Vitalis phoned their Dad who had already gone to work and he came home in the automobile. He was very worried and serious. He kept pulling his lower lip tight against his teeth and clearing his throat. All three of them got in the automobile to go find her. The rest would have been funny if you hadn't been mixed up in it. They found her after about half an hour—walking down the road between high school and downtown. But when their Dad blew the horn she wouldn't get in the car, or even look around at them. She just kept going with her head in the air and her pleated skirt switching above her skinny knees. Their Dad had never been so nervous and mad. He couldn't get out and chase a girl down the street and so he had to just creep the car along behind her and blow the horn. They passed kids going to school who stared and giggled and it was awful. He was madder with Sara than their Dad. If they had had a closed car he would have leaned back and hid his face. But it was a Model T Ford and there wasn't anything to do but shuffle his feet and try to look like he didn't care.
After a while she gave up and got in the car. Their Dad didn't know what to say and all of them were stiff and quiet. Sara was shamed and sad. She tried to cover it up by humming to herself in a don't-care way. They got out quietly at the high school. But that wasn't the end.
The next month Uncle Jim, who was kin to them on their mother's side, came down from Detroit on the way to spend his vacation in Florida. Aunt Esther, his wife, was with him. She was a Jew and played the violin. Both of them had always liked Sara a lot—and in their Christmas boxes her present was always better than his or Mick's. They didn't have any children and there was something about them that was different from most married people. The first night they sat up very late with their Dad and maybe he told them all about Sara. Anyway, before they left, their Dad asked Sara how she would like to go to school a year in Detroit and live with them. Right away she said that she would like it—she had never been farther away from home than Atlanta and she wanted to sleep on a train and live in a strange place and see snow in the winter time.
It happened so quickly that he could not get it into his head. He had not thought about the time when any of them would ever be away for long. He knew their Dad felt Sara was growing to the age where maybe she needed somebody who was at home more than he was. And the climate might do her good in Detroit and they didn't have many kinfolks. Before they were even born Uncle Jim had lived at their house a year—when he was still young and before he left for the north. But still he could not understand their Dad's letting her go. She left in a week—because the school term had only been going a month and they didn't want to waste more time. It was so sudden that it didn't give him time to think. She was to be gone ten months and that seemed almost as long as forever. He did not know that it would be almost twice that time before he would again see her. He felt dazed and it was like a dream when they said goodbye.
That winter the house was a lonesome place. Mick was too little to think about anything but eating and sleeping and drawing on colored paper at kindergarten. When he would come in from school all the rooms seemed quiet and more than empty. Only in the kitchen was it any different and there Vitalis was always cooking and singing to herself and it was warm and full of good smells and life. If he did not go out he would usually hang around there and watch her and they would talk while she fixed him something to eat. She knew about the lonesome feeling and was good to him.
Most afternoons he was out with Chandler West and the rest of the gang of boys who were sophomores at high school. They had a club and a scrub football team. The vacant lot on the corner of the block was sold and the buyer began to build a house. When the carpenters and bricklayers left in the late afternoon the gang would climb up on the roof or run through the naked incompleted rooms. It was strange the way he felt about this house. Every afternoon he would take off his shoes and socks so he wouldn't slip and climb to the sharp pointed top of the roof. Then he would stand there, holding his hands out for balance and look around at all that lay below him or at the pale twilight sky. From underneath the boys would be scuffling together and calling out to each other—their voices were changing and the empty rooms made long drawn echoes, so that the sounds seemed not human and unrelated to words.
Standing there alone on the roof he always felt he had to shout out—but he did not know what it was he wanted to say. It seemed like if he could put this thing into words he would no longer be a boy with big rough bare feet and hands that hung down clumsy from the outgrown sleeves of his lumberjack. He would be a great man, a kind of God, and what he called out would make things that bothered him and all other people plain and simple. His voice would be great and like music and men and women would come out of their houses and listen to him and because they knew that what he said was true they would all be like one person and would understand everything in the world. But no matter how big this feeling was he could never put any of it into words. He would balance there choked and ready to burst and if his voice had not been squeaky and changing he would have tried to yell out the music of one of their Wagner records. He could do nothing. And when the rest of the gang would come out from the house and look up at him he felt a sudden panic, as though his corduroy pants had dropped from him. To cover up his nakedness he would yell something silly like Friends Romans Countrymen or Shake-Spear Kick In The Rear and then he would climb down feeling empty and shamed and more lonesome than anybody else in the world.
On Saturday mornings he worked down at his Dad's store. This was a long narrow jeweller's shop in the middle of one of the main business blocks downtown. Down the length of the place was a bright glass showcase with the sections displaying stones and silver. His Dad's watchmaking bench was in the very front of the shop, looking out on the front window and the street. Day after day he would sit there over his work—a large man, more than six feet tall, and with hands that at first looked too big for their delicate work. But after you watched his Dad awhile that first feeling changed. People who noticed his hands always wanted to stare at them—they were fat and seemed without bones or muscles and the skin, darkened with acids, was smooth as old silk. His hands did not seem to belong to the rest of him, to his bent broad back and his strained muscular neck. When he worked at a hard job his whole face would show it. The eye that wore his jeweller's glass would stare down round and intent and distorted while the other was squinted almost shut. His whole big face looked crooked and his mouth gaped open with strain. Although when he was not busy he liked to stare out at the heads and shoulders of the people passing on the street, he never glanced at them while he was at work.
