"What is all this talk about soul?" asked Bennie Weems in a loud voice.
Pinioned by shame, Malone repeated, "My immortal soul." His temples were throbbing and his hands unnerved and shaking.
"What the fuck is an immortal soul?" Bennie Weems said.
"I don't know," Malone said. "But if I have one, I don't want to lose it."
The Judge, seeing his friend's embarrassment, was embarrassed in turn. "Buck up, Son," he said in a low voice. Then in a loud voice he addressed the men. "J.T. here doesn't think we ought to do it. But if we do do it, I think we ought to do it all together, because then it's not the same thing."
Having made a fool and a spectacle of himself in public, Malone had no face to save, so he cried out, "But it is the same thing. Whether one person does it or a dozen, it's the same thing if it's murder."
Crouched in the compounding room, Jester was thinking that he never thought old Mr. Malone had it in him.
Sammy Lank spat on the floor and said again, "Chicken." Then he added, "I'll do it. Be glad to. It's right next to my house."
All eyes were turned to Sammy Lank who was suddenly a hero.
13
JESTER went immediately to Sherman's house to warn him. When he told about the meeting at the pharmacy, Sherman's face turned grayish, the pallor of dark skin in mortal fright.
Serves him right, Jester thought. Killing my dog. But as he saw Sherman trembling, suddenly the dog was forgotten and it was as though he was seeing Sherman again for the first time as he had seen him that summer evening almost a year ago. He, too, began to tremble, not with passion this time, but from fear for Sherman and from tension.
Suddenly Sherman began to laugh. Jester put his arms around the shaking shoulders. "Don't act like that, Sherman. You've got to get out of here. You've got to leave this house."
When Sherman looked around the room with the new furniture, the bought-on-time baby grand piano, bought-on-time genuine antique sofa and two chairs, he began to cry. There was a fire in the fireplace, for although the night was warm, Sherman was cold and the fire had looked cozy and homelike to him. In the firelight the tears were purple and gold on his grayish face.
Jester said again, "You've got to leave this place."
"Leave my furniture?" With one of the wild swings of mood that Jester knew so well, Sherman began to talk about the furniture. "And you haven't even seen the bedroom suit, with the pink sheets and boudoir pillows. Or my clothes." He opened the closet door. "Four brand new Hart, Schaffner & Marx suits."
Wheeling wildly to the kitchen, he said, "And the kitchen, with all modern conveniences. And all my own." In an ecstasy of ownership, Sherman seemed to have forgotten all about the fear.
Jester said, "But didn't you know this was going to happen?"
"I knew and I didn't know. But it's not going to happen! I have invited guests with RSVP invitations to a house-warming party. I bought a case of Lord Calvert's bottled in bond, six bottles of gin, six bottles of champagne. We are having caviar on crisp pieces of toast, fried chicken, Harvard beets, and greens." Sherman looked around the room. "It's not going to happen because, boy, you know how much this furniture cost? It's going to take me more than three years to pay for it and the liquor and the clothes." Sherman went to the piano and stroked it lovingly. "All my life I have wanted an elegant baby grand."
"Stop all this goofy talk about baby grands and parties. Don't you realize this is serious?"
"Serious? Why should they bomb me? Me who is not even noticed. I went to the dime store and sat down on one of those stools. That is the actual truth." (Sherman had gone to the dime store and sat down on one of the stools. But when the clerk approached threateningly, Sherman said, "I'm sick. Will you give me a glass of water, miss?")
"But now you've been noticed," Jester said. "Why can't you forget all this mania about black and white, and go North where people don't mind so much? I know that if I were a Negro, I'd certainly light out for the North."
"But I can't," Sherman said. "I have rented this house with my good money and moved in this beautiful furniture. For the last two days I have been arranging everything. And if I do say so myself, it's elegant."
The house was suddenly all of Sherman's world. He never thought consciously about his parentage these days, since his discovery in the Judge's office. There was just a sense of murk and desolation. He had to busy himself with furniture, with things, and there was always this ever present sense of danger and the ever present sense that he would never back down. His heart was saying, I have done something, done something, done something. And fear only buoyed his elation.
