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carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第72章

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all over his neck and when her Dad came he pushed her out 
of the room。 She had run into the dark and hit herself with her 
fists。 And then the next night he was in a coffin in the living…
room。 The undertaker had put rouge and lipstick on his face 
to make him look natural。 But he didn't look natural。 He was 
very dead。 And mixed with the smell of flowers there was this 
other smell so that she couldn't stay in the room。 But 
through ail those days she held down the job。 She wrapped 
packages and handed them across the counter and rung the 
money in the till。 She walked when she was supposed to walk 
and ate when she sat down to the table。 Only at first when she 
went to bed at night she couldn't sleep。 But now she slept like 
she was supposed to; also。 
Mick turned sideways in the seat so that she could cross 
her legs。 There was a run in her stocking。 It had started 
while she was walking to work and she had spit on it Then 
later the run had gone farther and she had stuck a little 
piece of chewing…gum on the end。 But even that didn't 
help。 Now she would have to go home and sew。 It was hard 
to know what she could do about stockings。 She wore them 
out so fast Unless she was the kind of common girl that 
would wear cotton stockings。 

301 

She oughtn't to have come in here。 The bottoms of her shoes 
were clean worn out。 She ought to have saved the twenty cents 
toward a new half…sole。 Because if she kept on standing on a 
shoe with a hole in it what would happen? A blister would 
come on her foot。 And she would have to pick it with a burnt 
needle。 She would have to stay home from work and be fired。 
And then what would happen? 
'Here you are;' said Mister Brannon。 'But I never heard of such 
a combination before。' 
He put the sundae and the beer on the table。 She pretended to 
clean her fingernails because if she noticd him he would start 
talking。 He didn't have this grudge against her any more; so he 
must have forgotten about the pack of gum。 Now he always 
wanted to talk to her。 But she wanted to be quiet and by 
herself。 The sundae was O。K。; covered all over with chocolate 


and nuts and cherries。 And the beer was relaxing。 The beer 
had a nice bitter taste after the ice cream and it made her 
drunk。 Next to music beer was best。 
But now no music was in her mind。 That was a funny thing。 It 
was like she was shut out from the inside room。 Sometimes a 
quick little tune would come and go—but she never went into 
the inside room with music like she used to do。 It was like she 
was too tense。 Or maybe because it was like the store took all 
her energy and time。 Wool…worth's wasn't the same as school。 
When she used to come home from school she felt good and 
was ready to start working on the music。 But now she was 
always tired。 At home she just ate supper and slept and then 
ate breakfast and went off to the store again。 A song she had 
started in her private notebook two months before was still not 
finished。 And she wanted to stay in the inside room but she 
didn't know how。 It was like the inside room was locked 
somewhere away from her。 A very hard thing to understand。 
Mick pushed her broken front tooth with her thumb。 But she 
did have Mister Singer's radio。 All the installments hadn't been 
paid and she took on the responsibility。 It was good to have 
something that had belonged to him。 And maybe one of these 
days she might be able to set aside a little for a second…hand 
piano。 Say two bucks a week。 And she wouldn't let anybody 
touch this private piano but her —only she might teach 
George little pieces。 She would302 

keep it in the back room and play on it every night。 And all 
day Sunday。 But then suppose some week she couldn't make a 
payment。 So then would they come to take it away like the 
little red bicycle? And suppose like she wouldn't let them。 
Suppose she hid the piano under the house。 Or else she would 
meet them at the front door。 And fight。 She would knock 
down both the two men so they would have shiners and broke 
noses and would be passed out on the hall floor。 
Mick frowned and rubbed her fist hard across her forehead。 
That was the way things were。 It was like she was mad all the 
time。 Not how a kid gets mad quick so that soon it is all over 
—but in another way。 Only there was nothing to be mad at。 
Unless the store。 But the store hadn't asked her to take the job。 
So there was nothing to be mad at。 It was like she was 


