The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (35 page)

Through these dazed, disjointed weeks Simms nagged his footsteps constantly. The old man liked to come with a soapbox and a Bible and take a stand in the middle of the crowd to preach. He talked of the second coming of Christ. He said that the Day of Judgment would be October 2, 1951. He would point out certain drunks and scream at them in his raw, worn voice. Excitement made his mouth fill with water so that his words had a wet, gurgling sound. Once he had slipped in and set up his stand no arguments could make him budge. He made Jake a present of a Gideon Bible, and told him to pray on his knees for one hour each night and to hurl away every glass of beer or cigarette that was offered him.

They quarreled over walls and fences. Jake had begun to carry chalk in his pockets, also. He wrote brief sentences.

He tried to word them so that a passerby would stop and ponder over the meaning. So that a man would wonder. So that a man would think. Also, he wrote short pamphlets and distributed them in the streets.

If it had not been for Singer, Jake knew that he would have left the town. Only on Sunday, when he was with his friend, did he feel at peace. Sometimes they would go for a walk together or play chess--but more often they spent the day quietly in Singer’s room. If he wished to talk Singer was always attentive. If he sat morosely through the day the mute understood his feelings and was not surprised. It seemed to him that only Singer could help him now.

Then one Sunday when he climbed the stairs he saw that Singer’s door was open. The room was empty. He sat alone for more than two hours. At last he heard Singer’s footsteps on the stairs.

‘I was wondering about you. Where you been?’ Singer smiled. He brushed off his hat with a handkerchief and put it away. Then deliberately he took his silver pencil from his pocket and leaned over the mantelpiece to write a note.

‘What you mean?’ Jake asked when he read what the mute had written. ‘Whose legs are cut off?’

Singer took back the note and wrote a few additional sentences.

‘Huh!’ Jake said. That don’t surprise me.’

He brooded over the piece of paper and then crumpled it in his hand. The listlessness of the past month was gone and he was tense and uneasy. ‘Huh!’ he said again.

Singer put on a pot of coffee and got out his chessboard. Jake tore the note to pieces and rolled the fragments between his sweating palms. ‘But something can be done about this,’ he said after a while. ‘You know it? ‘ Singer nodded uncertainly. ‘I want to see the boy and hear the whole story. When can you take me around there? ‘ Singer deliberated. Then he wrote on a pad of paper, ‘Tonight.’ Jake held his hand to his mouth and began to walk restlessly around the room. ‘We can do something.’

JAKE and Singer waited on the front porch. When they pushed the doorbell there was no sound of a ring in the darkened house. Jake knocked impatiently and pressed his nose against the screen door. Beside him Singer stood wooden and smiling, with two spots of color on his cheeks, for they had drunk a bottle of gin together. The evening was quiet and dark. Jake watched a yellow light shaft softly through the hall. And Portia opened the door for them.

‘I certainly trust you not been waiting long. So many folks been coming that us thought it wise to untach the bell. You gentlemens just let me take you hats--Father been mighty sick.’

Jake tiptoed heavily behind Singer down the bare, narrow hall.

At the threshold of the kitchen he stopped short The room was crowded and hot. A fire burned in the small wood stove and the windows were closed tight. Smoke mingled with a certain Negro smell. The glow from the stove was the only light in the room. The dark voices he had heard back in the hall were silent.

‘These here are two white gentlemens come to inquire about Father,’ Portia said. ‘I think maybe he be able to see you but I better go on in first and prepare him.’

Jake fingered his thick lower lip. On the end of his nose there was a latticed impression from the front screen door. ‘That’s not it,’ he said. ‘I come to talk with your brother.’

The Negroes in the room were standing. Singer motioned to them to be seated again. Two grizzled old men sat down on a bench by the stove. A loose-limbed mulatto lounged against the window. On a camp cot in a corner was a boy without legs whose trousers were folded and pinned beneath his stumpy thighs. ‘Good evening,’ Jake said awkwardly. ‘Your name Copeland? ‘ The boy put his hands over the stumps of his legs and shrank back close to the wall. ‘My name Willie.’

‘Honey, don’t you worry none,’ said Portia. ‘This here is Mr. Singer that you heard Father speak about. And this other white gentleman is Mr. Blount and he a very close friend of Mr. Singer. They just kindly come to inquire about us in our trouble.’ She turned to Jake and motioned to the three other people in the room. This other boy leaning on the window is my brother too. Named Buddy. And these here over by the stove is two dear friends of my Father. Named Mr. Marshall Nicolls and Mr. John Roberts. I think it a good idea to understand who all is in a room with you. ‘Thanks,’ Jake said. He turned to Willie again. ‘I just want you to tell me about it so I can get it straight in my mind.’

