Wise Blood

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Author’s Note to the Second Edition

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Books by Flannery O’Connor

  Copyright

  For Regina

  CHAPTER 1

  Hazel Motes sat at a forward angle on the green plush train seat, looking one minute at the window as if he might want to jump out of it, and the next down the aisle at the other end of the car. The train was racing through tree tops that fell away at intervals and showed the sun standing, very red, on the edge of the farthest woods. Nearer, the plowed fields curved and faded and the few hogs nosing in the furrows looked like large spotted stones. Mrs. Wally Bee Hitchcock, who was facing Motes in the section, said that she thought the early evening like this was the prettiest time of day and she asked him if he didn’t think so too. She was a fat woman with pink collars and cuffs and pear-shaped legs that slanted off the train seat and didn’t reach the floor.

  He looked at her a second and, without answering, leaned forward and stared down the length of the car again. She turned to see what was back there but all she saw was a child peering around one of the sections and, farther up at the end of the car, the porter opening the closet where the sheets were kept.

  “I guess you’re going home,” she said, turning back to him again. He didn’t look, to her, much over twenty, but he had a stiff black broad-brimmed hat on his lap, a hat that an elderly country preacher would wear. His suit was a glaring blue and the price tag was still stapled on the sleeve of it.

  He didn’t answer her or move his eyes from whatever he was looking at. The sack at his feet was an army duffel bag and she decided that he had been in the army and had been released and that now he was going home. She wanted to get close enough to see what the suit had cost him but she found herself squinting instead at his eyes, trying almost to look into them. They were the color of pecan shells and set in deep sockets. The outline of a skull under his skin was plain and insistent.

  She felt irked and wrenched her attention loose and squinted at the price tag. The suit had cost him $11.98. She felt that that placed him and looked at his face again as if she were fortified against it now. He had a nose like a shrike’s bill and a long vertical crease on either side of his mouth; his hair looked as if it had been permanently flattened under the heavy hat, but his eyes were what held her attention longest. Their settings were so deep that they seemed, to her, almost like passages leading somewhere and she leaned halfway across the space that separated the two seats, trying to see into them. He turned toward the window suddenly and then almost as quickly turned back again to where his stare had been fixed.

  What he was looking at was the porter. When he had first got on the train, the porter had been standing between the two cars—a thick-figured man with a round yellow bald head. Haze had stopped and the porter’s eyes had turned toward him and away, indicating which car he was to go into. When he didn’t go, the porter said, “To the left,” irritably, “to the left,” and Haze had moved on.

  “Well,” Mrs. Hitchcock said, “there’s no place like home.”

  He gave her a glance and saw the flat of her face, reddish under a cap of fox-colored hair. She had got on two stops back. He had never seen her before that. “I got to go see the porter,” he said. He got up and went toward the end of the car where the porter had begun making up a berth. He stopped beside him and leaned on a seat arm, but the porter didn’t look at him. He was pulling a wall of the section farther out.

  “How long does it take you to make one up?”

  “Seven minutes,” the porter said, not looking at him.

  Haze sat down on the seat arm. He said, “I’m from Eastrod.”

  “That isn’t on this line,” the porter said. “You on the wrong train.”

  “Going to the city,” Haze said. “I said I was raised in Eastrod.”

  The porter didn’t say anything.

  “Eastrod,” Haze said, louder.

  The porter jerked the shade down. “You want your berth made up now, or what you standing there for?” he asked.

  “Eastrod,” Haze said. “Near Melsy.”

  The porter wrenched one side of the seat flat. “I’m from Chicago,” he said. He wrenched the other side down. When he bent over, the back of his neck came out in three bulges.

  “Yeah, I bet you are,” Haze said with a leer.

  “Your feet in the middle of the aisle. Somebody going to want to get by you,” the porter said, turning suddenly and brushing past.

  Haze got up and hung there a few seconds. He looked as if he were held by a rope caught in the middle of his back and attached to the train ceiling. He watched the porter move in a fine controlled lurch down the aisle and disappear at the other end of the car. He knew him to be a Parrum nigger from Eastrod. He went back to his section and folded into a slouched position and settled one foot on a pipe that ran under the window. Eastrod filled his head and then went out beyond and filled the space that stretched from the train across the empty darkening fields. He saw the two houses and the rust-colored road and the few Negro shacks and the one barn and the stall with the red and white CCC snuff ad peeling across the side of it.

  “Are you going home?” Mrs. Hitchcock asked.

  He looked at her sourly and gripped the black hat by the brim. “No, I ain’t,” he said in a sharp high nasal Tennessee voice.

  Mrs. Hitchcock said neither was she. She told him she had been a Miss Weatherman before she married and that she was going to Florida to visit her married daughter, Sarah Lucile. She said it seemed like she had never had time to take a trip that far off. The way things happened, one thing after another, it seemed like time went by so fast you couldn’t tell if you were young or old.

  He thought he could tell her she was old if she asked him. He stopped listening to her after a while. The porter passed back up the aisle and didn’t look at him. Mrs. Hitchcock lost her train of talk. “I guess you’re on your way to visit somebody?” she asked.

