Look Homeward, Angel

  "Does Miss Lily know you're comin'?" the negro asked.

  "No," said Jim Trivett. "Do you know her?"

  "Yes, suh," said the negro. "I'll go up dar wid yo'."

  Eugene waited in the shadow of the tree while the two men went up to the house. They avoided the front veranda, and went around tothe side. The negro rapped gently at a latticed door. There were always latticed doors. Why?

  He waited, saying farewell to himself. He stood over his life, he felt, with lifted assassin blade. He was mired to his neck, inextricably, in complication. There was no escape.

  There had been a faint closed noise from the house: voices and laughter, and the cracked hoarse tone of an old phonograph. The sound stopped quickly as the negro rapped: the shabby house seemed to listen. In a moment, a hinge creaked stealthily: he caught the low startled blur of a woman's voice. Who is it? Who?

  In another moment Jim Trivett returned to him, and said quietly:

  "It's all right, 'Gene. Come on."

  He slipped a coin into the negro's hand, thanking him. Eugene looked for a moment into the black broad friendliness of the man's face. He had a flash of warmth through his cold limbs. The black bawd had done his work eagerly and kindly: over their bought unlovely loves lay the warm shadow of his affection.

  They ascended the path quietly and, mounting two or three steps, went in under the latticed door. A woman stood beside it, holding it open. When they had entered, she closed it securely. Then they crossed the little porch and entered the house.

  They found themselves in a little hall which cleft the width of the house. A smoky lamp, wicked low, cast its dim circle into the dark. An uncarpeted stair mounted to the second floor. There were two doors both to left and right, and an accordion hat-rack, on which hung a man's battered felt hat.

  Jim Trivett embraced the woman immediately, grinning, and fumbling in her breast.

  "Hello, Lily," he said.

  "Gawd!" She smiled crudely, and continued to peer at Eugene, curious at what the maw of night had thrown in to her. Then, turning to Jim Trivett with a coarse laugh, she said:

  "Lord a' mercy! Any woman that gits him will have to cut off some of them legs."

  "I'd like to see him with Thelma," said Jim Trivett, grinning.

  Lily Jones laughed hoarsely. The door to the right opened and Thelma, a small woman, slightly built, came out, followed by high empty yokel laughter. Jim Trivett embraced her affectionately.

  "My Gawd!" said Thelma, in a tinny voice. "What've we got here?" She thrust out her sharp wrenny face, and studied Eugene insolently.

  "I brought you a new beau, Thelma," said Jim Trivett.

  "Ain't he the lankiest feller you ever seen?" said Lily Jones impersonally. "How tall are you, son?" she added, addressing him in a kind drawl.

  He winced a little.

  "I don't know," he said. "I think about six three."

  "He's more than that!" said Thelma positively. "He's seven foot tall or I'm a liar."

  "He hasn't measured since last week," said Jim Trivett. "He can't be sure about it."

  "He's young, too," said Lily, staring at him intently. "How old are you, son?"

  Eugene turned his pallid face away, indefinitely.

  "Why," he croaked, "I'm about--"

  "He's going on eighteen," said Jim Trivett loyally. "Don't you worry about him. Old Legs knows all the ropes, all right. He's a bearcat. I wouldn't kid you. He's been there."

  "He don't look that old," said Lily doubtfully. "I wouldn't call him more'n fifteen, to look at his face. Ain't he got a little face, though?" she demanded in a slow puzzled voice.

  "It's the only one I've got," said Eugene angrily. "Sorry I can't change it for a larger one."

  "It looks so funny stickin' way up there above you," she went on patiently.

  Thelma nudged her sharply.

  "That's because he's got a big frame," she said. "Legs is all right. When he begins to fill out an' put some meat on them bones he's goin' to make a big man. You'll be a heartbreaker sure, Legs," she said harshly, taking his cold hand and squeezing it. In him the ghost, his stranger, turned grievously away. O God! I shall remember, he thought.

  "Well," said Jim Trivett, "let's git goin'." He embraced Thelma again. They fumbled amorously.

  "You go on upstairs, son," said Lily. "I'll be up in a minute. The door's open."

  "See you later, 'Gene," said Jim Trivett. "Stay with them, son."

