carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第52部分

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thing　for　bad　sunburn。'　
She　stood　by　herself　in　the　dark　back　yard；　breaking　off　pieces　
of　bark　from　the　oak　tree　with　her　fingernails。　It　was　almost　
worse　this　way。　Maybe　she　would　feel　better　if　they　could　
look　at　her　and　tell。　If　they　knew。　
Her　Dad　called　her　from　the　back　steps。　〃Mick！　Oh；　Mick！'　
。Yes；　sir。'　'The　telephone。〃　


George　crowded　up　close　and　tried　to　listen　in；　but　she　pushed
him　away。　Mrs。　Minowitz　talked　very　loud　and　excited。
'My　Harry　should　be　home　by　now。　You　know　where　he　is？
'
*No；　ma'am。
'
'He　said　you　two　would　ride　out　on　bicycles。　Where　should　he
be　now？　You　know　where　he　is？'　'No；　ma'am；'　Mick　said
again。


N。　
12　

ow　that　the　days　were　hot　again　the　Sunny　Dixie　Show　was　
always　crowded。　The　March　wind　quieted。　Trees　were　thick　
with　their　foliage　of　ocherous　green。　The　sky　was　a　cloudless　
blue　and　the　rays　of　the　sun　grew　stronger。　The　air　was　sultry。　
Jake　Blount　hated　this　weather。　He　thought　dizzily　of　the　long；　
burning　summer　months　ahead。　He　did　not　feel　well。　Recently　
a　headache　had　begun　to　trouble　him　constantly。　He　had　
gained　weight　so　that　his　stomach　developed　a　little　pouch。　He　
had　to　leave　the　top　button　of　his　trousers　undone。　He　knew　
that　this　was　alcoholic　fat；　but　he　kept　on　drinking。　Liquor　
helped　the　ache　in　his　head。　He　had　only　to　take　one　small　
glass　to　make　it　better。　Nowadays　one　glass　was　the　same　to　
him　as　a　quart。　It　was　not　the　liquor　of　the　moment　that　gave　
him　the　kick—but　the　reaction　of　the　first　swallow　to　all　the　
alcohol　which　had　saturated　his　blood　during　these　last　
months。　A　spoonful　of　beer　would　help　the　throbbing　in　his　
head；　but　a　quart　of　whiskey　could　not　make　him　drunk。　
He　cut　out　liquor　entirely。　For　several　days　he　drank　only　
water　and　Orange　Crush。　The　pain　was　h'ke　a　crawling　worm　
in　his　head。　He　worked　wearily　during　the　long　afternoons　and　
evenings。　He　could　not　sleep　and　it　was　agony　to　try　to　read。　
The　damp；　sour　stink　in　his　room　infuriated　him。　He　lay　
restless　in　the　bed　and　when　at　last　he　fell　asleep　daylight　had　
come。　
A　dream　haunted　him。　It　had　first　come　to　him　four　months　
ago。　He　would　awake　with　terror—but　the　strange　point　was　
that　never　could　he　remember　the　contents　of　this　dream。　Only　
the　feeling　remained　when　his　eyes　were　opened。　Each　time　
his　fears　at　awakening　were　so　identical　that　he　did　not　doubt　
but　what　these　dreams　were　the　same。　He　was　used　to　dreams；　


