come unto Me,
and rest.
I watched Paul’s dark face watching his son’s dark face. I did not dare look at my mother, I don’t know why. I had the feeling that some people on the street had stopped, listening, but I dared not look behind me, dared not look down.
Lie down,
thou weary one,
lie down
thy head upon my breast.
The noise of the traffic on the streets rang upward. I could see the stoplights on the corner, flashing green, flashing red, and automobiles, with shells like beetles, or dinosaurs, massed together, waiting, or, abruptly liberated, careening off into whatever the future held.
Shine on me,
shine on me,
oh,
the thundering, racing, calling piano now the only voice, then,
let the light,
the piano lower, slower, Arthur’s voice rising,
from the lighthouse
shine
on me,
and he stopped, looking toward me, after a moment, smiling.
I had to shake my head to bring him into focus: I hadn’t known that my eyes were wet. I knew he wanted me to say something, but I didn’t have anything to say. Trying to conquer distance, I came out of the window and, from my distance, I whispered, “I believe I’ll buy you a drink. I don’t mind breaking the law for a real, honest-to-God lawbreaker.”
I looked at Paul, and Paul grinned saying many things to me in a split second: “Yes. I believe they might be expecting to see you up the road.” “Who knows I’m home?”
Arthur rose from the piano, he and Peanut looked at each other and slapped palms together, and Paul laughed with them. “Oh,” they said, more or less in unison, “just a couple of people, don’t you worry about it, they going to recognize you, and I do believe they know you’re home!” I looked at my mother.
“Oh, yes, son,” said Florence. “I believe the news is out.”
Presently, we started rolling toward Jordan’s Cat, Peanut, again, at the wheel.
And now, I found that I was really frightened—I felt, to tell the truth, like a coward. I hadn’t written Martha, she didn’t know I was home (but of course she knew I was home!) and, though I could have, I hadn’t called her. I had justified this by telling myself that I didn’t need to, or didn’t have any right. This utterly threadbare proposition failed to explain why I hadn’t written or called Sidney. Perhaps my real intention was to catch them in the act (what act?) thus taking myself off the hook. (But I had made it very clear, before I left, that I had not been hooked.) I could scarcely believe that I could be so base—could see, somewhere, so much, and yet, face so little. Yet here I was, in the ancient, blue Pontiac, rolling toward Jordan’s Cat, just like Enoch Arden, ready to confront my friend and my lover with the unanswerable truth of their betrayal of my—after all—indispensable person. I hoped that I would be able to find a style equal, at least, to my paranoia: that the one might cancel out the other.
With another part of my mind, I was horrified by what had happened to Julia, and—though, again, this sounds insane—less horrified by what had happened to Julia than by what might be happening to Arthur. To Arthur, that is, as a result. Arthur, with me, anyway, was exceedingly laconic, all the days of his life. I saw some things—later; when I began to run with him, I saw a lot. Yet, really, when I find myself testifying on Judgment Day, I won’t know what I can say I know about anybody else’s life, including Arthur’s: I don’t know what I know about my own. I put a certain kind of picture together—in time—out of the fragments Arthur let me see, or couldn’t hide, or what I divined. If I can say, I think I knew him, it is only because I do know that I loved him. But I wasn’t in his skin, or in his beds, or in his voice. I saw Crunch, for example, through his eyes, much later, too late: I don’t know that I ever saw the Crunch he saw, but I think I saw what Crunch meant to him. (I saw what Arthur meant to Crunch: Arthur didn’t.) And, if I saw Jimmy more clearly, that is really because I was finally growing up, and, much more importantly, Julia and I had been lovers long before Jimmy and Arthur made it.
Well. Here we are now, at Jordan’s Cat.
I had brought the present for Sidney—a heavy brass ring, in the shape of a serpent, with a scarlet eye—but had not brought Martha’s present, telling myself that it was too big to carry, which it wasn’t. (It was a heavy, ornate, green silk kimono: I had left it lying on my bed.) But I had wanted to be alone with her when I gave it to her. It didn’t seem right to give it to her in public.