At the store his Dad usually gave him odd jobs such as that of polishing silverware or running errands. Sometimes he cleaned watch springs with a brush soaked in gasoline. Occasionally if there were several customers in the place and the salesgirl was busy he would awkwardly stand behind the counter and try to make a sale. But most of the time there was nothing much for him to do except hang around. He hated staying at the store on Saturdays because he could always think of so many other things he wanted to do. There were long stretches when the store would be very quiet—with only the droning ticks of the watches or the echoing sounds of a clock striking.
On the days when Harry Minowitz was there this was different. Harry took in the extra work of two or three jewellers in the town and his Dad let him use the bench at the back of the store in exchange for certain jobs. There was nothing that Harry didn't know about even the finest of watch mechanics and because of this (and for other reasons too) he had the nickname of "The Wizard." His Dad didn't like Jews because there were a couple in town who were slick as grease and bad on other jewellers' business. So it was funny the way he depended on Harry.
Harry was small and pale and he always seemed tired. His nose was large for his peaked face and next to his eyes it was the first thing you noticed. Perhaps that was because he had the habit of slowly rubbing it with his thumb and second finger when he was thinking, gently feeling the hump in it and pressing down the tip
. When he was in doubt about a question put to him he would not shrug or shake his head—but slowly turn his slender hands palm upward and suck in his hollow cheeks. Usually a cigarette drooped from his mouth and his thin lips seemed too relaxed to hold it. His dark eyes had a way of staring sharply at a person, then the lids would suddenly droop down as though he understood everything and was still bored. At the same time there was a certain jauntiness about him. His clothes were dapper and he wore a stiff derby hat at an angle on the back of his head. Nothing could ever surprise Harry, but in his own quiet way he could always laugh at everything, even himself. He had come to the town ten years before and he lived alone in a small room on one of the overcrowded streets down by the river. Though he seemed to know half the people in the town by their names and faces he had few friends and was a solitary man.
During the winter after Sara left when Andrew worked at the store every Saturday he liked to watch Harry and think about him. There was a time when he would rather have been noticed and admired by him than any other person. He had never tried to ape his Dad like some boys did. But there was something sure and nonchalant about Harry that seemed wonderful to him. He had lived in cities like Los Angeles and New York and he knew languages and people that were strange to men like his Dad. He wanted to be good friends with Harry but he didn't know how to go about it. When they were together something made him talk loud and hold his face stiff and call grown men by their last names without the Mister. Then he would be embarrassed, stumble over his big feet and get in everybody's way. He felt that Harry saw through all of this and was laughing. This made him mad. There were times when if Minowitz hadn't been so old he would have picked a fight with him and tried to bash his ears in. But although Harry looked like he might be any age he knew that he must be around thirty—and a nearly six foot tall boy of fourteen coudn't fight with a smaller man who was that much older.
Then one morning Harry brought "the dolls" to the store. That was the name somebody gave to the set of chessmen he had worked on for ten years. At first it was a surprise to realize that even Harry could be a crank about something—he had known that he liked chess and owned a fine set of pieces, but that was all. He learned that Harry would go anywhere to find a partner who could give him a good game. And next to playing he liked to just fondle and work with these little doll-like men. They had been carved years ago by a friend of his father—out of ebony and some light hard wood. Some of the pieces had shrunken little Chinese faces and all of the parts were curious and beautiful. For years Harry had worked in his spare time to inlay this set with chased gold.
It was these chessmen that made them friends. When Harry saw how interested he was he began to tell him about the work and also to explain the moves in a chess game. Within a few weeks he learned how to play a fair game for a beginner. And after that he and Harry would play together often on Saturdays in the back of the store. He got so that even at night when he couldn't sleep he would think about chess. He hadn't thought that he could ever like a game so much.
Sometimes Harry would have him up to his place for an evening. The room he lived in was very neat and bare. They would sit silendy over a little card table, going through the game without a word. As Harry played his face was as pale and frozen looking as one of his little carved pieces—only his sharp black eyebrows moved and his fingers as he slowly rubbed his nose. The first few times he left as soon as the games were over because he was afraid Harry might get tired of him if he stayed longer and think he was just a boring kid. But before he knew it all that was changed and they would talk sometimes until late at night. There were times when he would feel almost like a drunk man and try to put into words all the things he had kept stored up for a long time. He would talk and talk until he was breathless and his cheeks burned—about the things he wanted to do and see and make up his mind about. Harry listened with his head cocked to one side and his unsurprised silence made what he wanted to say come faster and even more clearly than he had thought it.