‘This the way it is,’ Willie said. ‘I feel like my feets is still hurting. I got this here terrible misery down in my toes. Yet the hurt in my feets is down where my feets should be if they were on my l-l-legs. And not where my feets is now. It a hard thing to understand. My feets hurt me so bad all the time and I don’t know where they is. They never given them back to me. They s-somewhere more than a hundred m-miles from here.’

‘I mean about how it all happened,’ Jake said. Uneasily Willie looked up at his sister. ‘I don’t remember very good.’

‘Course you remember, Honey. You done already told us over and over.’

‘Well--’ The boy’s voice was timid and sullen. Us were all out on the road and this here Buster say something to the guard. The w-white man taken a stick to him. Then this other boy he tries to run off. And I follow him. It all come about so quick I don’t remember good just how it were. Then they taken us back to the camp and--‘ ‘I know the rest,’ Jake said. ‘But give me the names and addresses of the other two boys. And tell me the names of the guards.’

‘Listen here, white man. It seem to me like you meaning to get me into trouble.’

‘Trouble!’ Jake said rudely. ‘What in the name of Christ do you think you’re in now?’

‘Less us quiet down,’ Portia said nervously. ‘This here the way it is, Mr. Blount. They done let Willie off at the camp before his time were served. But they done also impressed it on him not to--I believe you understand what us means. Naturally Willie he scared. Naturally us means to be careful--’cause that the best thing us can do. We already got enough trouble as is.’

‘What happened to the guards? ‘ Them w-white men were fired. That what they told me.’

‘And where are your friends now? ‘ ‘What friends? ‘ .Why, the other two boys.’

They n-not my friends,’ Willie said. ‘Us all has had a big falling out’

‘How you mean?’

Portia pulled her earrings so that the lobes of her ears stretched out like rubber. ‘This here what Willie means. You see, during them three days when they hurt so bad they commenced to quarrel. Willie don’t ever want to see any of them again. That one thing Father and Willie done argued about already. This here Buster--’

‘Buster got a wooden leg,’ said the boy by the window. I seen him on the street today.’

This here Buster don’t have no folks and it were Father’s idea to have him move on in with us. Father want to round up all the boys together. How he reckons us can feed them I sure don’t know.’

That ain’t a good idea. And besides us was never very good friends anyway.’ Willie felt the stumps of his legs with his dark, strong hands. ‘I just wish I knowed where my f-f-feets are. That the main thing worries me. The doctor never given them back to me. I sure do wish I knowed where they are.’

Jake looked around him with dazed, gin-clouded eyes.

Everything seemed unclear and strange. The heat in the kitchen dizzied him so that voices echoed in his ears. The smoke choked him. The light hanging from the ceiling was turned on but, as the bulb was wrapped in newspaper to dim its strength, most of the light came from between the chinks of the hot stove. There was a red glow on all the dark faces around him. He felt uneasy and alone. Singer had left the room to visit Portia’s father. Jake wanted him to come back so that they could leave. He walked awkwardly across the floor and sat down on the bench between Marshall Nicolls and John Roberts. ‘Where is Portia’s father?’ he asked. ‘Doctor Copeland is in the front room, sir,’ said Roberts. ‘Is he a doctor?’

‘Yes, sir. He is a medical doctor.’ There was a scuffle on the steps outside and the back door opened. A warm, fresh breeze lightened the heavy air. First a tall boy dressed hi a linen suit and gilded shoes entered the room with a sack in his arms. Behind him came a young boy of about seventeen. ‘Hey, Highboy. Hey there, Lancy,’ Willie said. ‘What you all brought me? ‘ Highboy bowed elaborately to Jake and placed on the table two fruit jars of wine. Lancy put beside them a plate covered with a fresh white napkin. This here wine is a present from the Society,’ Highboy said. ‘And Lancy’s mother sent some peach puffs.’

‘How is the Doctor, Miss Portia?’ Lancy asked. .Honey, he been mighty sick these days. What worries me is he so strong. It a bad sign when a person sick as he is suddenly come to be so strong.’ Portia turned to Jake. ‘Don’t you think it a bad sign, Mr. Blount?’