the　grotesque　nightmares240　

of　drink　that　led　him　down　into　a　madman's　region　of　disorder；　
but　always　the　morning　light　scattered　the　effects　of　these　wild　
dreams　and　he　forgot　them。　
This　blank；　stealthy　dream　was　of　a　different　nature。　He　
awoke　and　could　remember　nothing。　But　there　was　a　sense　of　
menace　that　lingered　in　him　long　after。　Then　he　awoke　one　
morning　with　the　old　fear　but　with　a　faint　remembrance　of　the　
darkness　behind　him。　He　had　been　walking　among　a　crowd　of　
people　and　in　his　arms　he　carried　something。　That　was　all　he　
could　be　sure　about。　Had　he　stolen？　Had　he　been　trying　to　
save　some　possession？　Was　he　being　hunted　by　all　these　
people　around　him？　He　did　not　think　so。　The　more　he　studied　
this　simple　dream　the　less　he　could　understand。　Then　for　some　
time　afterward　the　dream　did　not　return。　
He　met　the　writer　of　signs　whose　chalked　message　he　had　seen　
the　past　November。　From　the　first　day　of　their　meeting　the　old　
man　clung　to　him　like　an　evil　genius。　His　name　was　Simms　
and　he　preached　on　the　sidewalks。　The　winter　cold　had　kept　
him　indoors；　but　in　the　spring　he　was　out　on　the　streets　all　day。　
His　white　hair　was　soft　and　ragged　on　his　neck　and　he　carried　
around　with　him　a　woman's　big　silk　pocketbook　full　of　chalk　
and　Jesus　ads。　His　eyes　were　bright　and　crazy。　Simms　tried　to　
convert　him。　
'Child　of　adversity；　I　smell　the　sinful　stink　of　beer　on　thy　
breath。　And　you　smoke　cigarettes。　If　the　Lord　had　wanted　us　
to　smoke　cigarettes　He　would　have　said　so　in　His　Book。　The　
mark　of　Satan　is　on　thy　brow。　I　see　it。　Repent。　Let　me　show　
you　the　light。〃　
Jake　rolled　up　his　eyes　and　made　a　slow　pious　sign　in　the　air。　
Then　he　opened　his　oil…stained　hand。　'I　reveal　this　only　to　you；'　
he　said　in　a　low　stage　voice。　Simms　looked　down　at　the　scar　in　
his　palm。　Jake　leaned　closer　and　whispered：　'And　there's　the　
other　sign。　The　sign　you　know。　For　I　was　born　with　them。'　
Simms　backed　against　the　fence。　With　a　womanish　gesture　he　
lifted　a　lock　of　silver　hair　from　his　forehead　and　smoothed　it　
back　on　his　head。　Nervously　his　tongue　licked　the　corners　of　
his　mouth。　Jake　laughed。　
'Blasphemer！'　Simms　screamed。　'God　will　get　you。　You　and　all　


your　crew。　God　remembers　the　scoffers。　He


watches　after　me。　God　watches　everybody　but　He　watches　me
the　most。　Like　He　did　Moses。　God　tells　me　things　in　the　night。
God　will　get　you。
'
He　took　Simms　down　to　a　corner　store　for　Coca…Colas　and
peanut…butter　crackers。　Simms　began　to　work　on　him　again。
When　he　left　for　the　show　Simms　ran　along　behind　him。
'Come　to　this　corner　tonight　at　seven　o'clock。　Jesus　has　
a
message　just　for　you。
'
The　first　days　of　April　were　windy　and　warm。　White　clouds
trailed　across　the　blue　sky。　In　the　wind　there　was　the　smell　of
the　river　and　also　the　fresher　smell　of　fields　beyond　the　town。
The　show　was　crowded　every　day　from　four　in　the　afternoon
until　midnight。　The　crowd　was　a　tough　one。　With　the　new
spring　he　felt　an　undertone　of　trouble。
One　night　he　was　working　on　the　machinery　of　the　swings
when　suddenly　he　was　roused　from　thought　by　the　sounds　of
angry　voices。　Quickly　he　pushed　through　the　crowd　until　he
saw　a　white　girl　fighting　with　a　colored　girl　by　the　ticket　booth
of　the　flying…jinny。　He　wrenched　them　apart；　but　still　they
struggled　to　get　at　each　other。　The　crowd　took　sides　and　there
was　a　bedlam　of　noise。　The　white　girl　was　a　hunchback。　She
held　something　tight　in　her　hand。
1　seen　you；'　the　colored　girl　yelled。　'I　ghy　beat　that　hunch　off
your　back；　too。
'
'Hush　your　mouth；　you　black　nigger！
'
'Low…down　factory　tag。　I　done　paid　my　money　and　I　ghy　ride。
White　man；　you　make　her　give　me　back　my　ticket。
'
'Black　nigger　slut！
'
Jake　looked　from　one　to　the　other。　The　crowd　pressed　close。
There　were　mumbled　opinions　on　every　side。
'I　seen　Lurie　drop　her　ticket　and　I　watched　this　here　white　lady
pick　it　up。　That　the　truth；'　a　colored　boy　said。
〃No　nigger　going　to　put　her　hands　on　no　white　girl　while
。
〃You　quit　that　pushing　me。　I　ready　to　hit　back　even　if　your
skin　do　be　white。
'
Roughly　Jake　pushed　into　the　thick　of　the　crowd。　'All　right！
'



