She waited for Mister Singer to come out of the bathroom.
Her cheeks were very hot and she felt them with her hands.
Maybe it was true that she came up on these top steps sometimes so she could see Mister Singer while she was listening to Miss Brown’s radio on the floor below. She wondered what kind of music he heard in his mind that his ears couldn’t hear. Nobody knew. And what kind of things he would say if he could talk.
Nobody knew that either.
Mick waited, and after a while he came out into the hall again.
She hoped he would look down and smile at her. And then when he got to his door he did glance down and nod his head.
Mick’s grin was wide and trembling. He went into his room and shut the door. It might have been he meant to invite her in to see him. Mick wanted suddenly to go into his room.
Sometime soon when he didn’t have company she would really go in and see Mister Singer. She really would do that.
The hot afternoon passed slowly and Mick still sat on the steps by herself. The fellow Motsart’s music was in her mind again. It was funny, but Mister Singer reminded her of this music. She wished there was some place where she could go to hum it out loud. Some kind of music was too private to sing in a house cram full of people. It was funny, too, how lonesome a person could be in a crowded house. Mick tried to think of some good private place where she could go and be by herself and study about this music. But though she thought about this a long time she knew in the beginning that there was no good place.
LATE in the afternoon Jake Blount awoke with the feeling that he had slept enough. The room hi which he lay was small and neat, furnished with a bureau, a table, a bed, and a few chairs. On the bureau an electric fan turned its face slowly from one wall to another, and as the breeze from it passed Jake’s face he thought of cool water. By the window a man sat before the table and stared down at a chess game laid out before him. In the daylight the room was not familiar to Jake, but he recognized the man’s face instantly and it was as though he had known him a very long time.
Many memories were confused in Jake’s mind. He lay motionless with his eyes open and his hands turned palm upward. His hands were huge and very brown against the white sheet. When he held them up to his face he saw that they were scratched and bruised--and the veins were swollen as though he had been grasping hard at something for a long time. His face looked tired and unkempt. His brown hair fell down over his forehead and his mustache was awry.
Even his wing-shaped eyebrows were rough and tousled. As he lay there his lips moved once or twice and his mustache jerked with a nervous quiver.
After a while he sat up and gave himself a thump on the side of his head with one of his big fists to straighten himself out. When he moved, the man playing chess looked up quickly and smiled at him.
‘God, I’m thirsty,’ Jake said. ‘I feel like the whole Russian army marched through my mouth in its stocking feet.’ The man looked at him, still smiling, and then suddenly he reached down on the other side of the table and brought up a frosted pitcher of ice water and a glass. Jake drank in great panting gulps--standing half-naked in the middle of the room, his head thrown back and one of his hands closed in a tense fist.
He finished four glasses before he took a deep breath and relaxed a little.
Instantly certain recollections came to him. He couldn’t remember coming home with this man, but things that had happened later were clearer now. He had waked up soaking in a tub of cold water, and afterward they drank coffee and talked. He had got a lot of things off his chest and the man had listened. He had talked himself hoarse, but he could remember the expressions on the man’s face better than anything that was said. They had gone to bed in the morning with the shade pulled down so no light could come in. At first he would keep waking up with nightmares and have to turn the light on to get himself clear again. The light would wake this fellow also, but he hadn’t complained at all.
‘How come you didn’t kick me out last night?’ The man only smiled again. Jake wondered why he was so quiet. He looked around for his clothes and saw that his suitcase was on the floor by the bed. He couldn’t remember how he had got it back from the restaurant where he owed for the drinks. His books, a white suit, and some shirts were all there as he had packed them. Quickly he began to dress himself.
An electric coffee-pot was perking on the table by the time he had his clothes on. The man reached into the pocket of the vest that hung over the back of a chair. He brought out a card and Jake took it questioningly. The man’s name--John Singer--was engraved in the center, and beneath this, written in ink with the same elaborate precision as the engraving, there was a brief message.