  “Going to Taulkinham,” he said and ground himself into the seat and looked at the window. “Don’t know nobody there, but I’m going to do some things.

  “I’m going to do some things I never have done before,” he said and gave her a sidelong glance and curled his mouth slightly.

  She said she knew an Albert Sparks from Taulkinham. She said he was her sister-in-law’s brother-in-law and that he …

  “I ain’t from Taulkinham,” he said. “I said I’m going there, that’s all.” Mrs. Hitchcock began to talk again but he cut her short and said, “That porter was raised in the same place where I was raised but he says he’s from Chicago.”

  Mrs. Hitchcock said she knew a man who lived in Chi …

  “You might as well go one place as another,” he said. “That’s all I know.”

  Mrs. Hitchcock said well that time flies. She said she hadn’t seen her sister’s children in five years and she didn’t know if she’d know them if she saw them. There were three of them, Roy, Bubber, and John Wesley. John Wesley was six years old
and he had written her a letter, dear Mamma-doll. They called her Mammadoll and her husband Papa-doll …

  “I reckon you think you been redeemed,” he said.

  Mrs. Hitchcock snatched at her collar.

  “I reckon you think you been redeemed,” he repeated.

  She blushed. After a second she said yes, life was an inspiration and then she said she was hungry and asked him if he didn’t want to go into the diner. He put on the fierce black hat and followed her out of the car.

  The dining car was full and people were waiting to get in it. He and Mrs. Hitchcock stood in line for a half-hour, rocking in the narrow passageway and every few minutes flattening themselves against the side to let a trickle of people through. Mrs. Hitchcock talked to the woman on the side of her. Hazel Motes looked at the wall. Mrs. Hitchcock told the woman about her sister’s husband who was with the City Water Works in Toolafalls, Alabama, and the lady told about a cousin who had cancer of the throat. Finally they got almost up to the entrance of the diner and could see inside it. There was a steward beckoning people to places and handing out menus. He was a white man with greased black hair and a greased black look to his suit. He moved like a crow, darting from table to table. He motioned for two people and the line moved up so that Haze and Mrs. Hitchcock and the lady she was talking to were ready to go next. In a minute two more people left. The steward beckoned and Mrs. Hitchcock and the woman walked in and Haze followed them. The man stopped him and said, “Only two,” and pushed him back to the doorway.

  Haze’s face turned an ugly red. He tried to get behind the next person and then he tried to get through the line to go back to the car he had come from but there were too many people bunched in the opening. He had to stand there while everyone around looked at him. No one left for a while. Finally a woman at the far end of the car got up and the steward jerked his hand. Haze hesitated and saw the hand jerk again. He lurched up the aisle, falling against two tables on the way and getting his hand wet in somebody’s coffee. The steward placed him with three youngish women dressed like parrots.

  Their hands were resting on the table, red-speared at the tips. He sat down and wiped his hand on the tablecloth. He didn’t take off his hat. The women had finished eating and were smoking cigarettes. They stopped talking when he sat down. He pointed to the first thing on the menu and the steward, standing over him, said, “Write it down, sonny,” and winked at one of the women; she made a noise in her nose. He wrote it down and the steward went away with it. He sat and looked in front of him, glum and intense, at the neck of the woman across from him. At intervals her hand holding the cigarette would pass the spot on her neck; it would go out of his sight and then it would pass again, going back down to the table; in a second a straight line of smoke would blow in his face. After it had blown at him three or four times, he looked at her. She had a bold game-hen expression and small eyes pointed directly on him.

  “If you’ve been redeemed,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to be.” Then he turned his head to the window. He saw his pale reflection with the dark empty space outside coming through it. A boxcar roared past, chopping the empty space in two, and one of the women laughed.

  “Do you think I believe in Jesus?” he said, leaning toward her and speaking almost as if he were breathless. “Well I wouldn’t even if He existed. Even if He was on this train.”

  “Who said you had to?” she asked in a poisonous Eastern voice.

  He drew back.

  The waiter brought his dinner. He began eating slowly at first, then faster as the women concentrated on watching the muscles that stood out on his jaw when he chewed. He was eating something spotted with eggs and livers. He finished that and drank his coffee and then pulled his money out. The steward saw him but he wouldn’t come total the bill. Every time he passed the table, he would wink at the women and stare at Haze. Mrs. Hitchcock and the lady had already finished and gone. Finally the man came and added up the bill. Haze shoved the money at him and then pushed past him out of the car.

  For a while he stood between two train cars where there was fresh air of a sort and made a cigarette. Then the porter passed between the two cars. “Hey you Parrum,” he called.

  The porter didn’t stop.

  Haze followed him into the car. All the berths were made up. The man in the station in Melsy had sold him a berth because he said he would have to sit up all night in the coaches; he had sold him an upper one. Haze went to it and pulled his sack down and went into the men’s room and got ready for the night. He was too full and he wanted to hurry and get in the berth and lie down. He thought he would lie there and look out the window and watch how the country went by a train at night. A sign said to get the porter to let you into the uppers. He stuck his sack up into his berth and then went to look for the porter. He didn’t find him at one end of the car and he started back to the other. Going around the corner he ran into something heavy and pink; it gasped and muttered, “Clumsy!” It was Mrs. Hitchcock in a pink wrapper, with her hair in knots around her head. She looked at him with her eyes squinted nearly shut. The knobs framed her face like dark toadstools. She tried to get past him and he tried to let her but they were both moving the same way each time. Her face became purplish except for little white marks over it that didn’t heat up. She drew herself stiff and stopped and said, “What is the matter with you?” He slipped past her and dashed down the aisle and ran into the porter so that the porter fell down.