As we got out of the car, I realized that I was terribly afraid. I did not know what was about to happen to me.
Arthur was wearing a dark blue suede jacket with a belt. It looked very nice on him, made him look taller, and grown-up. He opened the door, and we went inside.
I think everyone imagines that, when they go away, the scene they have left behind them alters, that their departure leaves a hole in their previous surroundings. The departure may leave a hole in some people’s lives, a wound which is invisible; but one’s surroundings take as little notice of one’s departure as the sea takes of the dead. The scene rolls on, the music keeps playing, no one misses a beat. Children continue, relentlessly, to be conceived; ruthlessly, to be born; and are there when you return, staring at you with their all-seeing eyes—you have not returned: although they just got here, it is you who have arrived.
Paradoxically, then, this means that every scene is new. That is the only way to play it, though it seemed to me that everything and everyone at Jordan’s Cat remained exactly as they had been when I left. The jukebox had not changed position, the tables in the back were still there, it was not the same waitress, but she looked the same. George was nowhere in evidence, but it was probably his night off. The photographs on the wall behind the bar were still there, the same number of them, and the clock was still ten minutes fast. The jukebox wasn’t playing the same tune, certainly, but the beat was still the same. It was crowded, electrical, with voices and laughter—perhaps what had once seemed elegance was, now, a little frayed.
Arthur teased and muscled his way to the bar—a very impressive display of charm and authority—and yelled at Sidney, “Look who we brought to see you!”
Sidney didn’t answer at once—he was at the cash register. He rang up the bill, turned to place it on the bar before the customer, and looked straight into my eyes.
I realized that he had seen me when I came in.
He grinned, and tapped Arthur on the cheek—”I saw you sneaking in here!”—and reached out for me and managed to put one hand on the nape of my neck. He held me like that for a moment, looking into my eyes with a smile.
“Welcome home, brother,” he said. “You just get in?”
“Yeah. Just today.”
“How’s the folks? I ain’t talking about small fry, here—this young, dumb, full-of-come turkey—how are Papa and Mama Montana?”
“They fine. How are you?”
He held me for yet another moment. “I know they mighty happy to see you.” Then he let me go. “I’m all right. I’m fine. I’m mighty glad to see you, too, man.”
It came to me that something had happened to Sidney—something beautiful: something calm in his eyes, something loving in his smile. His hair was still conked, but—I don’t know why—I had the feeling that he was half-hearted about it now, that it wouldn’t stay conked long.
“I brought you something,” I said.
“Wait. Wait till I buy you a drink in the back. What you drinking now?” He looked at Arthur. “You lucky you with your brother, son.”
Arthur laughed. “This here’s a friend of mine, Peanut. Peanut, this is Sidney.”
Sidney and Peanut shook hands, and, again, I felt a kind of peace in Sidney which I had never felt in him before. “I hope,” he said, “you know what kind of company you keeping.” He began pouring our drinks. “These are the terrible Montana brothers, ain’t left a woman standing from coast to coast.” He scowle
d, hideously, at Arthur, and poured him a glass of white wine. “This is just for your brother’s homecoming. Now go stand in a corner, with your face to the wall.” He looked back to me, still with this imitation scowl on his face. “I’ll be with you, fast as I can. Hey. You call Martha?”
I said, feeling foolish, “Not yet—” He watched me, smiling. I could think of nothing more to say.
“We love you,” he said. “Please call her, she’s expecting your call—you need a dime? Here,” he said, before I could start searching my pockets, “go on and call her. I’ll see you in a minute. You,” he said to Arthur, “make yourself useful and take your brother’s drink back to the table.”
I left the bar and went to the phone booths which were way in the back, near the toilets and the kitchen.
I was out of breath. I felt childish, even base—vanity was the word ringing, senselessly, in my mind. I put the coin in the slot, and dialed the number, seeing Arthur and Peanut, guided by the waitress, take a table next to the jukebox. Peanut and Arthur and the waitress appeared to have hit it off, the three of them were cracking up with laughter.