I am a deaf-mute, but I read the lips and understand what is said to me. Please do not shout.
The shock made Jake feel light and vacant. He and John Singer just looked at each other.
‘I wonder how long it would have taken me to find that out,’ he said.
Singer looked very carefully at his lips when he spoke--he had noticed that before. But a dummy! They sat at the table and drank hot coffee out of blue cups.
The room was cool and the half-drawn shades softened the hard glare from the windows. Singer brought from his closet a tin box that contained a loaf of bread, some oranges, and cheese. He did not eat much, but sat leaning back in his chair with one hand in his pocket. Jake ate hungrily. He would have to leave the place immediately and think things over. As long as he was stranded he ought to scout around for some sort of job in a hurry. The quiet room was too peaceful and comfortable to worry in--he would get out and walk by himself for a while.
‘Are there any other deaf-mute people here?’ he asked. ‘You have many friends?’
Singer was still smiling. He did not catch on to the words at first, and Jake had to repeat them. Singer raised his sharp, dark eyebrows and shook his head.
‘Find it lonesome?’
The man shook his head in a way that might have meant either yes or no. They sat silently for a little while and then Jake got up to leave. He thanked Singer several times for the night’s lodging, moving his lips carefully so that he was sure to be understood. The mute only smiled again and shrugged his shoulders. When Jake asked if he could leave his suitcase under the bed for a few days the mute nodded that he could. Then Singer took his hands from his pocket and wrote carefully on a pad of paper with a silver pencil. He shoved the pad over toward Jake.
I can put a mattress on the floor and you can stay here until you find a place. I am out most of the day. It will not be any trouble.
Jake felt his lips tremble with a sudden feeling of gratefulness.
But he couldn’t accept. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘I already got a place.’
As he was leaving the mute handed him a pair of blue overalls, rolled into a tight bundle, and seventy-five cents. The overalls were filthy and as Jake recognized them they aroused in him a whirl of sudden memories from the past week. The money, Singer made him understand, had been in his pockets.
‘Adios,’ Jake said. ‘I’ll be back sometime soon.’
He left the mute standing in the doorway with his hands still in his pockets and the half-smile on his face. When he had gone down several steps of the stairs he turned and waved.
The mute waved back to him and closed his door.
Outside the glare was sudden and sharp against his eyes. He stood on the sidewalk before the house, too dazzled at first by the sunlight to see very clearly. A youngun was sitting on the banisters of the house. He had seen her somewhere before. He remembered the boy’s shorts she was wearing and the way she squinted her eyes.
He held up the dirty roll of overalls. I want to throw these away. Know where I can find a garbage can?’
The kid jumped down from the banisters. ‘It’s in the back yard.’
‘I’ll show you.’
He followed her through the narrow, dampish alley at the side of the house. W
hen they came to the back yard Jake saw that two Negro men were sitting on the back steps. They were both dressed in white suits and white shoes. One of the Negroes was very tall and his tie and socks were brilliant green. The other was a light mulatto of average height. He rubbed a tin harmonica across his knee. In contrast with his tall companion his socks and tie were a hot red.
The kid pointed to the garbage can by the back fence and then turned to the kitchen window. ‘Portia!’ she called. ‘Highboy and Willie here waiting for you.’ A soft voice answered from the kitchen. ‘You neen holler so loud. I know they is. I putting on my hat right now.’ Jake unrolled the overalls before throwing them away. They were stiff with mud. One leg was torn and a few drops of blood stained the front. He dropped them in the can. A Negro girl came out of the house and joined the white-suited boys on the steps. Jake saw that the youngun in shorts was looking at him very closely. She changed her weight from one foot to the other and seemed excited. ‘Are you kin to Mister Singer?’ she asked.’ Not a bit.’
‘Good friend?’
‘Good enough to spend the night with him.’
