"J.T., take a taxi at my expense and tomorrow we'll talk more about Johns Hopkins because, seriously, I think you ought to go there."
Malone said, "Thanks, sir, but I don't need a taxi—the fresh air will do me good. Don't worry about Jester. He'll be home soon."
Although Malone said the walk would do him good, and although the night was warm, he was cold and weak as he walked home.
Noiselessly, he crept into the bed he shared with his wife. But when her warm buttocks touched his own, sick with the vibrance of their past livingness, he jerked away—for how can the living go on living when there is death?
4
IT WAS scarcely nine when Jester and Sherman first met that midsummer evening and only two hours had passed. But in first youth two hours can be a crucial period that can warp or enlighten a whole lifetime, and such an experience happened to Jester Clane that evening. When the emotion of the music and the first meeting steadied, Jester was aware of the room. The green plant growing in a corner. He steadied himself to realize the stranger had interrupted. The blue eyes challenged him to speak, but still Jester was silent. He blushed and his freckles darkened. "Excuse me," he said in a voice that trembled. "Who are you and what was that song you were singing?"
The other youth, who was the same age as Jester, said in a voice meant to be creepy, "If you want the sober ice-cold truth, I don't know who I am or any of my antecedents."
"You mean you are an orphan," Jester said. "Why, so am I," he added with enthusiasm. "Don't you think that's sort of a sign?"
"No. You know who you are. Did your grandfather send you here?"
Jester shook his head.
When Jester first entered, Sherman had expected some message, then as the moments passed, some trick. "Then why did you come busting in here?" Sherman said.
"I didn't come busting in. I knocked and said 'Excuse me,' and we got into a conversation."
Sherman's suspicious mind was wondering what trick was being played on him, and he was very much on guard. "We didn't get into any conversation."
"You were saying how you didn't know about your parents. Mine died. Did yours?"
The dark boy with the blue eyes said, "The sober ice-cold truth is, I don't know anything about them. I was left in a church pew and therefore I was named Pew, in that somewhat Negroid and literal manner, according to the Nigerian race. My first name is Sherman."
It would take a person far less sensitive than Jester to realize that the other youth was being deliberately rude to him. He knew he ought to go home, but it was as though he was hypnotized by the blue eyes set in the dark face. Then without a word, Sherman began to sing and play. It was the song Jester had heard in his own room and he felt that he had never been so moved. Sherman's strong fingers seemed very dark against the ivory keyboard and his strong neck was thrown back as he sang. After the first stanza of the song, he jerked his head and neck toward the sofa as an indication for Jester to sit down. Jester sat down, listening.
When the song was finished Sherman made a playful glissando before he went to the kitchenette in the next room and returned with two drinks already poured. He offered one to Jester who asked what it was as he took his glass.
"Lord Calvert's, bottled in bond, ninety-eight per cent proof." Although Sherman did not say it, he had bought this whiskey for the year he had been drinking because of the advertisement, "The Man of Distinction." He had tried to dress with the negligent care of the man in the ad. But on him it only looked sloppy, and he was one of the sharpest dressers in town. He had two Hathaway shirts and wore a black patch on his eye, but it only made him look pathetic instead of distinguished and he bumped into things. "The best, the most distinguished," Sherman said. "I don't serve rotgut to my guests." But he was careful to decant the drinks in the kitchen in case some juicehead would gobble it up; also he did not serve Lord Calvert's to known juiceheads. His guest tonight was no juicehead; in fact, he had never tasted whiskey before. Sherman began to think that there was no dark plot on the Judge's behalf.
Jester held out a package of cigarettes, which he proferred courteously. "I smoke like a chimney," he said, "and drink wine practically every day."
"I only drink Lord Calvert's," Sherman said staunchly.
"Why were you so rude and ugly when I first came in here?" Jester asked.
"You have to be mighty careful about skitzes these days."
"About what?" Jester asked, feeling somewhat at a loss.
"That means schizophrenics."
"But isn't that a medical disease?"
"No, mental," said Sherman with authority. "A skitz is a crazy person. I actually knew one."