The phone rang twice, three times—then, “Hello?”
I had forgotten the eager little girl pulsing at the bottom of that voice, the voice of a little girl who had, maybe, smoked a little too much, and drunk a little too much—and cried a little too much, too—and who yet believed, at the very bottom of her voice, that something marvelous might happen each time she picked up the telephone.
“Hello yourself. This is: Johnny-I-hardly-knew-you.”
She laughed. “Hall. Where are you? Are you home?”
“This afternoon.”
“In New York—? Where are you?”
“In New York.” I cleared my throat. “I’m at Jordan’s Cat.”
“Oh. So you’re with Sidney—”
“And my brother, Arthur, and an old friend of ours—”
“Why didn’t you call me before?”
“I don’t know.” Then, thank God, I told the truth. “I was afraid.”
“Afraid? Why?” Then, “Oh, never mind. That was a stupid question. But don’t be afraid. There’s nothing to be afraid of, believe me. I’d love to see you. Can I come over?”
I said, “Yes, I wish you would. I’d love to see you.” Then I said, “I brought you a present, but I left it at the house—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be right there.”
“Okay—Martha?”
“Yes?”
“Forgive me for being so foolish.” Then I didn’t know what to say—I caught my breath to keep myself from crying.
“You’re not foolish. You’re you—Hall?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right there. Order me—oh, a double daiquiri or something.” She laughed. “Oh, and Hall?”
“Yes?”
“Love goes through a lot of changes, but love never dies. You’ll see.”
“I believe you, mama,” I said. “God bless you. In a minute, then,” and I hung up.
I hung up, and started getting ready to hang out. Love, which I really knew nothing about yet, had put me through some changes, and yet, was beginning to set me free. What a wonder, what a marvel, yes: but it was strange to feel free and yet wonder what on earth I was to do with my freedom.
I walked past Arthur and Peanut, picking up my drink along the way, and walked to the bar. I signaled Sidney.
“And what can I do for you, sir?”—grinning.
“She wants a double daiquiri, or something like that—on the rocks, maybe, I don’t remember.”
Sidney laughed. “Got you,” he said, and turned away.
It struck me for the first time—consciously—that the world is not overpopulated with those on whom you can, laughingly, and in perfect confidence, turn your back.
I didn’t want to rejoin Arthur and Peanut right away. I wanted one says, to think, but that really refers to the need to make some kind of private assessment. I certainly didn’t have much time for it, with Peanut and Arthur at the table, Sidney at the bar, and Martha on her way. No: but, sometimes, in order to see in, you find that you must look out and I stalled for time, wandering over to the jukebox. That way, it couldn’t seem that I was avoiding anybody. I stood at a slight angle to the box, my drink in one hand, my change in the other. I was looking at the numbers on the jukebox, and I was watching the crowd. I knew, if I decided to, I could get something going. What could I get going?
For I was no longer the same person who had been here before.
I watched, for example, the waitress: a pretty girl, light-skinned—a skin somewhat darker than bananas—with dark brown eyes and reddish hair, hair cooked, teased, and tormented into a kind of cotton-candy texture, cut short or piled high; it was exceedingly hard to guess what would happen to this confection in the rain. She had a kind of low-slung behind, not big, but present, and sturdy bowlegs, and she was a good waitress. She could handle herself, the tray, and the floor, and the people. She had had to pay some dues to have arrived at even this brutally limited shadow of authority. She was somebody’s daughter certainly, maybe somebody’s sister, maybe somebody’s woman, victim, or hope, or model, maybe, even, somebody’s mother. She had probably not been born in New York. Had she walked all the way here? Why?
