Suttree

by Cormac McCarthy

  What all I can get, I reckon.

  Suttree set the basket on the frozen ground and reached in his trouser pocket. He had thirty-five cents. He gave it to the old man and the old man looked at it a minute and nodded and pulled a cord that went down into his clothing. A long gray sock appeared. The top of it had been fitted with an old brass pursecatch and he unsnapped it and dropped in the coins and lowered it back where it had come from and climbed up onto the wagon box.

  Hump sleepyhead, he said.

  The horse lurched forward. Suttree watched them cross the field, fording the pale vapors, the dead lamp hung by its bail from the tailboard, the cart tilting up at the tracks and tilting back again and descending from sight. Upriver he could see a hazy swatch of cold blue light where the sun was rising through the river fog but it was no light much and no warmth at all. He took the basket of coal and toted it back up the plank and went in. He didnt even bother to shut the door. He put the basket by the stove and took up the coalscuttle and shook it. Jacking open the cold stove door with his foot he tipped the scuttle, the coal clunking in, dry ash stirring upward. Suttree peered down the iron gullet, prying at the slag in the stove's belly with the poker. He crumpled a newspaper and dropped it down alight and held his hands to the fleeting warmth. The newspaper curled up in a tortured ash that rose in the stove's mouth, a charred gravure whereon lay gray news, gray faces. Suttree hugged himself and swore. An icy wind was singing in the cracks. He fetched the lamp from the table, removed the chimney and unscrewed the brass wickpiece and emptied the lamp oil into the stove. A white smoke rose. He struck a match and dropped it in but nothing occurred. He snatched up a piece of newspaper and lit it and poked it in. A ball of flame belched up. He did a few stiff dancesteps and went out to relieve himself.

  Ice lay along the shore, frangible plates skewed up and broken on the mud and small icegardens whitely all down the drained and frozen flats where delicate crystal columns sprouted from the mire. He hauled forth his shriveled giblet and pissed a long and smoking piss into the river and spat and buttoned and went in again. He kicked the door shut and stood before the stove in a gesture of enormous exhortation. A frozen hermit. His lower jaw in a seizure. He cast about and got his cup and looked into it. He turned it up and tapped it and an amber lens of frozen coffee slid forth and went rocking and clattering around the basin. He took down the frying pan and set it on the stove and spooned the stiff gray grease. From his packingcrate pantry he selected two eggs and tapped one smartly on the rim of the pan. It rang like stone. He threw it against the wall and it dropped to the floor and rolled oblong and woodenly beneath the bunk. He hung the pan back on the wall and stared out the window. Frost ferns arched from the sashcorners over the glass and the river slouched past like some drear drainage from the earth's bowels. Suttree buttoned his coat and went out.

  All the weeds were frozen up in little ice pipettes, dry husks of seedpods, burdock hulls, all sheathed in glass and vanes and shells of ice that webbed old leaves and held in frozen colloid specks of grit or soot or blacking. Wonky sheets of ice spanned the ditches and the ironcolored trees along the wintry desolate and bitter littoral were seized with gray hoarfrost. Suttree crossed the brittle fields to the road and went up Front Street. A parcel of black children came by from the store towing a child's wagonload of coal, chips and dust scavenged from a railsiding, going along quietly and barely clothed and seemingly dumb to the elements. Suttree's underjaw chattered till he had thought for his teethfillings. He crossed the street and crossing the store porch read the tin thermometer on the wall at zero or near it. He entered and went directly to the back without answering Howard Clevinger's courtly matin greeting. An old black widow was crouched by the grocer's stove on an upturned basket watching the fire through a jagged crack in the hot iron. She seemed to be in tears, so thick dripped the rheum from the red underlips of her eyeholes. She had a club foot and wore boots sewn up from an old carpet, blue balding pile with mongrel flowers, an eastern look about her, mute and shawled. She kneaded her hands each in each in their cropfingered army gloves and mumbled a ceaseless monologue. Suttree standing there inclined his head to hear, wondering what the aged dispossessed discuss, but she spoke some other tongue and the only word he knew was Lord.

  Jabbo and Bungalow came in out of the weather in a bathless reek of cold wool and splo whiskey. They stood by the stove and nodded and spread their hands.

  Cold enough for ye?