Jake stared at her dazedly. ‘I don’t know.’

Lancy glanced sullenly at Jake and pulled down the cuffs of his outgrown shirt. ‘Give the Doctor my family’s regards.’

‘Us certainly do appreciate this,’ Portia said. ‘Father was speaking of you just the other day. He haves a book he wants to give you. Wait just one minute while I get it and rinse out this plate to return to your Mother. This were certainly a kindly thing for her to do.’

Marshall Nicolls leaned toward Jake and seemed about to speak to him. The old man wore a pair of pin-striped trousers and a morning coat with a flower in the buttonhole. He cleared his throat and said: ‘Pardon me, sir--but unavoidably we overheard a part of your conversation with William regarding the trouble he is now in. Inevitably we have considered what is the best course to take.’

‘You one of his relatives or the preacher in his church?’

‘No, I am a pharmacist. And John Roberts on your left is employed in the postal department of the government.’

‘A postman,’ repeated John Roberts.

‘With your permission--’ Marshall Nicolls took a yellow silk handkerchief from his pocket and gingerly blew his nose. ‘Naturally we have discussed this matter extensively.’

And without doubt as members of the colored race here in this free country of America we are anxious to do our part toward extending amicable relationships.’

We wish always to do the right thing,’ said John Roberts.

‘And it behooves us to strive with care and not endanger this amicable relationship already established. Then by gradual means a better condition will come about.’

Jake turned from one to the other. ‘I don’t seem to follow you.’

The heat was suffocating him. He wanted to get out. A film seemed to have settled over his eyeballs so that all the faces around him were blurred.

Across the room Willie was playing his harp. Buddy and Highboy were listening. The music was dark and sad. When the song was finished Willie polished his harp on the front of his shirt. ‘I so hungry and thirsty the slobber in my mouth done wet out the tune. I certainly will be glad to taste some of that boogie-woogie. To have something good to drink is the only thing m-made me forget this misery. If I just knowed where my f-feets are now and could drink a glass of gin ever night I wouldn’t mind so much.’

‘Don’t fret, Hon. You going to have something,’ Portia said.

‘Mr. Blount, would you care to take a peach puff and a glass of wine?’

‘Thanks,’ Jake said. ‘That would be good.’

Quickly Portia laid a cloth on the table and set down one plate and a fork. She poured a large tumblerful of the wine. ‘You just make yourself comfortable here. And if you don’t mind I going to serve the others.’ The fruit jars were passed from mouth to mouth. Before Highboy passed a jar to Willie he borrowed Portia’s lipstick and drew a red line to set the boundary of the drink. There were gurgling noises and laughter. Jake finished his puff and carried his glass back with him to his place between the two old men. The home-made wine was rich and strong as brandy. Willie started a low dolorous tune on his harp. Portia snapped her fingers and shuffled around the room. Jake turned to Marshall Nicolls. ‘You say Portia’s father is a doctor?’

‘Yes, sir. Yes, indeed. A skilled doctor.’

‘What’s the matter with him? ‘ The two Negroes glanced warily at each other. ‘He were in an accident,’ said John Roberts. ‘What kind of an accident? ‘ ‘A bad one. A deplorable one.’ Marshall Nicolls folded and unfolded his silk handkerchief. ‘As we were remarking a while ago, it is important not to impair these amicable relations but to promote them in all ways earnestly possible. We members of the colored race must strive in all ways to uplift our citizens. The Doctor in yonder has strived in every way. But sometimes it has seemed to me like he had not recognized fully enough certain elements of the different races and the situation.’ Impatiently Jake gulped down the last swallows of his wine. ‘Christ’ sake, man, speak out plain, because I can’t understand a thing you say.’ Marshall Nicolls and John Roberts exchanged a hurt look. Across the room Willie still sat playing music. His lips crawled over the square holes of the harmonica like fat, puckered caterpillars. His shoulders were broad and strong. The stumps of his thighs jerked in time to the music. Highboy danced while Buddy and Portia clapped out the rhythm. Jake stood up, and once on his feet he realized that he was drunk. He staggered and then glanced vindictively around him, but no one seemed to have noticed. ‘Where’s Singer?’ he asked Portia thickly.

The music stopped. ‘Why, Mr. Blount, I thought you knowed he was gone. While you were sitting at the table with your peach puff he come to the doorway and held out his watch to show it were time for him to go. You looked straight at him and shaken your head. I thought you knowed that.’