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a girl who292
worked as a typist。 He could go there no longer。 He was alone。
A wall； a flight of stairs； an open road。
Jake locked the door of his room behind him。 He was hungry
and there was nothing to eat。 He was thirsty and only a few
drops of warm water were left in the pitcher by the table。 The
bed was unmade and dusty fluff had accumulated on the floor。
Papers were scattered all about the room； because recently he
had written many short notices and distributed them through
the town。 Moodily he glanced at one of the papers labeled
'The T。W。O。C。 Is Your Best Friend。' Some of the notices
consisted of only one sentence； others were longer。 There was
one full…page manifesto entitled 〃The Affinity Between Our
Democracy and； Fascism。'
For a month he had worked on these papers； scribbling them
during working hours； typing and making carbons on the
typewriter at the New York Caf6； distributing them by hand。
He had worked day and night。 But who read them？ What good
had any of it done？ A town this size was too big for any one
man。 And now he was leaving。
But where would it be this time？ The names of cities called to
him—Memphis； Wilmington； Gastonia； New Orleans。 He
would go somewhere。 But not out of the South。 The old
restlessness and hunger were in him again。 It was different
this time。 He did not long for open space and freedom—just
the reverse。 He remembered what the Negro； Copeland； had
said to him； 'Do not attempt to stand alone。' There were times
when that was best。
Jake moved the bed across the room。 On the part of the floor
the bed had hidden there were a suitcase and a pile of books
and dirty clothes。 Impatiently he began to pack。 The old
Negro's face was in his mind and some of the words they had
said came back to him。 Copeland was crazy。 He was a fanatic；
so that it was maddening to try to reason with him。 Still the
terrible anger that they had felt that night had been hard to
understand。 Copeland knew。 And those who knew were like a
handful of naked soldiers before an armed battalion。 And what
had they done？ They had turned to quarrel with each other。
Copeland was wrong—yes—he was crazy。 But on some points
they might be able to work together after all。 If they didn't talk
too much。 He would go and see him。 A sudden urge to
293
hurry came in him。 Maybe that would be the best thing after
all。 Maybe that was the sign； the hand he had so long awaited。
Without pausing to wash the grime from his face and hands he
strapped his suitcase and left the room。 Outside the air was
sultry and there was a foul odor in the street。 Clouds had
formed in the sky。 The atmosphere was so still that the smoke
from a mill in the district went up in a straight； unbroken line。
As Jake walked the suitcase bumped awkwardly against his
knees； and often he jerked his head to look behind him。
Copeland lived all the way across the town； so there was need
to hurry。 The clouds in the sky grew steadily denser； and
foretold a heavy summer rain before nightfall。
When he reached the house where Copeland lived he saw that
the shutters were drawn。 He walked to the back and peered
through the window at the abandoned kitchen。 A hollow；
desperate disappointment made his hands feel sweaty and his
heart lose the rhythm of its beat He went to the house on the
left but no one was at home。 There was nothing to do except
to go to the Kelly house and question Portia。
He hated to be near that house again。 He couldn't stand to see
the hatrack in the front hall and the long flight of stairs he had
climbed so many times。 He walked slowly back across the
town and approached by way of the alley。 He went in the rear
door。 Portia was in the kitchen and the little boy was with her。
'No； sir； Mr。 Blount；' Portia said。 'I know you were a mighty
good friend of Mr。 Singer and you understand what Father
thought of him。 But we taken Father out in the country this
morning and I know in my soul I got no business telling you
exactly where he is。 If you don't mind I rather speak out and
not minch the matter。'
'You don't have to minch anything；' Jake said。 'But why？'
'After the time you come to see us Father were so sick us
expected him to die。 It taken us a long time to get him able to
sit up。 He doing right well now。 He going to get a lot stronger
where he is now。 But whether you understand this or not he
right bitter against white peoples just now and he very easy to
upset。 And besides； if you don't mind294