  I'm frozen.

  You needs you a good drink, Suttree.

  Go on and give him one then, big time.

  Bungalow looking at Jabbo with question.

  Go on. Suttree aint too proud to drink after a nigger. Is you, Suttree?

  The old woman vacated her basket and moved away to the wall.

  I pass.

  Where's the bottle.

  Bungalow, lifting the front of his jersey, drew a pint bottle partly filled with a clear liquid from his waistband. The blacks looked warily toward the storekeeper, Jabbo took the bottle and unscrewed the cap and handed it toward Suttree.

  Here go, man.

  I cant use it.

  Go ahead.

  No.

  I thought you said old Suttree didnt care to drink after a black man.

  Why dont you come off that shit.

  Jabbo was weaving very slightly like a krait just faintly disturbed. His sullen lip hung loose. He shook the bottle slowly. It's good whiskey man. Good enough for me and Bungalow.

  I said I didnt want one.

  Jabbo pressed the bottle against his chest.

  Suttree raised his hand and gently put the bottle from him. The only sound in the store was the rusty creak of the damper swinging in the tin flue with the wind's suck.

  It's Thanksgiving man. Have a little drink.

  The bottle was at his chest again.

  You better get that bottle out of my face, Suttree said.

  You askin or tellin.

  I said get it out of my face.

  This aint Gay Street, motherfucker.

  I know what street I'm on. Maybe you better get off those red devils. Why dont you offer Howard a drink?

  He dont drink, said Bungalow.

  Shut up, Bungalow. Come on, Mr Suttree, please suh, take a little drink with us poor old niggers.

  Oceanfrog Frazer had entered the store. The members by the stove felt his presence, or perhaps it was the cold draft of air from outside or the way the damper fluttered. The old lady had moved off to a corner where she mumbled among the canned goods. Oceanfrog came from the cold to the stove, palms gesturing benison, an easy smile. He looked at the blacks and he looked at Suttree. Jabbo held the bottle uncertainly.

  Friends and neighbors, said Oceanfrog.

  Old Suttree wont take a drink, said Bungalow.

  Shut up, Bungalow.

  Oceanfrog'll take a drink, said Oceanfrog.

  Jabbo looked at the bottle. Oceanfrog took it gently and held it to the light in spite of Howard Clevinger who was now looking toward the rear. The bottle was about two thirds dry. Oceanfrog tilted it. Bubbles shot upward through the liquid and a great boiling and churning occurred within the glass, the liquor scuttling down the neck of the bottle. Frazer's black cheeks ballooned. He leaned and spewed a long clear pisslike stream through the standing door of the stove and a ball of bluish flame leaped. Bungalow stepped back. Oceanfrog eyed the bottle sadly, his brows scorched up in little owlish tufts over the cold eyes.

  That's awful whiskey, Jabbo, he said.

  Are you all drinkin whiskey back there?

  Aint nobody got any whiskey, Howard.

  I better not hear of no whiskey drinkin in my store.

  You all didnt ought to drink that old shit, Jabbo. Here.

  What I want with that, motherfucker?

  Oceanfrog, shrugging, dropped the bottle in the stove, Bungalow stepped back again. A whooshing disturbance occurred in the stove's bowels. What say, Suttree, said Oceanfrog.

  Not much. How you?r />
  Just tiptoein.

  Feylovin motherfucker, said Jabbo.

  I guess I goin to have to slap a black pumpknot on somebody's old bony head, said Oceanfrog. He didnt even look at Jabbo.

  Shit, said Jabbo. He jerked his jacket up on his shoulders and reeled toward the door. Bungalow looked after him. To go or stay? He spread his feet and held his hands to the warmth while he thought about it.

  What's wrong with him? said Suttree.

  He thinks he's bad. Gets on them reds. Old Bungalow here, he dont do that shit. Do you, Bunghole?

  Bungalow looked shyly at the floor. Naw, he said.

  You look like you been hit with a blivet, Bunghole.

  Bungalow didnt answer. He stepped back to make room for the old lady who had come to the stove again and was pulling at the basket and adjusting her skirts to sit. Suttree looked down at her as she refolded the shawl, at the thinly grizzled crown of her small skull. A few graybacks retreated in the rancid wool.

  You aint got a turkey staked out somewheres today have you Bungalow?

