Crunch laughed, and picked up the pack of cigarettes, and lit one.
“Well,” said Peanut, “if we keep coming back, we bound to get to know—somebody—”
They all laughed, and, after a moment, Peanut laughed. Crunch said, “Well, you know somebody—at least, you knew somebody—them cousins of yours in Charlotte—”
Peanut sighed and looked down at the table. “Yeah. I’m sorry about that.”
Crunch leaned across the table and clapped Peanut on the shoulder. “What you sorry about? You can’t help it if your cousins are fools.”
Peanut is the lightest of us, and Crunch is the darkest, and Peanut’s cousins proved that they did not like dark meat. They hurt Crunch’s feelings, and they reminded Peanut of his bewildering grandmother.
“Oh, little by little, we’ll figure out how to move,” Red said cheerfully. “I’ll find me a swinging chick at one of these church socials and make her be our guide.”
“These chicks all looking to get married, man,” Crunch said. “And they don’t want to marry none of us. What do a bank president’s daughter want with—a wandering troubador?”
“Oh, hell, Crunch,” said Peanut. “Love will find a way.”
“Not down here, in the land of cotton,” Arthur said, and they laughed.
“Anyway,” Crunch said after a moment, “little Arthur’s the only one liable to come down here next time.”
They all looked at Crunch. “Why?” asked Arthur.
Crunch looked at Arthur. “Where’s your brother?”
Arthur said, “My brother?” and stared at Crunch. His heart thundered like an express train, stopped.
“Oh, shit,” said Red. “You right.”
“Right about what?” Arthur asked. But he knew. He had never thought of it.
“Uncle Sam is saving some people over yonder,” Crunch said. “He’s making the world safe for democracy again, and he needs some niggers for the latrine detail.”
The table became very silent.
“Shit,” Red said again.
Arthur said nothing. He did not know what to say. He did not dare look up. He looked at the white marble table, and the brown rings made by the Pepsi-Cola bottles. Then he looked very carefully at the flypaper suspended from the ceiling, with flies sticking, stuck, on the yellow paper. He wondered how many flies there were, and thought of counting them. He was suddenly aware that there was an electric fan whirring nearby—if you put your fingers in the fan, the blades would chop your fingers off. He did not think of me at all—he was not thinking.
“Well, let’s not sit here like this,” Peanut said shakily. “Let’s do something.”
Yes, but what? A movie would have been ideal, but then, there was the question of whether black people sat in the balcony, or came in through the back door. None of them knew how it worked down here—they had forgotten to ask, or couldn’t remember the answers.
“Hell,” Red said, suddenly, “there’s a black pool hall on the corner, let’s go shoot some pool.”
“Okay,” Crunch said, and everybody rose except Arthur. They all looked at him.
“Ain’t you coming?”
“Look,” Arthur said calmly, with a smile, “you all go ahead. I might pick you up later. I got a little headache, I just want to lie down.”
Crunch raised that eyebrow at him. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m all right. You cats go on, I’ll dig you later.”
“Okay.”
The three of them pranced out into the sun, paused for a moment, laughing, before the great glass window. Arthur waited until they had disappeared. Then he rose slowly, leaning lightly on the table, and walked outside. The sun was like a blow. He looked in the direction the boys had taken—saw them, on the still, far corner, ambling across the street.
Then he turned in the opposite direction. The rooming house was next door, really more like a hotel, a narrow, three-story building. Peanut and Red and Webster were on the ground floor. He and Crunch were on the top floor. He walked into the long, dark, narrow hall, which was absolutely silent, and slowly, shaking, climbed the stairs.
He was covered with cold sweat by the time he reached the top floor, and his hands were shaking so hard he could hardly get the key in the lock, but, at last, the door swung open. Sunlight hammered on the room, and he crossed to the window and pulled down the shade. He ran cold water in the sink, and plunged his face and head under, blindly found the towel, and dried himself. He kicked off his shoes, unpeeled his socks, took off his shirt and trousers, and lay down on Crunch’s bed. Korea.