he　yelled。　〃Move　on—break　it　up。　Every　damn242　

one　of　you。'　There　was　something　about　the　size　of　his　fists　
that　made　the　people　drift　sullenly　away。　Jake　turned　back　to　
the　two　girls。　
'This　here　the　way　it　is；'　said　the　colored　girl。　1　bet　I　one　of　the　
few　peoples　here　who　done　saved　over　fifty　cents　till　Friday　
night。　I　done　ironed　double　this　week。　I　done　paid　a　good　
nickel　for　that　ticket　she　holding。　And　now　I　means　to　ride。5　
Jake　settled　the　trouble　quickly。　He　let　the　hunchback　keep　the　
disputed　ticket　and　issued　another　one　to　the　colored　girl。　For　
the　rest　of　that　evening　there　were　no　more　quarrels。　But　Jake　
moved　alertly　through　the　crowd。　He　was　troubled　and　uneasy。　
In　addition　to　himself　there　were　five　other　employees　at　the　
show—two　men　to　operate　the　swings　and　take　tickets　and　
three　girls　to　manage　the　booths。　This　did　not　count　Patterson。　
The　show…owner　spent　most　of　his　time　playing　cards　with　
himself　in　his　trailer。　His　eyes　were　dull；　with　the　pupils　
shrunken；　and　the　skin　of　his　neck　hung　in　yellow；　pulpy　folds。　
During　the　past　few　months　Jake　had　had　two　raises　in　pay。　At　
midnight　it　was　his　job　to　report　to　Patterson　and　hand　over　
the　takings　of　the　evening。　Sometimes　Patterson　did　not　notice　
him　until　he　had　been　in　the　trailer　for　several　minutes；　he　
would　be　staring　at　the　cards；　sunk　in　a　stupor。　The　air　of　the　
trailer　was　heavy　with　the　stinks　of　food　and　reefers。　Patterson　
held　his　hand　over　his　stomach　as　though　protecting　it　from　
something。　He　always　checked　over　the　accounts　very　
thoroughly。　
Jake　and　the　two　operators　had　a　squabble。　These　men　were　
both　former　doffers　at　one　of　the　mills。　At　first　he　had　tried　to　
talk　to　them　and　help　them　to　see　the　truth。　Once　he　invited　
them　to　a　pool　room　for　a　drink。　But　they　were　so　dumb　he　
couldn't　help　them。　Soon　after　this　he　overheard　the　
conversation　between　them　that　caused　the　trouble。　It　was　an　
early　Sunday　morning；　almost　two　o'clock；　and　he　had　been　
checking　the　accounts　with　Patterson。　When　he　stepped　out　of　
the　trailer　the　grounds　seemed　empty。　The　moon　was　bright。　
He　was　thinking　of　Singer　and　the　free　day　ahead。　Then　as　he　
passed　by　the　swings　he　heard　someone　speak　his　name。　The　
two　oper


I　

ators　had　finished　work　and　were　smoking　together。　Jake　
listened。　
'If　there's　anything　I　hate　worse　than　a　nigger　it's　a　Red。'　
'He　tickles　me。　I　don't　pay　him　no　mind。　The　way　he　struts　
around。　I　never　seen　such　a　sawed…off　runt。　How　tall　is　he；　you　
reckon？'　
'Around　five　foot　But　he　thinks　he　got　to　tell　everybody　so　
much。　He　oughta　be　in　jail。　That's　where。　The　Red　Bolshivik。'　
'He　just　tickles　me。　I　can't　look　at　him　without　laughing。'　
'He　needn't　act　biggity　with　me。'　
Jake　watched　them　follow　the　path　toward　Weavers　Lane。　His　
first　thought　was　to　rush　out　and　confront　them；　but　a　certain　
shrinking　held　him　back。　For　several　days　he　fumed　in　silence。　
Then　one　night　after　work　he　followed　the　two　men　for　several　
blocks　and　as　they　turned　a　corner　he　cut　in　front　of　them。　
'I　heard　you；'　he　said　breathlessly。　'It　so　happened　I　heard　
every　word　you　said　last　Saturday　night。　Sure　I'm　a　Red。　At　
least　I　reckon　I　am。　But　what　are　you？'　They　stood　beneath　a　
street　light。　The　two　men　stepped　back　from　him。　The　
neighborhood　was　deserted。　'You　pasty…faced；　shrunk…gutted；　
ricket…ridden　little　rats！　I　could　reach　out　and　choke　your　
stringy　necks—one　to　each　hand。　Runt　or　no；　I　could　lay　you　
on　this　sidewalk　where　they'd　have　to　scrape　you　up　with　
shovels。'　
The　two　men　looked　at　each　ot