  “You got to let me into the berth, Parrum,” he said.

  The porter picked himself up and went lurching down the aisle and after a minute he came lurching back again, stone-faced, with the ladder. Haze stood watching him while he put the ladder up; then he started up it. Halfway up, he turned and said, “I remember you. Your father was a nigger named Cash Parrum. You can’t go back there neither, nor anybody else, not if they wanted to.”

  “I’m from Chicago,” the porter said in an irritated voice. “My name is not Parrum.”

  “Cash is dead,” Haze said. “He got the cholera from a pig.”

  The porter’s mouth jerked down and he said, “My father was a railroad man.”

  Haze laughed. The porter jerked the ladder off suddenly with a wrench of his arm that sent the boy clutching at the blanket into the berth. He lay on his stomach for a few minutes and didn’t move. After a while he turned and found the light and looked around him. There was no window. He was closed up in the thing except for a little space over the curtain. The top of the berth was low and curved over. He lay down and noticed that the curved top looked as if it were not quite closed; it looked as if it were closing. He lay there for a while, not moving. There was something in his throat like a sponge with an egg taste; he didn’t want to turn over for fear it would move. He wanted the light off. He reached up without turning and felt for the button and snapped it and the darkness sank down on him and then faded a little with light from the aisle that came in through the foot of space not closed. He wanted it all dark, he didn’t want it diluted. He heard the porter’s footsteps coming down the aisle, soft into the rug, coming steadily down, brushing against the green curtains and fading up the other way out of hearing. Then after a while when he was almost asleep, he thought he heard them again coming back. His curtains stirred and the footsteps faded.

  In his half-sleep he thought where he was lying was like a coffin. The first coffin he had seen with someone in it was his grandfather’s. They had left it propped open with a stick of kindling the night it had sat in the house with the old man in it, and Haze had watched from a distance, thinking: he ain’t going to let them shut it on him; when the time comes, his elbow is going to shoot into the crack. His grandfather had been a circuit preacher, a waspish old man who had ridden over three counties with Jesus hidden in his head like a stinger. When it was time to bury him, they shut the top of his box down and he didn’t make a move.

  Haze had had two younger brothers; one died in infancy and was put in a small box. The other fell in fron
t of a mowing machine when he was seven. His box was about half the size of an ordinary one, and when they shut it, Haze ran and opened it up again. They said it was because he was heartbroken to part with his brother, but it was not; it was because he had thought, what if he had been in it and they had shut it on him.

  He was asleep now and he dreamed he was at his father’s burying again. He saw him humped over on his hands and knees in his coffin, being carried that way to the graveyard. “If I keep my can in the air,” he heard the old man say, “nobody can shut nothing on me,” but when they got his box to the hole, they let it drop down with a thud and his father flattened out like anybody else. The train jolted and stirred him half awake again and he thought, there must have been twenty-five people in Eastrod then, three Motes. Now there were no more Motes, no more Ashfields, no more Blasengames, Feys, Jacksons … or Parrums—even niggers wouldn’t have it. Turning in the road, he saw in the dark the store boarded and the barn leaning and the smaller house half carted away, the porch gone and no floor in the hall.

  It had not been that way when he was eighteen years old and had left it. Then there had been ten people there and he had not noticed that it had got smaller from his father’s time. He had left it when he was eighteen years old because the army had called him. He had thought at first he would shoot his foot and not go. He was going to be a preacher like his grandfather and a preacher can always do without a foot. A preacher’s power is in his neck and tongue and arm. His grandfather had traveled three counties in a Ford automobile. Every fourth Saturday he had driven into Eastrod as if he were just in time to save them all from Hell, and he was shouting before he had the car door open. People gathered around his Ford because he seemed to dare them to. He would climb up on the nose of it and preach from there and sometimes he would climb onto the top of it and shout down at them. They were like stones! he would shout. But Jesus had died to redeem them! Jesus was so soul-hungry that He had died, one death for all, but He would have died every soul’s death for one! Did they understand that? Did they understand that for each stone soul, He would have died ten million deaths, had His arms and legs stretched on the cross and nailed ten million times for one of them? (The old man would point to his grandson, Haze. He had a particular disrespect for him because his own face was repeated almost exactly in the child’s and seemed to mock him.) Did they know that even for that boy there, for that mean sinful unthinking boy standing there with his dirty hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, Jesus would die ten million deaths before He would let him lose his soul? He would chase him over the waters of sin! Did they doubt Jesus could walk on the waters of sin? That boy had been redeemed and Jesus wasn’t going to leave him ever. Jesus would never let him forget he was redeemed. What did the sinner think there was to be gained? Jesus would have him in the end!