He lay there for a long time, numb, as empty as the listening silence, stunned. He lay on his back. The air did not move. He did not move. The sun would not move, the earth, the stars, the moon, the planets, whatever held it all together, the big wheel and the little wheel, and the boulder of his sorrow, which had dropped on him and pinned him to this bed, nothing would move, until he saw Crunch. Korea. He fell asleep.
Crunch shook him gently. The room was half dark, not dark yet. Crunch sat on the edge of the bed, looking at him carefully, with that eyebrow raised, half smiling, half frowning.
“You feel better?”
Arthur stared, saying nothing, then he smiled.
“You’re back.”
“Of course I’m back. You feel better?”
Arthur moved and put his head in Crunch’s lap, holding on to him and staring up at him.
The room grew darker. They were alone. Crunch leaned down, and kissed him. Arthur held on to Crunch with all his strength, with all his tears, tears he had not yet begun to shed. Crunch leaned up.
“Let me lock the door,” he whispered.
Arthur sat up, and watched Crunch lock the door.
He did it very elaborately, and then turned, grinning, with one finger to his lips.
“We all alone, now, little fellow. Ain’t nobody on this floor but us. And it’s Saturday night, anyway, everybody’s out.” He grinned, and then his face changed, he stood at the door, looking at Arthur.
“Where’s Peanut and Red?”
Arthur was whispering, and Crunch whispered, “I left them in the pool hall. They found some friends.”
“They coming back?”
“I told them I was taking you someplace.”
He sat down on the bed again, and started taking off his shoes. He looked over at Arthur. “Did I do right?”
“Sure.”
“Get under the covers.”
Arthur watched as Crunch stripped—Crunch was whistling, low in his throat: and it came to Arthur, with great astonishment, that Crunch was whistling because he was happy—was happy to be here, with Arthur. Arthur watched as Crunch unbuttoned his shirt, watched the long, dark fingers against the buttons and the cloth, watched the cloth fly across the room to land on the other bed, watched as he unbuckled his belt, dropped his trousers, raising one knee then the other, sitting on the bed again to pull the trousers past the big feet, then folding the trousers, and rising to place them on the other bed, pulling off his undershirt, kicking off his shorts, his whole, long, black self padding to the small sink, where he looked, briefly, into the mirror, ran cold water, gargled, his dark body glowing in the darkening room, a miracle of spinal column, neck to buttocks, shoulders and shoulder blades, elbows, wrists, thighs, ankles, a miracle of bone and blood and muscle and flesh and music. Arthur was still wearing his undershirt and his shorts. He hated being naked in front of anyone, even me—perhaps, especially me; I had sometimes given him his bath: but that had been under another condition, for which he had not been responsible, and which he was not compelled to remember. Nakedness had not, then, been a confession, or a vow. Arthur was frightened; then, he wasn’t frightened; but he found that he could not move. He could not take off his undershirt. He could not take off his shorts. Crunch turned, and Arthur, in a kind of peaceful terror, watched as the face, and the eyes in that face, and the neck and the chest, and the nipples on the chest, and the ribs and the long flat be
lly and the belly button and the jungle of hair spinning upward from the long, dark, heavy, swinging sex approached, and Crunch got under the covers, and took Arthur in his arms.
Crunch sighed, a weary, trusting sigh, and put his hands under Arthur’s undershirt and pulled it over Arthur’s head, and, suddenly, they both laughed, a whispering laugh. Crunch dropped the undershirt on the floor.
“That’s called progress,” Crunch whispered. “And now,” he said, “let’s see what we can do down yonder.”
He put his hands at Arthur’s waist, pulled the shorts down, got them past one foot. Arthur’s prick rose.
Crunch stroked it, and grinned. “That’s enough progress, for now,” he said, but he put his rigid sex against Arthur’s, and then they simply lay there, holding on to each other, unable to make another move. They really did not know where another move might carry them. Arthur was afraid in one way, and Crunch in another. It was also as though they had expended so much energy to arrive at this moment that they had to fall out and catch their breath, this moment was almost enough. But it was only a moment: the train was boarded, the engine ready to roll. They held on to each other. This might be the beginning; it might be the beginning of the end. The train was boarded, the engine pulsing, great doors were slamming shut behind them, the train would soon be moving, a journey had begun. They might lose each other on this journey; nothing could be hidden on this journey. They might look at each other, miles from now, when the train stopped at some unimaginable place, and wish never to see each other again. They might be ashamed—they might be debased: they might be forever lost.