  I wisht I did.

  I bet old Suttree does.

  Not yet I dont.

  Shit, said Bungalow. You know he is.

  I guess in a bind we can eat at Bungalow's, said Suttree.

  Shit. Aint nothin to eat at my house.

  Oceanfrog had turned around to warm his backside. Suttree heard a little choking sob and looking down he saw that the old woman was crying to herself, dabbing at her nose with a bony knuckle.

  That old Suttree, said Oceanfrog. You got to watch him. He's a rathole artist. Tell him open his coat there Bungalow, see if he aint got a turkey under it. He looked at Suttree, then he looked down at the dollshaped pile of sticks at his feet. He stooped. Hey, he said. What's wrong with you, little mama?

  She was muttering and talking and sobbing to herself and she didnt seem to notice she'd been spoken to.

  Hey Howard, said Oceanfrog. Who is this old woman?

  How would I know.

  How would Howard know? said Oceanfrog. He went to the box and lifted the lid and poked around and came back with a half pint of milk and opened it and bent and put it in the old woman's hands. When Suttree left she was still holding it and she was still talking but she wasnt crying anymore.

  He went on up the street. Two small boys were coming along. Hey boys, he said.

  What's your name? said one.

  Suttree. What's yours?

  No answer. The other one said: His name's Randy. He's my brother.

  Suttree looked at them. They were wreathed in steam and small sacs of mucus hung from fcheir nostrils. Who's the oldest?

  Randy's brother looked at the ground a minute, Allen is, he said.

  Suttree grinned. How many of you are there?

  I dont know.

  You better come on, said Randy.

  We'll see you, Suttree said.

  He watched them. Skipping down the street, one look back. Ashcolored children hobbling down the gloom. This winter come, gray season here in the welter of sootstained fog hanging over the city like a biblical curse, cheerless medium in which the landscape blears like Atlantis on her lightless seafloor dimly through eel's eyes. Bell toll in the courthouse tower like a fogwarning on some shrouded coast. A burnt smell in the air compounded of coalsoot and roast coffee. Small birds move through the glazed atmosphere with effort.

  He crossed the street at the top of the hill and went through the rimey grass toward the post office. Down the long marble corridor and out the far side. Up this alley. Sheer brick walls the color of frozen iodine. Slow commence of traffic, pitch and clang of trolleys. Newsmen stamping at their corners, fingers stirring the coinage in their soiled changeaprons. On Market Street beggars being set out like little misshapen vending machines. Whole legions of the maimed and mute and crooked deployed over the streets in a limboid vapor of smoke and fog. The carlights seemed to tunnel through gauze. Pigeons gurgled and gaped from their ledges on the markethouse, winged shapes flapped forth through the gray haze. Shivering, he made his way toward the dewy neon windowlight that bears the painted ham.

  Suttree studied the breakfast through the glass, stroking the lavender lunule on the side of his jaw. None there he knew save one, Blind Richard at coffee. He shrugged up his coat about his shoulders and entered.

  A few heads turned. Old codgers bent above their gruel. A clack of china teeth. In a shroud of cold he stood within the door, then made his way down the counter.

  Richard, he said.

  Gray head goggling fowlwise on a scarious neck, turning. The soapfilled eyesockets.

  Hey Suttree. How you doin?

  Okay. How are you.

  Other'n bein froze I caint complain. The blind man cracked a squaloid smile all full of toothblack and breakfast scraps.

  Are you holding anything?

  Smile draining. Aye, gape those barren lightshorn eyeballs.

  What did you need, Sut?

  Let me have a dime.

  Richard sought about in a gray pocket. Here you go.

  Thanks Richard. He moved down the counter to an empty stool and ordered coffee. Steaming cup of morning purgative. Ponderous white chipped cup with the sandy rim. Spectra winking, pinlets of oil atop impotable tarleachings. He brimmed the cup with cream. Beyond the steambleared windowpanes warped figures shrouded up in overcoats went wobbling past. He sipped the coffee. Ulysses entered. He hung his hat carefully and eased himself down on the stool by Suttree and laid his paper by and took up the menu. You still glutting the labor market, I see, he said.

  Morning Ulyss.

  Been anyone in here this morning hiring?

  Not yet. Let's see a piece of the paper.