‘I just wondered--Which direction is Main Street? ’ She pointed to the right Two blocks down this way.’ Jake combed his mustache with his fingers and started off. He jingled the seventy-five cents in his hand and bit his lower lip until it was mottled and scarlet. The three Negroes were walking slowly ahead of him, talking among themselves. Because he felt lonely in the unfamiliar town he kept close behind them and listened. The girl held both of them by the arm. She wore a green dress with a red hat and shoes. The boys walked very close to her. ‘What we got planned for this evening?’ she asked.
‘It depend entirely upon you, Honey,’ the tall boy said. ‘Willie and me don’t have no special plans.’
She looked from one to the other. ‘You all got to decide.’
‘Well--’ said the shorter boy in the red socks. ‘Highboy and me thought m-maybe us three go to church.’
The girl sang her answer in three different tones. ‘O-K-And after church I got a notion I ought to go and set with Father for a while--just a short while.’ They turned at the first corner, and Jake stood watching them a moment before walking on.
The main street was quiet and hot, almost deserted. He had not realized until now that it was Sunday--and the thought of this depressed him. The awnings over the closed stores were raised and the buildings had a bare look in the bright sun. He passed the New York Cafe. The door was open, but the place looked empty and dark. He had not found any socks to wear that morning, and the hot pavement burned through the thin soles of his shoes. The sun felt like a hot piece of iron pressing down on his head. The town seemed more lonesome than any place he had ever known. The stillness of the street gave him a strange feeling. When he had been drunk the place had seemed violent and riotous. And now it was as though everything had come to a sudden, static halt.
He went into a fruit and candy store to buy a paper. The Help-Wanted column was very short. There were several calls for young men between twenty-five and forty with automobiles to sell various products on commission. These he skipped over quickly. An advertisement for a truck-driver held his attention for a few minutes. But the notice at the bottom interested him most It read: Wanted--Experienced Mechanic. Sunny Dixie Show. Apply Corner Weavers Lane & 15th Street.
Without knowing it he had walked back to the door of the restaurant where he had spent his time during the past two weeks. This was the only place on the block besides the fruit store which was not closed. Jake decided suddenly to drop in and see Biff Brannon.
The cafe was very dark after the brightness outside.
Everything looked dingier and quieter than he had remembered it. Brannon stood behind the cash register as usual, his arms folded over his chest. His good-looking plump wife sat filing her fingernails at the other end of the counter.
Jake noticed that they glanced at each other as he came in.
‘Afternoon,’ said Brannon.
Jake felt something in the air. Maybe the fellow was laughing because he remembered things that had happened when he was drunk. Jake stood wooden and resentful. ‘Package of Target, please.’ As Brannon reached beneath the counter for the tobacco Jake decided that he was not laughing. In the daytime the fellow’s face was not as hard-looking as it was at night He was pale as though he had not slept, and his eyes had the look of a weary buzzard’s.
‘Speak up,’ Jake said. ‘How much do I owe you?’
Brannon opened a drawer and put on the counter a public-school tablet. Slowly he turned over the pages and Jake watched him. The tablet looked more like a private notebook than the place where he kept his regular accounts. There were long lines of figures, added, divided, and subtracted, and little drawings. He stopped at a certain page and Jake saw his last name written at the corner. On the page there were no figures--only small checks and crosses. At random across the page were drawn little round, seated cats with long curved lines for tails. Jake stared. The faces of the little cats were human and female. The faces of the little cats were Mrs. Brannon.
‘I have checks here for the beers,’ Brannon said. ‘And crosses for dinners and straight lines for the whiskey. Let me see--’ Brannon rubbed his nose and his eyelids drooped down. Then he shut the tablet. ‘Approximately twenty dollars.’
‘It’ll take me a long time,’ Jake said. ‘But maybe you’ll get it’
‘There’s no big hurry.’
Jake leaned against the counter. ‘Say, what kind of a place is this town?’