  He hugged the boy roughly with one arm, and went into the room to the left with Thelma.

  Eugene mounted the creaking stairs slowly and entered the room with the open door. A hot mass of coals glowed flamelessly in the hearth. He took off his hat and overcoat and threw them across a wooden bed. Then he sat down tensely in a rocker and leaned forward, holding his trembling fingers to the heat. There was no light save that of the coals; but, by their dim steady glow, he could make out the old and ugly wall-paper, stained with long streaks of water rust, and scaling, in dry tattered scrolls, here and there. He sat quietly, bent forward, but he shook violently, as with an ague, from time to time. Why am I here? This is not I, he thought.

  Presently he heard the woman's slow heavy tread upon the stairs: she entered in a swimming tide of light, bearing a lamp before her. She put the lamp down on a table and turned the wick. He could see her now more plainly. Lily was a middle-aged country woman, with a broad heavy figure, unhealthily soft. Her smooth peasant face was mapped with fine little traceries of wrinkles at the corners of mouth and eyes, as if she had worked much in the sun. She had black hair, coarse and abundant. She was whitely plastered with talcum powder. She was dressed shapelessly in a fresh loose dress of gingham, unbelted. She was dressed like a housewife, but she conceded to her profession stockings of red silk, and slippers of red felt, trimmed with fur, in which she walked with a flat-footed tread.

  The woman fastened the door, and returned to the hearth where the boy was now standing. He embraced her with feverish desire, fondling her with his long nervous hands. Indecisively, he sat in the rocker and drew her down clumsily on his knee. She yielded her kisses with the coy and frigid modesty of the provincial harlot, turning her mouth away. She shivered as his cold hands touched her.

  "You're cold as ice, son," she said. "What's the matter?"

  She chafed him with rough embarrassed professionalism. In a moment she rose impatiently.

  "Let's git started," she said. "Where's my money?"

  He thrust two crumpled bills into her hand.

  Then he lay down beside her. He trembled, unnerved and impotent. Passion was extinct in him.

  The massed coals caved in the hearth. The lost bright wonder died.

  When he went down stairs, he found Jim Trivett waiting in the hall, holding Thelma by the hand. Lily led them out quietly, after peering through the lattice into the fog, and listening for a moment.

  "Be quiet," she whispered, "there's a man across the street. They've been watching us lately."

  "Come again, Slats," Thelma murmured, pressing his hand.

  They went out softly, treading gently until they reached the road. The fog had thickened: the air was saturated with fine stinging moisture.

  At the corner, in the glare of the street-lamp, Jim Trivett released his breath with loud relief, and stepped forward boldly.

  "Damn!" he said. "I thought you were never coming. What were you trying to do with the woman, Legs?" Then, noting the boy's face, he added quickly, with warm concern: "What's the matter, 'Gene? Don't you feel good?"

  "Wait a minute!" said Eugene thickly. "Be all right!"

  He went to the curb, and vomited into the gutter. Then he straightened, mopping his mouth with a handkerchief.

  "How do you feel?" asked Jim Trivett. "Better?"

  "Yes," said Eugene, "I'm all right now."

  "Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" said Jim Trivett chidingly.

  "It came on all of a sudden," said Eugene. He added presently: "I think it was something I ate at that
damn Greek's to-night."

  "I felt all right," said Jim Trivett. "A cup of coffee will fix you up," he added with cheerful conviction.

  They mounted the hill slowly. The light from winking cornerlamps fell with a livid stare across the fronts of the squalid houses.

  "Jim," said Eugene, after a moment's pause.

  "Yes. What is it?"

  "Don't say anything about my getting sick," he said awkwardly.

  Surprised, Jim Trivett stared at him.

  "Why not? There's nothing in that," he said. "Pshaw, boy, any one's likely to get sick."

  "Yes, I know. But I'd rather you wouldn't."

  "Oh, all right. I won't. Why should I?" said Jim Trivett.

  Eugene was haunted by his own lost ghost: he knew it to be irrecoverable. For three days he avoided every one: the brand of his sin, he felt, was on him. He was published by every gesture, by every word. His manner grew more defiant, his greeting to life more unfriendly. He clung more closely to Jim Trivett, drawing a sad pleasure from his coarse loyal praise. His unappeased desire began to burn anew: it conquered his bodily disgust and made new pictures. At the end of the week he went again, alone, to Exeter, No more of him, he felt, could be lost. This time he sought out Thelma.