"Who?"
"Nobody you would know. He was a Golden Nigerian."
"A golden what?"
"That's a club I belonged to. It was started as a kind of protest club protesting against racial discrimination and with the very highest aims."
"What highest aims?" Jester asked.
"First we registered for the vote in a body and if you don't think that takes nerve in this county you don't know nothing. Each member got a little cardboard coffin with his name in it and a printed sign, 'A voting reminder.' That actually happened," Sherman said with emphasis.
Later Jester was to learn the significance of that little phrase, but not until he knew more about Sherman and the facts and phantasies of his life. "I wish I had been there when you registered as a body," Jester said wistfully. The phrase "as a body" particularly appealed to him and heroic tears came suddenly to his eyes.
Sherman's voice was raw and cold, "No you wouldn't. You would of been the first to chicken. Besides, you're not old enough to vote ... the first to chicken."
"I resent that," Jester said. "How do you know?"
"Little Bo-Peep told me so."
Although Jester was hurt, he admired that answer, and a thought he would use it himself very soon. "Did many club members chicken?"
"Well," Sherman said hesitantly, "under the circumstances, with cardboard coffins slipped under doors ... we continued our voting studies, learned the names and dates of all the Presidents, memorized the Constitution and so forth, but we had been aiming to vote, not aiming to be no Joan of Arc, so under the circumstances..." His voice trailed off. He did not tell Jester of the charges and countercharges exchanged as voting day neared, nor did he tell him that he was a minor and could not have voted anyhow. And that autumn day, Sherman exactly, with such lingering and exact detail, voted ... in phantasy. He was also lynched in that phantasy to the tune of "John Brown's Body," which always made him cry anyway and made him cry double that day, a martyr to his race. No Golden Nigerian voted and the subject of voting was never mentioned again.
"We had Parliamentary Procedure and were active in the Christmas Club which delegated in charge of donations for poor children. That's how we all knew Happy Henderson was a skitz."
"Who's that?" Jester inquired.
"Happy was the chief active member in charge of the Christmas donations and he mugged an old lady on Christmas Eve. He was just skitz and didn't know what he was doing."
"I've often wondered if crazy people know if they are crazy or not," Jester said softly.
"Happy didn't know, or any of the Golden Nigerians either, otherwise we wouldn't have voted him into the club. Mugging an old lady in a fit of insanity."
"I feel the sincerest sympathy for crazy people," Jester said.
"The profoundest sympathy," Sherman corrected. "That's what we said on the flowers ... I mean wreath, we sent his folks when he was electrocuted in Atlanta."
"He was electrocuted?" Jester asked, appalled.
"Naturally, mugging an old white lady on Christmas Eve. Turned out Happy had been in institutions half of his life. There was no motive. In fact, he didn't snatch the old lady's purse after he mugged her. He just suddenly blew a fuse and went skitz ... the lawyer made a case about the mental institutions and poverty and pressures ... the lawyer the state hired to defend him, I mean ... but anyway
in spite of everything, Happy was fried."
"Fried," Jester exclaimed with horror.
"Electrocuted in Atlanta, June sixth, nineteen fifty-one."
"I think it's simply terrible for you to refer to a friend and fellow member as being 'fried.'"
"Well he was," Sherman said flatly. "Let's converse about something more cheerful. Would you like me to show you Zippo Mullins' apartment?"
With pride he pointed out each piece in the crowded, fancy, dreary room. "This rug is pure Wilton and the hide-a-bed sofa cost one hundred and eight dollars secondhand. It can sleep four if necessary." Jester eyed the three-quarter-size sofa, wondering how four people could sleep in it. Sherman was stroking an iron alligator with an electric light bulb in its gaping jaws. "A house-warming present from Zippo's aunt, not too modern or attractive, but it's the thought that counts."
"Absolutely," Jester agreed, cheered by any spark of humanness in his new-found friend.