"You want to see my new green suit?" Sherman, wild with tension and excitement, went to the bedroom and put on his new Nile green silk suit. Jester, trying desperately to cope with the veering Sherman, watched while Sherman pranced through the room in the new green suit.
Jester could only say, "I don't care about all this furniture and suits but I do care about you. Don't you realize this is serious?"
"Serious, man?" Sherman began to pound middle C on the piano. "Me who has kept a black book all my life, and you talk about serious? Did I tell you about vibrations? I vibrate, vibrate, vibrate!"
"Stop pounding the piano like a lunatic and listen to me."
"I have made my decision. So I am going to stay right here. Right here. Bombing or no. Besides, why the fucking hell do you care?"
"I don't know why I care so much, but I do." Over and over Jester had asked himself why he cared for Sherman. When he was with him, there was a shafting feeling in the region of his belly or his heart. Not all the time, but just in spasms. Unable to explain it to himself, he said, "I guess it's just a matter of cockles."
"Cockles? What are cockles?"
"Haven't you ever heard the expression, cockles of your heart?"
"Fuck cockles. I don't know anything about cockles. All I know is, I have rented this house, paid my good money, and I am going to stay. I'm sorry."
"Well you have got to do better than be sorry. You have got to move."
"Sorry," Sherman said, "about your dog."
As Sherman spoke, the little spasm of sweetness shafted in that region of Jester's heart. "Forget the dog. The dog is dead. And I want for you to be living always."
"Nobody lives for always, but when I live I like to live it up." And Sherman began to laugh. Jester was reminded of another laughter. It was the laughter of his grandfather when he talked about his dead son. The senseless pounding on the piano, the senseless laughter, jangled his grief.
Yes, Jester tried to warn Sherman, but he would not be warned. It was up to Jester now. But who could he turn to? What could he do? He had to leave Sherman sitting there, laughing and pounding on middle C of the baby grand piano.
Sammy Lank had no idea how to make a bomb so he went to the smart Max Gerhardt who made him two. The explosive feelings of the last days, the shame, the outrage, the insult, the hurt and fearful pride had almost gone away, and when Sammy Lank stood with the bomb that soft May evening looking at Sherman through the open window, his passion had been almost spent. He stood numb of any feelings except a feeling of shallow pride that he was doing what had to be done. Sherman was playing the piano and Sammy watched him curiously, wondering how a nigger could learn how to play the piano. Then Sherman began to sing. His strong dark throat was thrown back, and it was at that throat that Sammy aimed the bomb. Since he was only a few yards away, the bomb was a direct hit. After the first bomb was thrown a feeling savage and sweet came back to Sammy Lank. He threw the second bomb and the house began to burn.
The crowd was already in the street and yard. Neighbors, customers at Mr. Peak's, even Mr. Malone himself. The fire trucks shrilled.
Sammy Lank knew he had got the nigger, but he waited until the ambulance came and he watched them cover the torn dead body.
The crowd outside the house stayed on to wait. The fire department put out the fire and the crowd moved in. They hauled the baby grand out in t
he yard. Why, they did not know. Soon a soft drizzling rain set in. Mr. Peak who owned the grocery store adjoining the house had a very good business that night. The news reporter on the Milan Courier reported the bombing for the early edition of the paper.
Since the Judge's house was in another part of town, Jester did not even hear the bombing, and only heard the news the next morning. The Judge, emotional in his old age, took the news emotionally. Uneasy and nostalgic, the softhearted, soft-brained old Judge visited the morgue at the hospital. He did not look at the body, but had it removed to an undertaking establishment where he handed over five hundred dollars in United States greenbacks for the funeral.
Jester did not weep. Carefully, mechanically he wrapped the Tristan score he had inscribed to Sherman and placed it in one of his father's trunks up in the attic and locked it.