speaking out； what you want with Father； anyway？'
'Nothing；' Jake said。 'Nothing you would understand。'
'Us colored peoples have feelings just like anybody else。 And I
stand by what I said； Mr。 Blount。 Father just a sick old colored
man and he had enough trouble already。 Us got to look after
him。 And he not anxious to see you—I know that。'
Out in the street again he saw that the clouds had turned a
deep； angry purple。 In the stagnant air there was a storm smell。
The vivid green of the trees along the sidewalk seemed to steal
into the atmosphere so that there was a strange greenish glow
over the street。 All was so hushed and still that Jake paused
for a moment to sniff the air and look around him。 Then he
grasped his suitcase under his arm and began to run toward
the awnings of the main street。 But he was not quick enough。
There was one metallic crash of thunder and the air chilled
suddenly。 Large silver drops of rain hissed on the pavement。
An avalanche of water blinded him。 When he reached the New
York Cafe his clothes clung wet and shriveled to his body and
his shoes squeaked with water。
Brannon pushed aside his newspaper and leaned his elbows on
the counter。 'Now； this is really curious。 I had this intuition
you would come here just after the rain broke。 I knew in my
bones you were coming and that you would make it just too
late。' He mashed his nose with this thumb until it was white
and flat。 'And a suitcase？'
'It looks like a suitcase；' Jake said。 'And it feels like a suitcase。
So if you believe in the actuality of suitcases I reckon this is
one； all right。'
'You ought not to stand around like this。 Go on upstairs and
throw me down your clothes。 Louis will run over them with a
hot iron。'
Jake sat at one of the back booth tables and rested his head in
his hands。 'No； thanks。 I just want to rest here and get my wind
again。'
'But your lips are turning blue。 You look all knocked up。'
'I'm all right。 What I want is some supper。'
'Supper won't be ready for half an hour；' Brannon said
patiently。
295
'Any old leftovers will do。 Just put them on a plate。 You don't
even have to bother to heat them。'
The emptiness in him hurt。 He wanted to look neither
backward nor forward。 He walked two of his short； chunky
fingers across the top of the table。 It was more than a year now
since he had sat at this table for the first time。 And how much
further was he now than then？ No further。 Nothing had
happened except that he had made a friend and lost him。 He
had given Singer everything and then the man had killed
himself。 So he was left out on a limb。 And now it was up to
him to get out of it by himself and make a new start again。 At
the thought of it panic came in him。 He was tired。 He leaned
his head against the wall and put his feet on the seat beside
him。
'Here you are；' Brannon said。 'This ought to help out。'
He put down a glass of some hot drink and a plate of chicken
pie。 The drink had a sweet； heavy smell。 Jake inhaled the
steam and closed his eyes。 'What's in it？'
'Lemon rind rubbed on a lump of sugar and boiling water with
rum。 It's a good drink。'
'How much do I owe you？'
'I don't know offhand； but I'll figure it out before you leave。'
Jake took a deep draught of the toddy and washed it around in
his mouth before swallowing。 'You'll never get the money；' he
said。 'I don't have it to pay you—and if I did I probably
wouldn't anyway。'
'Well； have I been pressing you？ Have I ever made you out a
bill and asked you to pay up？'
'No；' Jake said。 'You been very reasonable。 And since I think
about it you're a right decent guy—from the personal
perspective； that is。'
Brannon sat across from him at the table。 Something was on
his mind。 He slid the salt…shaker back and forth and kept
smoothing his hair。 He smelled like perfume and his striped
blue shirt was very fresh and clean。 The sleeves were rolled
and held in place by old…fashioned blue sleeve garters。
At last he cleared his throat in a hesitating way and said： 'I
was glancing through the afternoon paper just before you
came。 It seems you had a lot of trouble at your place
today。'296
That's right。 What did it say？'
〃Wait。 I'll get it。' Brannon fetched the paper from the counter
and leaned against the partition of the booth。 'It says on the
front page that at the Sunny Dixie Show； located so and so；
there was a general disturbance。 Two Negroes were fatally
injured with wounds inflicted by knives。 Three others suffered
minor wounds and were taken for treatment to the city
hospital。 The dead were Jimmy