"The end tables are genuine antique as you can see. The plant was a birthday gift for Zippo." Sherman did not point out the red lamp with ragged fringes, two obviously broken chairs and other pieces of sad-looking furniture. "I wouldn't have anything to happen to this apt" (he said the abbreviation). "You haven't seen the rest of the apt ... just gorgeous." Sherman's voice was proud. "When I'm alone here at night I don't hardly open the door."
"Why?"
"Afraid I might be mugged and the muggers would haul off Zippo's furniture." He added, in a voice that almost broke with self-pride, "You see, I'm Zippo's house guest." Until six months ago he had said he boarded with Zippo, then he heard the phrase "house guest" which enchanted him and he used it frequently. "Let's proceed to the rest of the apt," Sherman said with the air of a host. "Look at the kitchenette," he said ecstatically, "see the most modern conveniences." Reverently he opened the door of the refrigerator for Jester. "The bottom compartment is for crispies ... crisp celery, carrots, lettuce, etc." Sherman opened the door to the compartment, but there was only a head of wilted lettuce there. "We keep caviar in this section," he said emptily. Sherman gestured to the other parts of the magical box. Jester saw only a dish of cold black-eyed peas jelled in their own grease, but Sherman said, "Last Christmas we had champagne iced in this compartment." Jester, who seldom opened his own well-stocked refrigerator, was mystified.
"You must eat caviar and drink loads of champagne at your grandpapa's house," Sherman said.
"No, I never tasted caviar, nor champagne either."
"Never drank Lord Calvert's bottled in bond, nor had champagne, nor eaten caviar ... personally, I just guzzle it," Sherman said, having tasted caviar once, and having wondered silently why it was supposed to be so high-class. "And look," he said with enthusiasm, "a genuine electric beater ... plugs in here." Sherman plugged in the beater and it began to beat furiously. "A Christmas gift for Zippo Mullins from yours truly. I bought it on credit. I have the best credit record in town and can buy anything."
Jester was bored standing in the cramped dingy kitchenette, and Sherman soon sensed it, but his pride was undaunted; so they went into the bedroom. Sherman indicated a trunk against the wall. "This is the trunk," he said superfluously, "where we keep our valuables." Then he added, "I shouldn't have told you that."
Jester was naturally offended by that last remark, but he said nothing.
In the room there were twin beds, each with a rose-colored spread. Sherman stroked the spread appreciatively and said, "Pure rayon silk." There were portraits over each of the beds, one of an elderly colored woman, the other of a dark young girl. "Zippo's mother and sister." Sherman was still stroking the bedspread and the Negro-colored hand against the rose gave Jester an inexplicable creepy thrill. But he dared not touch the silk, and he felt that if his own hand would touch the outspread one he would feel a shock like an electric eel, so carefully he placed both his own hands against the headboard of the bed.
"Zippo's sister is a nice-looking girl," Jester remarked, as he felt that Sherman was expecting some comment about his friend's relatives.
"Jester Clane," Sherman said, and though his voice was hard, Jester felt again the creepy thrill from the simple calling of his name, "if you ever, ever," Sherman continued in a voice that lashed at Jester, "if you ever, ever have the teeniest least lewd lascivious thought about Cinderella Mullins I'll string you up by your heels, tie your hands, light fire to your face and stand there and watch you roast."
The sudden fury of the attack made Jester hold on tight to the headboard. "I only said..."
"Shuddup, shuddup," Sherman shouted. He added in a low hard voice, "When you looked at the picture I didn't like the look on your puss."
"What look?" asked Jester, baffled. "You showed me the picture and I looked at it. What else could I have done? Cry?"
"Any further wisecrack and I will string you up and make the slowest barbecue that anybody ever made, smothering up the flames so it will last and keep on lasting."
"I don't see why you talk so ugly, especially to somebody you just met."
"When it's a question of Cinderella Mullins' virtue, I talk how I please."
"Are you in love with Cinderella Mullins, passionately, I mean?"
"Any further personal questions and I'll have you fried in Atlanta."
"How silly," Jester said. "How could you? It's a matter of legality."
Both boys were impressed by that last phrase, but Sherman only muttered, "I'll turn the juice personally and set it for very slow."