Rain had fallen all night but had now stopped, and the sky was the fresh and tender blue that follows a long rain. When Jester went to the bombed house, four of the Lank brood were playing "Chopsticks" on the piano which was now ruined and out of tune. Jester stood in the sunlight hearing the dead and no-tune "Chopsticks" and hatred was mingled with his grief.
"Is your father there?" he called to one of the Lank brood.
"No he ain't," the child answered.
Jester went home. He took the pistol, the one that his father had used to shoot himself, and put it in the glove compartment of the car. Then cruising around town slowly, he first went to the mill and asked for Sammy Lank. He was not there. The nightmare feeling of out-of-tune "Chopsticks," the little Lanks, added to his feeling of frustration that he could not find Sammy Lank and made him beat the steering wheel with his fists.
He had been afraid for Sherman but he never really felt it would ever happen. Not a real happening. It was all just a nightmare. "Chopsticks" and ruined pianos and the determination to find Sammy Lank. Then when he started driving again, he saw Sammy Lank lounging before Mr. Malone's drugstore. He opened the door and beckoned. "Sammy. You want to come with me to the airport? I'll take you on an airplane ride."
Sammy, sheepish and unaware, grinned with pride. He was thinking: Already I'm such a famous man in town that Jester Clane takes me for an airplane ride. He jumped in the car joyfully.
In the training Moth, Jester seated Sammy first, then scrambled around to the other side. He had put the pistol in his pocket. Before taking off, he asked, "Ever been in an airplane before?"
"No sir," said Sammy, "but I'm not scared."
Jester made a perfect take-off. The blue sky, the fresh windy atmosphere, quickened his numbed soul. The plane climbed.
"Was it you who killed Sherman Pew?"
Sammy only grinned and nodded.
At the sound of Sherman's name there was again the little cockles spasm.
"Do you have any life insurance?"
"Nope. Just younguns."
"How many younguns are there?"
"Fourteen," said Sammy. "Five of them grown."
Sammy, who was petrified of a plane, began to talk with nervous foolishness. "Me and my wife almost had quints. There were three younguns and two things. It was right after the quints in Canada were born and they were our first younguns. Every time me and my wife used to think of the quints in Canada—rich, famous, mother and daddy rich and famous too—a little quinch came in us. We almost hit the jackpot, and every time we did it we thought that we were making quints. But we only had triplets and twins and little ole singles. Once me and my wife took all the younguns to Canada to see the quints in their little glass playhouse. Our younguns all got the measles."
"So that's why you had so many children."
"Yep. We wanted to hit the jackpot. And me and my wife were naturals for borning twins and triplets and such. But we never hit it. However, there was an article in the Milan Courier about our Milan triplets. It's framed and on our living room wall. We've had a hard time raising those younguns but we never gave up. And now that my wife has changed life, it's all over. I'll never be nothing but Sammy Lank."
The grotesque pity of the story made Jester laugh that laughter of despair. And once having laughed and despaired and pitied, he knew he could not use the pistol. For in that instant the seed of compassion, forced by sorrow, had begun to blossom. Jester slipped the pistol from his pocket and dropped it out of the plane.
"What's that?" said Sammy, terrified.
"Nothing," Jester said. He looked across at Sammy who had turned green. "Do you want to go down?"
"No," said Sammy. "I ain't scared."
So Jester circled on.
Looking downward from an altitude of two thousand feet, the earth assumes order. A town, even Milan, is symmetrical, exact as a small gray honeycomb, complete. The surrounding terrain seems designed by a law more just and mathematical than the laws of property and bigotry: a dark parallelogram of pine woods, square fields, rectangles of sward. On this cloudless day the sky on all sides and above the plane is a blind monotone of blue, impenetrable to the eye and the imagination. But down below the earth is round. The earth is finite. From this height you do not see man and the details of his humiliation. The earth from a great distance is perfect and whole.