Arthur was less frightened than Crunch. He simply held on to Crunch and stroked him and kissed him, for, in the center of his mind’s eye, there was Crunch in uniform, Crunch gone, Crunch forever gone, and, now that he had found him, his mind became as still and empty as the winter sky, at the thought of losing him. He held this blankness as far inside him as he held his tears—for, something told him that Crunch could not bear his tears, could not bear anybody’s tears. Tears were a weapon you could use against Crunch.
And Crunch—ah, Crunch. He held my brother, falling in love—falling in love with the little fellow. Crunch was older than Arthur, lonelier than Arthur, knew more about himself than Arthur knew. He had never been on this train, true; but he had been landed in some desolate places. He held him closer, falling in love, his prick stiffening, his need rising, his hope rising; the train began to move, Arthur held him closer, and Crunch moved closer, becoming more naked, praying that Arthur would receive his nakedness.
His long self covered Arthur, his tongue licked Arthur’s nipples, his armpits, his belly button. He did not dare go further, yet; shaking, he raised himself to Arthur’s lips. He took Arthur’s sex in his fist.
“Do me like I do you,” he whispered. “Little fellow, come on, this is just the beginning,” and Arthur, with a kind of miraculous understanding, kissed Crunch’s nipples, slid down to kiss his sex, moved up to his lips again. As he felt Crunch pulsing, he pulsed with Crunch, coaxed the pulsing vein at the underside of the organ as Crunch coaxed his, scarcely breathing. Crunch groaned, little fellow, groaned again, they seemed to hang for a second in a splintered, blinding air, then Crunch’s sperm shot out against Arthur’s belly, Arthur’s shot against his, it was as though each were coming through the other’s sex.
They lay in each other’s arms.
Crunch looked into his Arthur’s eyes.
“Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.”
Their breathing slowed. Neither wanted to move.
“You think we making progress?”
“I’m with you.”
They laughed, holding on to each other, wet with each other.
Crunch asked shyly, “Do you still love me?”
“Maybe we should make some more progress.”
Crunch shook with laughter, silently, and Arthur shook with joy, watching him. “Right now?”
“Whenever you ready.”
“Oh—come on—!” said Crunch.
“That’s what I said.”
“You—you something—”
“I love you. I’d do anything for you,” said Arthur.
Crunch watched him. “For true?”
“For true.”
Crunch held him tighter.
“I want to make love with you—every way possible—I don’t care what happens—as long as I can hold you.” He watched Arthur’s eyes; but he was beginning to feel at peace.
“You want to make progress, I’ll make progress. We’ll make progress together.”
Crunch asked, “You and me, then?”
“You and me.”
The room was dark. They heard the night outside. They did not want to leave each other’s arms.
Crunch asked, “You hungry?”
“No—not now.”
“You want to wash up?”
“No. Not yet.”
“What you want to do then?”
“Maybe sleep a little—next to you.”
“Okay.”
They curled into each other, spoon fashion, Arthur cradled by Crunch.
They did not sleep long. Arthur woke up, and peed in the sink, as quietly as possible. He ran the water as quietly as possible. He lifted the shade, and looked out of the window. It was night, he guessed it to be around nine or ten o’clock; there were not as many people in the street as there would have been on a Saturday night in Harlem. Most of the people were already inside some place, or they were on their way, and their voices, and their music, muffled, filled the air, filled the room. He dropped the shade.
Crunch lay as he had left him. One arm was at his side, one arm lay stretched where Arthur had been. His breathing was deep and slow—yet Arthur sensed that Crunch was not entirely lost in sleep. Arthur crawled back into bed, pulling the covers back up. The moment he crawled into bed, Crunch, still sleeping, pulled Arthur into his arms.