"I think all this talk about electrocution and roasting people is childish." Jester paused to deliver a stinging blow. "In fact, I suspect it's because you have a limited vocabulary."
Sherman was properly stung. "Limited vocabulary," he shouted with a little quiver of rage. Then he paused for a long time before he asked, belligerently, "What does the word 'stygian' mean?"
After Jester thought for a while he had to admit, "I don't know."
"...and epizootical and pathologinical," Sherman went on, making up phony words like crazy.
"Isn't pathologinical something about being sick..."
"No," Sherman said, "I just made it up."
"Made it up," Jester said, shocked. "It's utterly unfair to make up words when you are testing another person's vocabulary."
"Anyway," Sherman concluded, "you have a very limited and putrid vocabulary."
Jester was left in the situation of trying to prove his vocabulary; he tried in vain to make up long fancy words but nothing that made sense occurred to him.
"Forchrissake," Sherman said, "less change the subject. You wish me to sweeten your Calvert's?"
"Sweeten it?"
"Yes, goofy."
Jester sipped his whiskey and choked on it. "It's kind of bitter and hot..."
"When I said sweeten it, did your dim mind suppose I was going to put sugar in this Calvert's whiskey? I wonder more and more if you come from Mars."
That was another remark Jester thought he would use later.
"What a nocturnal evening," Jester said to prove his vocabulary. "You are certainly fortunate," he added.
"You mean about Zippo's apt?"
"No, I was just thinking ... ruminating you might say ... about how fortunate it is when you know what it is you're going to do in life. If I had a voice like yours I would never have to worry about that particular headache any more. Whether you know it or not, you have a golden voice, where I don't have any talent ... can't sing or dance and the only thing I can draw is a Christmas tree."
"There are other things," Sherman said in a superior voice, as Jester's praise had been sweet to hear.
"...not too good at math, so nuclear physics are out."
"I suppose you could do construction work."
"I suppose so," Jester said dolefully. Then he added in a suddenly cheerful voice: "Anyway, this summer I'm taking flying lessons. But that's just an advocation. I think every person ought to learn to fly."
"I utterly disagree with you," said Sherman, who was afr
aid of heights.
"Suppose your baby was dying, like say one of those blue babies you read about in the paper, and you have to fly to see him before the end, or suppose your crippled mother was sick and wanted to see you before she died; besides, flying's fun and I look on it as a kind of moral obligation that everyone ought to learn to fly."
"I utterly disagree with you," said Sherman, who was sick about talking about something he couldn't do.
"Anyway," Jester went on, "what was that song you were singing this evening?"
"This evening I was singing just plain jazz, but earlier this afternoon I was practicing genuine Simon-pure German lieder."
"What's that?"
"I knew you would ask me that." Sherman's ego was glad to get on the subject. "Lieder, goofy, means song in German and German means German, like in English." Softly he began to play and sing and the new strange music throbbed in Jester's body and he trembled.
"In German," Sherman boasted. "They tell me I don't have a trace of accent in German," he lied.
"What does it mean in English?"
"It's a kind of love song. This youth is singing to his maiden ... goes something like this: 'The two blue eyes of my beloved, I've never seen anything like them.'"
"Your eyes are blue. It sounds like a love song to yourself; in fact, when I know the words of the song it makes me feel creepy."
"German lieder is creepy music. That's why I specialize in it."
"What other music do you like? Personally, I adore music, passionately, I mean. Last winter I learned the 'Winter Wind' etude."
"I bet you didn't," Sherman said, unwilling to share his musical laurels with another.
"Do you think I would sit here and tell you a lie about the 'Winter Wind' etude?" said Jester who never lied under any circumstances.
"How would I know?" answered Sherman who was one of the world's worst liars.
"I'm out of practice."
As Jester went to the piano Sherman watched intently, hoping Jester couldn't play.
Loudly and furiously the "Winter Wind" etude thundered into the room. When, after the first few bars, Jester's furiously playing fingers faltered, he stopped. "Once you get off the track of the 'Winter Wind' it's hard to get back on."