cheated。 Only nobody had cheated her。 So there was nobody 
to take it out on。 However; just the same she had that feeling。 
Cheated。 
But maybe it would be true about the piano and turn out O。K。 
Maybe she would get a chance soon。 Else what the hell good 
had it all been—the way she felt about music and the plans 
she had made in the inside room? It had to be some good if 
anything made sense。 And it was too and it was too and it was 
too and it was too。 It was some good。 
All right! 
O。K! 
Some good。 
Night 
/LL was serene。 As Biff dried his face and hands a breeze 
tinkled the glass pendants of the little Japanese pagoda on the 
table。 He had just awakened from a nap and had smoked his 
night cigar。 He thought of Blount and wondered if by now he 
had traveled far。 A bottle of Agua Florida was on the 
bathroom shelf and he touched the stopper to his temples。 He 
whistled an old song; and as he descended the narrow stairs 
the tune left a broken echo behind him。 Louis was supposed to 
be on duty behind the counter。 

303 

But he had soldiered on the job and the place was deserted。 
The front door stood open to the empty street。 The clock on 
the wall pointed to seventeen minutes before midnight。 The 
radio was on and there was talk about the crisis Hitler had 
cooked up over Danzig。 He went back to the kitchen and 
found Louis asleep in a chair。 The boy had taken off his shoes 
and unbuttoned his trousers。 His head drooped on his chest。 A 
long wet spot on his shirt showed that he had been sleeping a 
good while。 His arms hung straight down at his sides and the 
wonder was that he did not fall forward on his face。 He slept 
soundly and there was no use to wake him。 The night would 
be a quiet one。 
Biff tiptoed across the kitchen to a shelf which held a basket 
of tea olive and two water pitchers full of zinnias。 He carried 
the flowers up to the front of the restaurant and removed the 
cellophane…wrapped platters of the last special from the 
display window。 He was sick of food。 A window of fresh 


summer flowers—that would be good。 His eyes were closed as 
he imagined how it could be arranged。 A foundation of the tea 
olive strewn over the bottom; cool and green。 The red pottery 
tub filled with the brilliant zinnias。 Nothing more。 He began to 
arrange the window carefully。 Among the flowers there was a 
freak plant; a zinnia with six bronze petals and two red。 He 
examined this curio and laid it aside to save。 Then the window 
was finished and he stood in the street to regard his 
handiwork。 The awkward stems of the flowers had been bent 
to just the right degree of restful looseness。 The electric lights 
detracted; but when the sun rose the display would show at its 
best advantage。 Downright artistic。 
The black; starlit sky seemed close to the earth。 He strolled 
along the sidewalk; pausing once to knock an orange peel into 
the gutter with the side of his foot。 At the far end of the next 
block two men; small from the distance and motionless; stood 
arm in arm together。 No one else could be seen。 His place was 
the only store on all the street with an open door and lights 
inside。 
And why? What was the reason for keeping the place open all 
through the night when every other cafe in the town was 
closed? He was often asked that question and could never 
speak the answer out in words。 Not money。304 

Sometimes a party would come for beer and scrambled eggs 
and spend five or ten dollars。 But that was rare。 Mostly they 
came one at a time and ordered little and stayed long。 And on 
some nights; between the hours of twelve and five o'clock; not 
a customer would enter。 There was no profit in it—that was 
plain。 
But he would never close up for the night—not as long as he 
stayed in the business。 Night was the time。 There were those 
he would never have seen otherwise。 A few came regularly 
several times a week。 Others had come into the place only 
once; had drunk a Coca…Cola; and never returned。 
Biff folded his arms across his chest and walked more slowly。 
Inside the arc of the street light his shadow showed angular 
and black。 The peaceful silence of the night settled in him。 
These were the hours for rest and meditation。 Maybe that was 
why he stayed downstairs and did not sleep。 With a last quick 


glance he scanned the empty street and went inside。 
The crisis voice still talked on the radio。 The fans on the 
ceiling made a soothing whirl。 From the kitchen came the 
sound of Louis snoring。 He thought suddenly of poor Willie 
and decided to send him a quart of whiskey sometime soon。 
He turned to the crossword puzzle in the newspaper。 There 
was a picture of a woman to identify in 
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