  When he went home for Christmas, his loins were black with vermin. The great body of the State lay like a barren giant below the leaden reek of the skies. The train roared on across the vast lift of the Piedmont: at night, as he lay in his berth, in a diseased coma, it crawled up into the great fortress of the hills. Dimly, he saw their wintry bulk, with its bleak foresting. Below a trestle, silent as a dream, a white rope of water coiled between its frozen banks. His sick heart lifted in the haunting eternity of the hills. He was hillborn. But at dawn, as he came from the cars with the band of returning students, his depression revived. The huddle of cheap buildings at the station seemed meaner and meaner than ever before. The hills, above the station flats, with their cheap propped houses, had the unnatural closeness of a vision. The silent Square seemed to have rushed together during his absence, and as he left the car and descended the street to Dixieland, it was as if he devoured toy-town distances with a giant's stride.

  The Christmas was gray and chill. Helen was not there to give it warmth. Gant and Eliza felt the depression of her absence. Ben came and went like a ghost. Luke was not coming home. And he himself was sick with shame and loss.

  He did not know where to turn. He paced his chill room at night, muttering, until Eliza's troubled face appeared above her wrapper. His father was gentler, older than he had ever seen him; his pain had returned on him. He was absent and sorrowful. He talked perfunctorily with his son about college. Speech choked in Eugene's throat. He stammered a few answers and fled from the house and the vacant fear in Gant's eyes. He walked prodigiously, day and night, in an effort to command his own fear. He believed himself to be rotting with a leprosy. And there was nothing to do but rot. There was no cure. For such had been the instruction of the moralists of his youth.

  He walked with aimless desperation, unable to quiet for a moment his restless limbs. He went up on the eastern hills that rose behind Niggertown. A winter's sun labored through the mist. Low on the meadows, and high on the hills, the sunlight lay on the earth like milk.

  He stood looking. A shaft of hope cut through the blackness of his spirit. I will go to my brother, he thought.

  He found Ben still in bed at Woodson Street, smoking. He closed the door, then spun wildly about as if caged.

  "In God's name!" Ben cried angrily. "Have you gone crazy? What's wrong with you?"

  "I'm--I'm sick!" he gasped.

  "What's the matter? Where've you been?" asked Ben sharply. He sat up in bed.

  "I've been with a woman," said Eugene.

  "Sit down, 'Gene," said Ben quietly, after a moment. "Don't be a little idiot. You're not going to die, you know. When did this happen?"

  The boy blurted out his confession.

  Ben got up and put on his clothes.

  "Come on," said he, "we'll go to see McGuire."

  As they walked townward, he tried to talk, explaining himself in babbling incoherent spurts.

  "It was like this," he began, "if I had known, but at that time I didn't--of course I know it was my own fault for--"

  "Oh, for God's sake!" said Ben impatiently. "Dry up! I don't want to hear about it. I'm not your damned Guardian Angel."

  The news was comforting. So many people, after our fall from grace, are.

  They mounted to the wide dark corridor of the Doctors' and Surgeons', with its sharp excitement of medical smells. McGuire's anteroom was empty. Ben rapped at the inner door. McGuire opened it: he pulled away the wet cigarette that was plastered on his heavy lip, to greet them.

  "Hello, Ben. Hello, son!" he barked, seeing Eugene. "When'd you get back?"

  "He thinks he's dying of galloping consumption, McGuire," said Ben, with a jerk of the head. "You may be able to do something to prolong his life."

  "What's the matter, son?" said McGuire.

  Eugene gulped dryly, craning his livid face.

  "If you don't mind," he croaked. "See you alone." He turned desperately upon his brother. "You stay here. Don't want you with me."

  "I don't want to go with you," said Ben surlily. "I've got troubles enough of my own."

  Eugene followed McGuire's burly figure into the office; McGuire closed the door, and sat down heavily at his littered desk.

  "Sit down, son," he commanded, "and tell me about it." He lit a cigarette and stuck it deftly on his sag wet lip. He glanced keenly at the boy, noting his contorted face.