But this is an order foreign to the heart, and to love the earth you must come closer. Gliding downward, low over the town and countryside, the whole breaks up into a multiplicity of impressions. The town is much the same in all its seasons, but the land changes. In early spring the fields here are like patches of worn gray corduroy, each one alike. Now you could begin to tell the crops apart: the gray-green of cotton, the dense and spidery tobacco land, the burning green of corn. As you circle inward, the town itself becomes crazy and complex. You see the secret corners of all the sad back yards. Gray fences, factories, the flat main street. From the air men are shrunken and they have an automatic look, like wound-up dolls. They seem to move mechanically among haphazard miseries. You do not see their eyes. And finally this is intolerable. The whole earth from a great distance means less than one long look into a pair of human eyes. Even the eyes of the enemy.
Jester looked into Sammy's eyes which were popped with terror.
His odyssey of passion, friendship, love, and revenge was now finished. Gently Jester landed the airplane and let Sammy Lank out—to brag to his family that he is such a well-known man now that even Jester Clane had taken him up on an airplane ride.
14
AT FIRST Malone cared. When he saw that Bennie Weems had taken his trade to Whelan's and that Sheriff McCall did not drink his customary cokes at the pharmacy, he cared. In the front of his mind he said, "To hell with Bennie Weems; to hell with the sheriff." But deep down he worried. Had that night at the drugstore jeopardized the good will of the pharmacy and a sale for the good will? Was it worth taking the stand he did at the meeting? Malone wondered and worried and still he did not know. Worry affected his health. He made mistakes—mistakes in bookkeeping that were unusual with a good figuring bookkeeper like Malone. He sent out inaccurate bills which customers complained about. He did not have the strength to push sales properly. He himself knew that he was failing. He wanted the shelter of his home, and often he would stay whole days in the double bed.
Malone, dying, was sensitive to sunrise. After the long, black night, he watched the false dawn and the first ivory and gold and orange of the eastern sky. If it were a fair and blossomy day, he sat up on the pillows and eagerly awaited breakfast. But if the day was gloomy with sour skies or rain, his own spirits were reflected in the weather so that he turned on the light and complained fretfully.
Martha tried to comfort him. "It's just this first hot spell. When you get accustomed to the weather you will feel better."
But no, it was not the weather. He no longer confused the end of life with the beginning of a new season. The wisteria trellis like lavender waterfalls had come and gone. He did not have the strength to plant the vegetable garden. And the gold-green willows were turning darker now. Curious, he had always thought of willows
in connection with water. But his willows had no water, although there was a spring across the street. Yes, the earth had revolved its seasons and spring had come again. But there was no longer a revulsion against nature, against things. A strange lightness had come upon his soul and he exalted. He looked at nature now and it was part of himself. He was no longer a man watching a clock without hands. He was not alone, he did not rebel, he did not suffer. He did not even think of death these days. He was not a man dying ... nobody died, everybody died.
Martha would sit in the room knitting. She had taken up knitting and it soothed him to see her there. He no longer thought about the zones of loneliness that had so bewildered him. His life was strangely contracted. There was the bed, the window, a glass of water. Martha brought him meals on a tray and nearly always she had a vase of flowers on the bed table—roses, periwinkle, snapdragons.
The love for his wife that had so receded returned to him. As Martha thought of little dainty things to tempt his appetite or knitted in the sickroom, Malone felt a nearer value of her love. It touched him when she bought from Goody's Department Store a pink bedrest so he could sit propped up in bed without being supported by only the damp sliding pillows.
Since that meeting at the pharmacy, the old Judge treated Malone as an invalid. Their roles were now reversed; it was the Judge now who brought sacks of water-ground meal and turnip greens and fruit as one brings to a sick man.
On May fifteenth the doctor came twice, once in the morning and again in the afternoon. The current doctor was now Dr. Wesley. On May fifteenth, Dr. Wesley spoke with Martha alone in the living room. Malone did not care that they were talking about him in another room. He did not worry, he did not wonder. That night when Martha gave him his sponge bath, she bathed his feverished face and put cologne behind both his ears and poured more cologne in the basin. Then she washed his hairy chest and armpits in the scented water, and his legs and callused feet. And finally, very gently, she washed his limp genitals.
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