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people forget about High School and being almost grown。 It
was like just before you take a bath in the afternoon when you
might wallow around in the back yard and get plenty dirty just
for the good feel of it before getting into the tub。 Everybody
was a wild kid playing out on Saturday night—and she felt
like the very wildest of all。
She hollered and pushed and was the first to try any new stunt。
She made so much noise and moved around so fast she
couldn't notice what anybody else was doing。 Her breath
wouldn't come fast enough to let her do all the wild things she
wanted to do。
The ditch down the street！ The ditch！ The ditch！'
She started for it first。 Down a block they had put in new pipes
under the street and dug a swell deep ditch。 The flambeaux
around the edge were bright and red in the dark。 She wouldn't
wait to climb down。 She ran until she reached the little wavy
flames and then she jumped。
With her tennis shoes she would have landed like a cat —but
the high pumps made her slip and her stomach hit this pipe。
Her breath was stopped。 She lay quiet with her eyes closed。
The partyFor a long time she remembered how
she thought it would be； how she imagined the new people at
Vocational。 And about the bunch she wanted to be with every
day。 She would feel different in the halls now； knowing that
they were not something special but like any other kids。 It was
O。K。 about the ruined party。 But it was all over。 It was the
end。
Mick climbed out of the ditch。 Some kids were playing around
the little pots of flames。 The fire made a red glow and there
were long； quick shadows。 One boy had gone home and put on
a dough…face bought in advance for Hal
99
lowe'en。 Nothing was changed about the party except her。
She walked home slowly。 When she passed kids she didn't
speak or look at them。 The decoration in the hall was torn
down and the house seemed very empty because everyone had
gone outside。 In the bathroom she took off the blue evening
dress。 The hem was torn and she folded it so the raggedy place
wouldn't show。 The rhinestone tiara was lost somewhere。 Her
old shorts and shirt were lying on the floor just where she had
left them。 She put them on。 She was too big to wear shorts any
more after this。 No more after this night Not any more。
Mick stood out on the front porch。 Her face was very white
without the paint。 She cupped her hands before her mouth and
took a deep breath。 'Everybody go home！ The door is shut！
The party is over！'
In the quiet； secret night she was by herself again。 It was not
late—yellow squares of light snowed in the windows of the
houses along the streets。 She walked slow； with her hands in
her pockets and her head to one side。 For a long time she
walked without noticing the direction。
Then the houses were far apart from each other and there were
yards with big trees in them and black shrubbery。 She looked
around and saw she was near this house where she had gone
so many times in the summer。 Her feet had just taken her here
without her knowing。 When she came to the house she waited
to be sure no person could see。 Then she went through the side
yard。
The radio was on as usual。 For a second she stood by the
window and watched the people inside。 The bald…headed man
and the gray…haired lady were playing cards at a table。 Mick
sat on the ground。 This was a very fine and secret place。 Close
around were thick cedars so that she was completely hidden
by herself。 The radio was no good tonight—somebody sang
popular songs that all ended in the same way。 It was like she
was empty。 She reached in her pockets and felt around with
her fingers。 There were raisins and a buckeye and a string of
beads— one cigarette with matches。 She lighted the cigarette
and put her arms around her knees。 It was like she was so
empty there wasn't even a feeling or thought in her。
One program came on after another； and all of them100
CARSON McCULLERS
were punk。 She didn't especially care。 She smoked and picked
a little bunch of grass blades。 After a while a new announcer
started talking。 He mentioned Beethoven。 She had read in the
library about that musician—his name was pronounced with
an a and spelled with double e。 He was a German fellow like
Mozart When he was living he spoke in a foreign language
and lived in a foreign place— like she wanted to do。 The
announcer said they were going to play his third symphony。
She only halfway listened because she wanted to walk some
more and she didn't care much what they played。 Then the
music started。 Mick raised her head and her fist went up to her
throat。
How did it come？ For a minute the opening balanced from one
side to the other。 Like a walk or march。 Like God strutting in
the night。 The outside of her was suddenly froze and only that
first part of the music was hot inside her heart。 She could not
even hear what sounded after； but she sat there waiting and
froze； with her fists tight。 After a while the music came again；
harder and loud。 It didn't have anything to do with God。 This
was her； Mick Kelly； walking in the daytime and by herself at
night。 In the hot sun and in the dark with all the plans and
feelings。 This music was her—the real plain her。
She could not listen good enough to hear it alL The music
boiled inside her。 Which？ To hang on to certain wonderful
parts and think them over so that later she would not forget—
or should she let go and listen to each part that came without
thinking or trying to remember？ Golly！ The whole world was
this music and she could not listen hard enough。 Then at last
the opening music came again； with all the different
instruments bunched together for each note like a hard； tight
fist that socked at her heart And the first part was over。
This music did not take a long time or a short time。 It did not
have anything to do with time going by at all。 She sat with her
arms held tight around her legs； biting her salty knee very
hard。 It might have been five minutes she listened or half the
night。 The second part was black…colored—a slow march。 Not
sad； but like the whole world was dead and black and there
was no use thinking back how it was before。 One of those
horn kind of instruments played a sad and silver tune。 Then
the music rose up angry
and with excitement underneath。 And finally the black march
again。
But maybe the last part of the symphony was the music she
loved the best—glad and like the greatest people in the world
running and springing up in a hard； free way。 Wonderful
music nice this was the worst hurt there could be。 The whole
world was this symphony； and there was not enough of her to
listen。
It was over； and she sat very stiff with her arms around her
knees。 Another program came on the radio and she put her
fingers in her ears。 The music left only this bad hurt in her；
and a blankness。 She could not remember any of the
symphony； not even the last few notes。 She tried to remember；
but no sound at all came to her。 Now that it was over there
was only her heart like a rabbit and this terrible hurt。
The radio and the lights in the house were turned off。 The
night was very dark。 Suddenly Mick began hitting her thigh
with her fists。 She pounded the same muscle with all her
strength until the tears came down her face。 But she could not
feel this hard enough。 The rocks under the bush were sharp。
She grabbed a handful of them and began scraping them up
and down on the same spot until her hand was bloody。 Then
she fell back to the ground and lay looking up at the night。
With the fiery hurt in her leg she felt better。 She was limp on
the wet grass； and after a while her breath came slow and easy
again。
Why hadn't the explorers known by looking at the sky that the
world was round？ The sky was curved； like the inside of a
huge glass ball； very dark blue with the sprinkles of bright
stars。 The night was quiet。 There was the smell of warm
cedars。 She was not trying to think of the music at all when it
came back to her。 The first part happened hi her mind just as it
had been played。 She listened in a quiet； slow way and thought
the notes out like a problem in geometry so she would
remember。 She could see the shape of the sounds very clear
and she would not forget them。
Now she felt good。 She whispered some words out loud： 'Lord
forgiveth me； for I knoweth not what I do。' Why did she think
of that？ Everybody in the past few years knew there wasn't
any real God。 When she thought of what she102
used to imagine was God she could only see Mister Singer
with a long； white sheet around him。 God was silent— maybe
that was why she was reminded。 She said the words again； just
as she would speak them to Mister Singer： 'Lord forgiveth me；
for I knoweth not what I do。'
This part of the music was beautiful and clear。 She could sing
it now whenever she wanted to。 Maybe later on； when she had
just waked up some morning； more of the music would come
back to her。 If ever she heard the symphony again there would
be other parts to add to what was alre