Yet, in the state in which I knew I would soon find myself, she would be nothing more than an opportunity, a means of reassurance, or, really, not even that—a means of physical release, a way of dropping my load. Once that had been accomplished, my curiosity about her, my concern, would diminish as inexorably as my softening dick. How did she bear being used like that? For I was really thinking of Martha. And the truth was this: I had not exactly, for reasons of vanity, allowed myself to hope to find myself in bed with her tonight, but I had certainly wanted it. And not because she was Martha. I was beginning to see that I had never been terribly concerned with knowing who Martha was; on the contrary, I had resisted any such intrusion—then I would have had to confess who I was. No: I simply wanted to have been with her tonight because it would have been easy, it would have been enormously gratifying still to be wanted after so long, because I had already been there and would not have had to battle for the conquest, because, sometimes, we had been so good together, making love. This memory tiptoed along my spine as I stood there at the jukebox, watching the crowd.
The crowd. It came to me that I could spend my life doing what I was doing right now. The world was full of crowds, waitresses, beds, girls, women, boys, men—maybe, even, full of Marthas. How would I ever know so long as I was determined not to know? I dropped a lot of change in the jukebox, and pressed recklessly, at random, trying to make it seem that I was making choices. But the truth was that I saw absolutely nothing, was, simply, as I hoped, covering myself. And would I spend my life in postures so unmanly, my face at an angle to the music and at an angle to the crowd?
And I had fucked everything I could get my hands on overseas, including two of my drinking buddies. I had been revolted—but this was after, not before, the act. Before the act, when I realized from their eyes what was happening, I had adored being the adored male, and stretched out on it, all boyish muscle and throbbing cock, telling myself, What the hell, it beats jerking off. And I had loved it—the adoration, the warm mouth, the tight ass, the fact that nothing at all was demanded of me except that I shoot my load, which I was very, very happy to do. And I was revolted when it was over, not merely because it really was not for me, but because I had used somebody merely as a receptacle and had allowed myself to be used merely as a thing. I was revolted that my need had driven me, as I considered it, so low: nevertheless, my need had driven me and could drive me there again. And what did a woman feel? I had never asked myself this question before. Women like it as much as men, okay, and a stiff prick has no conscience, okay again, but that merely justifies a grim indolence. I could spend my whole life in that posture and be found standing at this jukebox when Gabriel’s trumpet sounded, at an angle to
the music and at an angle to my life.
So then, for the first time, I wondered about love and wondered if I would find in myself the strength to give love, and to take it: to accept my nakedness as sacred, and to hold sacred the nakedness of another. For, without love, pleasure withers quickly, becomes a foul taste on the palate, and pleasure’s inventions are soon exhausted. There must be a soul within the body you are holding, a soul which you are striving to meet, a soul which is striving to meet yours.
Then I suspected why death was so terrible, and love so feared—glimpsed an abyss and closed my eyes and shuddered: but I had seen it.
Then, having spent all my change (I was going to have to get a job!) I went back to the table and summoned the beautiful and mysterious waitress, and ordered another round.
When she brought the round, I asked her, “Where’re you from, child?”
She put her hands on her hips and grinned at me. She had a gap between her two front teeth. It made her face funny instead of merely pretty, the gap was like a bonus.
“Waycross, Georgia,” she said. “Now ain’t that something?”
We all laughed. Peanut asked, “How’d you get out?”
“You folks up here,” she said, “always wondering about how we got out. Ain’t you never worried about how we going to get in? I’m tired of being out.”
“Amen to that,” said Arthur. “And let the church say amen!”
“But I wonder, sometimes,” I said, teasing, “how we going to get over.”
“Oh, we over,” she said. “We been over. You notice how white folks don’t never use that word like we use it? They afraid of being over. And they right. That’s how I know we got over.” She laughed again, all over her mischievous pick-aninny’s face, and under all that cotton-candy hair. “But sometime soon, I’d still like to make it on in.”
“Into the kingdom?” Arthur asked this with a smile.
“That one up yonder?—not hardly. I can’t stand milk and honey, and child, you know those folks can’t sing.” She and Arthur and Peanut laughed together. “And they couldn’t get a spare rib or a pork chop together if their souls depended on it”—we all laughed again—”and they don’t know nothing about chitterlings.”