And yet, Crunch lay as one helpless. Arthur was incited by this helplessness, the willing helplessness of the body in his arms. He kissed Crunch, who moaned, but did not stir. He ran his hands up and down the long body. He seemed to discover the mystery of geography, of space and time, the lightning flash of tension between one—moment?—one breath and the next breath. The breathing in—the breathing out. The miracle of air, entering, and the chest rose: the miracle of air transformed into the miracle of breath, coming out, into your face, mixed with Pepsi-Cola, hamburgers, mustard, whatever was in the bowels: and the chest fell. He lay in this urgency for a while, terrified, and happy.
He held Crunch closer, running his fingers up and down the barely tactile complex telegraph system of the spine. His hands dared to discover Crunch’s beautiful buttocks, his ass, his behind. He stroked the gift between his legs which held the present and the future. Their sex became rigid. Crunch growled, turned on his back, still holding Arthur.
Arthur moved, in Crunch’s arms, belly to belly. Pepsi-Cola, mustard, and onions and hamburgers and Crunch’s rising prick: Crunch moaned. Arthur knew something that he did not know he knew—he did not know that he knew that Crunch waited for Arthur’s lips at his neck, Arthur’s tongue at the nipples of his chest. Pepsi-Cola, mustard, hamburgers, ice cream, surrendered to funkier, unknown odors; Crunch moaned again, surrendering, surrendering, as Arthur’s tongue descended Crunch’s long black self, down to the raging penis. He licked the underside of the penis, feeling it leap, and he licked the balls. He was setting Crunch free—he was giving Crunch what he, somehow, knew that Crunch longed and feared to give him. He took the penis into his mouth, it moved, with the ease of satin, past his lips, into his throat. For a moment, he was terrified: what now? For the organ was hard and huge and throbbing, Crunch’s hands came down, but lightly, on Arthur’s head, he began to thrust upward, but carefully, into Arthur’s mouth.
Arthur understood Crunch’s terror—the terror of someone in the water, being carried away from the shore—and this terror, which was his own ter
ror, soon caused him to gasp, to attempt to pull away, at the same time that he held on. His awareness of Crunch’s terror helped him to overcome his own. He had never done this before. In the same way that he knew how Crunch feared to be despised—by him—he knew, too, that he, now, feared to be despised by Crunch. Cocksucker.
Well. It was Crunch’s cock, and so he sucked it; with all the love that was in him, and a moment came when he felt that love being trusted, and returned. A moment came when he felt Crunch pass from a kind of terrified bewilderment into joy. A friendly, a joyful movement, began. So high, you can’t get over him.
Sweat from Arthur’s forehead fell onto Crunch’s belly.
So low—and Crunch gasped as Arthur’s mouth left his prick standing in the cold, cold air, as Arthur’s tongue licked his sacred balls—you can’t get under him. Arthur rose, again, to Crunch’s lips. So wide. You can’t get around him. It was as though, with this kiss, they were forever bound together. Crunch moaned, in an absolute agony, and Arthur went down again.
“Little fellow. Baby. Love.”
You must come in at the door.
He held the prick in his mouth again, sensing, awaiting, the eruption. He, and he alone, had dragged it up from the depths of his lover.
“Oh. Little fellow.”
Then, shaking like an earthquake, “Oh, my love. Oh, love.”
Atlanta was still. The world was still. Nothing moved in the heavens.
“Oh. Love.”
Curious, the taste, as it came, leaping, to the surface: of Crunch’s prick, of Arthur’s tongue, into Arthur’s mouth and throat. He was frightened, but triumphant. He wanted to sing. The taste was volcanic. This taste, the aftertaste, this anguish, and this joy had changed all tastes forever. The bottom of his throat was sore, his lips were weary. Every time he swallowed, from here on, he would think of Crunch, and this thought made him smile as, slowly, now, and in a peculiar joy and panic, he allowed Crunch to pull him up, upward, into his arms.
He dared to look into Crunch’s eyes. Crunch’s eyes were wet and deep deep like a river, and Arthur found that he was smiling peace like a river.