‘Ordinary,’ Brannon said. ‘About like any other place the same size.’
‘What population?’
‘Around thirty thousand.’
Jake opened the package of tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette. His hands were shaking. ‘Mostly mills?’
That’s right. Four big cotton mills--those are the main ones. A hosiery factory. Some gins and sawmills.’
‘What kind of wages?’
‘I’d say around ten or eleven a week on the average--but then of course they get laid off now and then. What makes you ask all this? You mean to try to get a job in a mill?’
Jake dug his fist into his eye and rubbed it sleepily. ‘Don’t know. I might and I might not.’ He laid the newspaper on the counter and pointed out the advertisement he had just read. ‘I think I’ll go around and look into this.’
Brannon read and considered. ‘Yeah,’ he said finally. ‘I’ve seen that show. It’s not much--just a couple of contraptions such as a flying-jinny and swings. It corrals the colored people and mill hands and kids. They move around to different vacant lots in town.’
‘Show me how to get there.’
Brannon went with him to the door and pointed out the direction. ‘Did you go on home with Singer this morning?’
Jake nodded.
‘What do you think of him?’
Jake bit his lips. The mute’s face was in his mind very clearly.
It was like the face of a friend he had known for a long time.
He had been thinking of the man ever since he had left his room. ‘I didn’t even know he was a dummy,’ he said finally.
He began walking again down the hot, deserted street. He did not walk as a stranger in a strange town. He seemed to be looking for someone. Soon he entered one of the mill districts bordering the river. The streets became narrow and unpaved and they were not empty any longer. Groups of dingy, hungry-looking children called to each other and played games. The two-room shacks, each one like the other, were rotten and unpainted. The stink of food and sewage mingled with the dust in the air. The falls up the river made a faint rushing sound. People stood silently in doorways or lounged on steps.
They looked at Jake with yellow, expressionless faces. He stared back at them with wide, brown eyes. He walked jerkily, and now and then he wiped his mouth with the hairy back of his hand.
At the end of Weavers Lane there was a vacant block
. It had once been used as a junk yard for old automobiles. Rusted pieces of machinery and torn inner tubes still littered the ground. A trailer was parked in one corner of the lot, and nearby was a flying-jinny partly covered with canvas.
Jake approached slowly. Two little younguns in overalls stood before the flying-jinny. Near them, seated on a box, a Negro man drowsed in the late sunshine, his knees collapsed against each other. In one hand he held a sack of melted chocolate.
Jake watched him stick his fingers in the miry candy and then lick them slowly.
‘Who’s the manager of this outfit?’
The Negro thrust his two sweet fingers between his lips and rolled over them with his tongue. ‘He a red-headed man,’ he said when he had finished. ‘That all I know, Cap’n.’
‘Where’s he now? ’
‘He over there behind that largest wagon.’ Jake slipped off his tie as he walked across the grass and staffed it into his pocket. The sun was beginning to set in the west. Above the black line of housetops the sky was warm crimson. The owner of the show stood smoking a cigarette by himself. His red hair sprang up like a sponge on the top of his head and he stared at Jake with gray, flabby eyes. ‘You the manager? ‘Uh-huh. Patterson’s my name.’
‘I come about the job in this morning’s paper.’
‘Yeah. I don’t want no greenhorn. I need a experienced mechanic.’
‘I got plenty of experience,’ Jake said. ‘What you ever done? ‘I’ve worked as a weaver and loom-fixer. I’ve worked in garages and an automobile assembly shop. All sorts of different things.’ Patterson guided him toward the partly covered flying-jinny.
The motionless wooden horses were fantastic in the late afternoon sun. They pranced up statically, pierced by their dull gilt bars. The horse nearest Jake had a splintery wooden crack in its dingy rump and the eyes walled blind and frantic, shreds of paint peeled from the sockets. The motionless merry-go-round seemed to Jake like something in a liquor dream.