  "Take your time, son," he said kindly, "and control yourself. Whatever it is, it's probably not as bad as you think."

  "It was this way," Eugene began in a low voice. "I've made a mistake. I know that. I'm willing to take my medicine. I'm not making any excuses for what has happened," his voice rose sharply; he got half-way out of his chair, and began to pound fiercely upon the untidy desk. "I'm putting the blame on no one. Do you understand that?"

  McGuire turned a bloated bewildered face slowly upon his patient. His wet cigarette sagged comically from his half-opened mouth.

  "Do I understand what?" he said. "See here, 'Gene: what the hell are you driving at? I'm no Sherlock Holmes, you know. I'm your doctor. Spit it out."

  "What I've done," he said dramatically, "thousands have done. Oh, I know they may pretend not to. But they do! You're a doctor?you know that. People high-up in society, too. I'm one of the unlucky ones. I got caught. Why am I any worse than they are? Why--" he continued rhetorically.

  "I think I catch your drift," said McGuire dryly. "Let's have a look, son."

  Eugene obeyed feverishly, still declaiming.

  "Why should I bear the stigma for what others get away with? Hypocrites--a crowd of damned, dirty, whining hypocrites, that's what they are. The Double-Standard! Hah! Where's the justice, where's the honor of that? Why should I be blamed for what people in High Society--"

  McGuire lifted his big head from its critical stare, and barked comically.

  "Who's blaming you? You don't think you're the first one who ever had this sort of trouble, do you? There's nothing wrong with you, anyway."

  "Can--can you cure me?" Eugene asked.

  "No. You're incurable, son!" said McGuire. He scrawled a few hieroglyphics on a prescription pad. "Give this to the druggist," he said, "and be a little more careful hereafter of the company you keep. People in High Society, eh?" he grinned. "So that's where you've been?"

  The great weight of blood and tears had lifted completely out of the boy's heart, leaving him dizzily buoyant, wild, half-conscious only of his rushing words.

  He opened the door and went into the outer room. Ben got up quickly and nervously.

  "Well," he said, "how much longer has he got to live?" Seriously, in a low voice, he added: "There's nothing wrong with him, is there?"

  "No," said McGuire, "I think he's a little off his nut.
But, then, you all are."

  When they came out on the street again, Ben said:

  "Have you had anything to eat?"

  "No," said Eugene.

  "When did you eat last?"

  "Some time yesterday," said Eugene. "I don't remember."

  "You damned fool!" Ben muttered. "Come on--let's eat."

  The idea became very attractive. The world was washed pleasantly in the milky winter sunshine. The town, under the stimulus of the holidays and the returning students, had wakened momentarily from its winter torpor: warm brisk currents of life seethed over the pavements. He walked along at Ben's side with a great bounding stride, unable to govern the expanding joy that rose yeastily in him. Finally, as he turned in on the busy avenue, he could restrain himself no longer: he leaped high in the air, with a yelp of ecstasy:

  "Squee-ee!"

  "You little idiot!" Ben cried sharply. "Are you crazy!"

  He scowled fiercely, then turned to the roaring passersby, with a thin smile.

  "Hang on to him, Ben!" yelled Jim Pollock. He was a deadly little man, waxen and smiling under a black mustache, the chief compositor, a Socialist.

  "If you cut off his damned big feet," said Ben, "he'd go up like a balloon."

  They went into the big new lunch-room and sat at one of the tables.

  "What's yours?" said the waiter.

  "A cup of coffee and a piece of mince pie," said Ben.

  "I'll take the same," said Eugene.

  "Eat!" said Ben fiercely. "Eat!"

  Eugene studied the card thoughtfully.

  "Bring me some veal cutlets breaded with tomato sauce," he said, "with a side-order of hash-brown potatoes, a dish of creamed carrots and peas, and a plate of hot biscuits. Also a cup of coffee."

  Eugene got back his heart again. He got it back fiercely and carelessly, with an eldritch wildness. During the remainder of his holiday, he plunged recklessly through the lively crowds, looking boldly but without insolence at the women and young girls. They grew unexpectedly out of the waste drear winter like splendid flowers. He was eager and alone. Fear is a dragon that lives among crowds--and in armies. It lives hardly with men who are alone. He felt released--beyond the last hedge of desperation.