  Ulysses separated the sheets and passed him a section. He folded the menu and replaced it in the rack and looked up. Two scrambled with ham and coffee, he said. The Greek nodded. Suttree thumbed forward his cup for a refill.

  Turned off a bit chill hasnt it? said Ulysses.

  They spread their papers. Two cups of coffee clattered to. They were at passing cream and sugar, stirring idly.

  Jo Jo says it went down to six above, said Suttree.

  Mmm, said Ulysses.

  The ham and eggs arrived on an oblong platter of gray crockery.

  Suttree folded the paper and laid it on the counter at Ulysses' elbow.

  You want to see this piece? said Ulysses.

  No thanks. I've got to go.

  Dont rush off.

  Suttree drained his cup and rose. The Greek looked up from turning rashers of brains at the grill. Suttree pitched the dime on the counter and buttoned his coat.

  How's J-Bone these days, said Ulysses.

  About the same.

  He doesnt come around much anymore.

  He's working now.

  Ulysses smiled. Another victim fallen to employment, eh?

  All these good men, said Suttree.

  He went by Gay Street to the lower end of the town, down Hill Avenue past the Andrew Johnson and Blount Mansion to the viaduct. A little stone stairway descended from the street. No sign of life in the cold clay warren below.

  Gene.

  Voice croupy in the cavern. He looked about. After a while he called again. From the little concrete vault that housed sheathed pipes and strange gray vats of electricity came a muffled answer.

  It's me, said Suttree.

  Pinched face at the door. Harrogate crawled out and squatted on the ground. He wrapped his arms about the folded bones within his denim trouser legs and looked up at Suttree. He was a pale blue color.

  Well, said Suttree.

  Shit, said Harrogate.

  What happened to your bed?

  Harrogate gestured over his shoulder. I pulled the mattress in yonder. I've never knowed such cold as this.

  Well get off your ass and let's go uptown.

  I went up to the hotel a while back. This nigger come over ast me what it was I wanted and I had to leave again.

  You got any
money?

  Not a cryin dime.

  Well come on let's go. You'll freeze down here.

  I done already am. Shit.

  Harrogate rose and spat and heisted up his shoulders in a shuddering gesture of despair and crossed the frozen ground toward the stairs. You could see the shape of his shoulderblades through the army jacket he wore. They climbed to the street above, hands in pockets.

  Have you eaten anything?

  Harrogate shook his head. Shit no. I'm a mere shadder.

  Well, let's see about getting some groceries in your skinny gut.

  You got any money?

  Not yet.

  Shit, said Harrogate.

  They hiked up the cold and desolate street. A bitter wind had risen and little balls of soot hobbled along the walks. Old papers rose and rattled in an alleyway and a paper cup went scuttling. These lone figures going through the naked streets swore at the cold and something like the sun struggled at ten oclock sleazy and heatless beyond the frozen pestilential miasma that cloaked the town.

  At Lane's Drugs they peered in.

  They're closed.

  It's Thanksgiving.

  Harrogate looked about. Well hell, he said.

  We'll go down to Walgreen's. They always have a turkey dinner.

  Large posters hung within the glass facade. A steaming plate of turkey meat with dressing and potatoes and peas and cranberry sauce. The price was fifty-nine cents.

  How does that look? said Suttree.

  Harrogate just shook his head.

  They filed through the door and Suttree went to the cash register. A blond girl in glasses raised up from below the counter with cartons of cigarettes to fill the little shelves. Hey good-lookin, she said.

  Hi Mary Lou.

  What are you doin?

  I came to eat.

  She looked past him and around. Okay, she said.

  I brought a friend.

  Okay, she said.

  He smiled and pursed his lips in a kiss and he and Harrogate made their way down along the counter and climbed onto stools.

  Two turkey dinners, Suttree said.

  She wrote on the green ticket. You all want coffee?

  You want coffee, Gene?

  Hell yes.

  Two coffees.

  They sipped water from little paper cones in openwork holders.

  Quit looking so nervous, Gene.

  Yeah yeah, sure sure, said Harrogate. He was staring at the gaudy cardboard placards above the fountain with their icecream sundaes and model sandwiches. He looked about and he leaned toward Suttree. I thought you said you didnt have no money, he whispered.