time　to　hear　His　Word。
'


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Jake　licked　his　mustache。　'You　have　such　a　crowd　every　night
I　can't　get　up　close　enough　to　hear。
'
〃There　is　a　place　for　scoffers。　Besides；　I　have　had　a　sign　that
soon　the　Saviour　wants　me　to　build　a　house　for　Him。　On　that
lot　at　the　corner　of　Eighteenth　Avenue　and　Sixth　Street。　
A
tabernacle　large　enough　to　hold　five　hundred　people。　Then
you　scoffers　will　see。　The　Lord　prepareth　a　table　before　me　in
the　presence　of　mine　enemies；　he　anoint…eth　my　head　with　oil。
My　cup　runneth
'
'I　can　round　you　up　a　crowd　tonight；'　Jake　said。
'How？
'
'Give　me　your　pretty　colored　chalk。　I　promise　a　big　crowd。
'
'I've　seen　your　signs；'　Simms　said。　'　〃Workers！　America　Is　the
Richest　Country　in　the　World　Yet　a　Third　of　Us　Are　Starving。
When　Will　We　Unite　and　Demand　Our　Share？〃—all　that。
Your　signs　are　radical。　I　wouldn't　let　you　use　my　chalk。
'
'But　I　don't　plan　to　write　signs。
'



Simms　fingered　the　pages　of　his　Bible　and　waited　
suspiciously。　
Til　get　you　a　fine　crowd。　On　the　pavements　at　each　end　of　the　
block　I'll　draw　you　some　good…looking　naked　floozies。　All　in　
color　with　arrows　to　point　the　way。　Sweet；　plump；　bare…
tailed'　
'Babylonian！'　the　old　man　screamed。　'Child　of　Sodom！　God　
will　remember　this。'　
Jake　crossed　over　to　the　other　sidewalk　and　started　toward　the　
house　where　he　lived。　'So　long；　Brother。'　
'Sinner；'　the　old　man　called。　'You　come　back　here　at　seven…
fifteen　sharp。　And　hear　the　message　from　Jesus　that　will　give　
you　faith。　Be　saved。'　
Singer　was　dead。　And　the　way　he　had　felt　when　he　first　heard　
that　he　had　killed　himself　was　not　sad—it　was　angry。　He　was　
before　a　wall。　He　remembered　all　the　innermost　thoughts　that　
he　had　told　to　Singer；　and　with　his　death　it　seemed　to　him　that　
they　were　lost。　And　why　had　Singer　wanted　to　end　his　life？　
Maybe　he　had　gone　insane。　But　anyway　he　was　dead；　dead；　
dead。　He　could　not　be　seen　or　touched　or　spoken　to；　and　the　
room　where　they　had　spent　so　many　hours　had　been　rented　to　
a　girl　who292　

worked　as　a　typist。　He　could　go　there　no　longer。　He　was　alone。　
A　wall；　a　flight　of　stairs；　an　open　road。　
Jake　locked　the　door　of　his　room　behind　him。　He　was　hungry　
and　there　was　nothing　to　eat。　He　was　thirsty　and　only　a　few　
drops　of　warm　water　were　left　in　the　pitcher　by　the　table。　The　
bed　was　unmade　and　dusty　fluff　had　accumulated　on　the　floor。　
Papers　were　scattered　all　about　the　room；　because　recently　he　
had　written　many　short　notices　and　distributed　them　through　
the　town。　Moodily　he　glanced　at　one　of　the　papers　labeled　
'The　T。W。O。C。　Is　Your　Best　Friend。'　Some　of　the　notices　
consisted　of　only　one　sentence；　others　were　longer。　There　was　
one　full…page　manifesto　entitled　〃The　Affinity　Between　Our　
Democracy　and；　Fascism。'　
For　a　month　he　had　worked　on　these　papers；　scribbling　them　
during　working　hours；　typing　and　making　carbons　on　the　
typewriter　at　the　New　York　Caf6；　distributing　them　by　hand。　
He　had　worked　day　and　night。　But　who　read　them？　What　good　


had　any　of　it　done？　A　town　this　size　was　too　big　for　any　one　
man。　And　now　he　was　leaving。　
But　where　would　it　be　this　time？　The　names　of　cities　called　to　
him—Memphis；　Wilmington；　Gastonia；　New　Orleans。　He　
would　go　somewhere。　But　not　out　of　the　South。　The　old　
restlessness　and　hunger　were　in　him　again。　It　was　different　
this　time。　He　did　not　long　for　open　space　and　freedom—just　
the　reverse。　He　remembered　what　the　Negro；　Copeland；　had　
said　to　him；　'Do　not　attempt　to　stand　alone。'　There　were　times　
when　that　was　best。　
Jake　moved　the　bed　across　the　room。　On　the　part　of　the　floor　
the　bed　had　hidden　there　were　a　suitcase　and　a　pile　of　books　
and　dirty　clothes。　Impatiently　he　began　to　pack。　The　old　
Negro's　face　was　in　his　mind　and　some　of　the　words　they　had　
said　came　back　to　him。　Copeland　was　crazy。　He　was　a　fanatic；　
so　that　it　was　maddening　to　try　to　reason　with　him。　Still　the　
terrible　anger　that　they　had　felt　that　night　had　been　hard　to　
understand。　Copeland　knew。　And　those　who　knew　were　like　a　
handful　of　naked　soldiers　before　an　armed　battalion。　And　what　
had　they　done？　They　had　turned　to　quarrel　with　each　other。　
Copeland　was　wrong—yes—he　was　crazy。　But　on　some　points　
they　might　be　able　to　work　together　after　all。　If　they　didn't　talk　
too　much。　He　would　go　and　see　him。　A　sudden　urge　to　

293　

hurry　came　in　him。　Maybe　that　would　be　the　best　thing　after　
all。　Maybe　that　was　the　sign；　the　hand　he　had　so　long　awaited。　
Without　pausing　to　wash　the　grime　from　his　face　and　hands　he　
strapped　his　suitcase　and　left　the　room。　Outside　the　air　was　
sultry　and　there　was　a　foul　odor　in　the　street。　Clouds　had　
formed　in　the　sky。　The　atmosphere　was　so　still　that　the　smoke　
from　a　mill　in　the　district　went　up　in　a　straight；　unbroken　line。　
As　Jake　walked　the　suitcase　bumped　awkwardly　against　his　
knees；　and　often　he　jerked　his　head　to　look　behind　him。　
Copeland　lived　all　the　way　across　the　town；　so　there　was　need　
to　hurry。　The　clouds　in　the　sky　grew　steadily　denser；　and　
foretold　a　heavy　summer　rain　before　nightfall。　
When　he　reached　the　house　where　Copeland　lived　he　saw　that　
the　shutters　were　drawn。　He　walked　to