Harry was always quiet, but the things he did mention suggested more than he ever said. He had a younger brother named Baruch who was a pianist studying in New York. The way he would speak of his brother showed that he cared more about him than he did anyone else. Andrew tried to imagine Baruch—and in his mind he was bigger and surer and knew more than any of the kids in his gang. Often when he thought of this boy there was a sad longing feeling because they didn't know each other. Harry had other brothers—one who had a cigarette shop in Cincinnati, and another who was a piano tuner. You could tell he was close to all his family. But this Baruch was his favorite.
Sometimes when he would hurry down the dark streets on the way home he would feel a peculiar quiver of fear inside him. He didn't know why. It was like he had given all he had to a stranger who might cheat him. He wanted to run run run through the dark streets without stopping. Once when this happened he stopped on a corner and leaned against the lamp post and began to try to remember exactly what he had said. A panic came over him because it seemed that the thing he had tried to tell was too naked. He didn't know why this was so. The words jangled in his head and mocked him.
"Don't you ever hate being yourself? I mean like the times when you wake up suddenly and say I am I and you feel smothered. It's like everything you do and think about is at loose ends and nothing fits together. There ought to be a time when you see everything like you're looking through a periscope. A kind of a—colossal periscope where nothing is left out and everything in the world fits in with every other thing. And no matter what happens after that it won't—won't stick out like a sore thumb and make you lose your balance. That's one reason I like chess because it's sort of that way. And music—I mean good music. Most jazz and theme songs in the movies are like something a kid like Mick would draw on a piece of tablet paper—maybe a sort of shaky line all erased and messy. But the other music is sometimes like a great fine design and for a minute it makes you that way too. But about that sort of periscope—there's really no such thing. And maybe that's what everybody wants and they just don't know it. They try one thing after another but that want is never really gone. Never."
And when he had finished talking Harry's face was still pale and frozen, like one of his wizened chess kings. He had nodded his head and that was all. Andrew hated him. But even so he knew that the next week he would go back.
That year he often went out roaming through the town. Not only did he get to know all the streets in the suburb where he lived, and those of the main blocks downtown, and the Negro sections—but he began to be familiar, also, with that part of town called South Highlands. This was the place where the most important business of the town, the three cotton factories, was situated. For a mile up the river there was nothing but these mills and the glutted little streets of shacks where the workers lived. This huge section seemed almost entirely separate from the rest of the town and when Andrew first began to go there he felt almost as though he were a hundred miles from home. Some afternoons he would walk up and down the steep foul sidestreets for hours. He just walked without speaking to anybody with his hands in his pockets, and the more he saw the more there was this feeling that he would have to keep walking on and on through those streets until his mind was settled. He saw things there that scared him in an entirely new way—new, because it was not for himself he was afraid and he couldn't even put the reason into thought. But the fear kept on in him and sometimes it seemed it would almost choke him. Always people sitting on their front steps or standing in doorways would stare at him—and most of the faces were a pale yellow and had no expression except that of watching without any special interest. The streets were always full of kids in overalls. Once he saw a boy as old as he was piss on his own front steps when there were girls around. Another time a half grown fellow tried to trip him up and they had to fight. He had never been much of a fighter but in a scrap he always used his fists and butted with his head. But this boy was different. He fought like a cat and scratched and bit and
kept snarling under his breath. The funny thing was that the fight was almost over and he felt himself on the ground and being choked when the fellow suddenly got limp like an old sack and in a minute more he gave up. Then when they were on their feet and just looking at each other he, the boy, did a crazy thing. He spat at him and slunk down to the ground and lay there on his back. The spit landed on his shoe and was thick like he had been saving it up a long time. But he looked down at him lying there on the ground and he felt sick and didn't even think about making him fight again. It was a cold day but the boy didn't have on anything but a pair of overalls and his chest was nothing but bones and his stomach stuck way out. He felt sick like he had hit a baby or a girl or somebody that should have been fighting on his side. The hoarse wailing whistles that marked the change in the mill shifts called out to him.
But even after that there was something in him that made him still walk the streets of South Highlands. He was looking for something but he didn't know what it was.
In the Negro sections he felt none of this dim fear. Those parts of the town were a sort of home to him—especially the little street called Sherman's Quarter where Vitalis lived. This street was on the edge of the City Limits and was only a few blocks from his own house. Most of the colored people there did yard work or cooked for white people or took in washing. Behind the Quarter were the long miles of fields and pine woods where he would go on camping trips. As a kid he knew the names of everybody living anywhere near. When he would go camping he used to borrow a certain skinny little hound from an old man at the end of the Quarter and if he brought back a possum or a fish sometimes they would cook it and eat together. He knew the backs of those houses like his own yard—the black washpots, the barrel hoops, the plum bushes, the privies, the old automobile body without wheels that had set for years behind one of the houses. He knew the Quarter on Sunday mornings when the women would comb and plait their children's hair in the sun on the front steps, when the grown girls would walk up and down in their trailing bright silk dresses, and the men would watch and softly whistle blues songs. And after supper time he knew it too. Then the light from the oil lamps would flicker from the houses and throw out long shadows. And there was the smell of smoke and fish and corn. And somebody was always dancing or playing the harp.