I spun around, heading outside, cutting across the lawn, over to Zock’s house. I went in. No one was home. I went upstairs. It was then that I heard them.
Voices.
Coming from Zock’s room. I threw the door open, felt it smack against the foot of the bed.
“Who’s out there?” Terry said.
I didn’t answer, but just stared, stared across the room to the desk chair and the pink, lacy dress spread carefully across it.
Then someone left the bed so I turned, tearing down the stairs, tripping, falling the last few feet. But I got right up, not stopping, never once stopping even though from above I could hear my wife calling my name, screaming it as loud as she could.
I hit the street, my leg killing me, still going on, trying to run. I ran until she’d stopped yelling, until I couldn’t hear her any more. Then I started to wonder. I’ll never know how I found my way to the college chapel. But somehow, I did.
By the time I got there, the wedding was about to begin. Adrian was already at the front, standing very straight. I turned up the aisle toward him. He smiled. I stopped. The music started. My mother appeared at the far end of the aisle. The music got louder, louder, louder still.
And before I knew it, my mother was a wife again. She kissed Adrian. They ran down the aisle together. I stood still. Everyone swooped down on me, told me how lucky I was, and I smiled, said: “Sure am, sure am, thank you.” Finally, the crowd thinned, all of them heading back to our house for the reception.
I waited in the church awhile, then walked home. The place was jammed. With faculty and students and a million friends of my mother. I watched them a second through the window, saw them drinking away, heard the laughter and the screaming. I turned, continuing on to the back door, sneaking in as quiet as I could, hurrying up the back stairs to my room. I opened the door, walked inside.
Terry was there.
I closed the door, not saying a word, but instead going to the bathroom, splashing some water on my face.
“I been waitin’ for you, Trevitt,” Terry said when I came back.
I nodded, listening to the roar from below as it came through the walls, filling the room.
“I’m sorry,” Terry said.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” I told her.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“That sure is a nice pink dress,” I said. “I guess it looks even better on you than folded over a chair. You folded it nice and neat over that chair. There wasn’t a wrinkle.”
“Trevitt—” she began.
“Maybe we ought to go into business,” I said. “I’ll pimp for you. We’ll split fifty-fifty. That’s fair. And you’ll need a pimp. Whores need pimps, don’t they? Don’t whores need pimps?”
“Sure,” Terry whispered. “Please—”
“And we won’t work out of any of those Crystal City whorehouses either. We’ll do it right here. Mother won’t mind. And when we’ve got enough money, we’ll go to New York. And then maybe we’ll try Europe. There’s a big market in Europe. And we’ll buy a house and settle down on the Riviera with servants and cars and all the rest.”
“Please,” Terry said, starting to cry. “I told you I was sorry. Please. Don’t be mad, Trevitt. I’m sorry, honest to—”
“Mad?” I cut in. “I’m not mad. You marry a whore and she turns out to be a whore. What right have you got to be mad?”
“Please,” she sobbed. “Please. You got to help me, Trevitt. I’m sorry and you got to help me.”
I just shook my head. “Why do you always ask for help when it’s too late? Everybody’s always asking for help when it’s too late.” I opened the closet door, took out a bunch of dresses, carried them over, dumped them on the bed. My back was to her when she said it.
“I love you, Trevitt. No crap. I really do.”
I got some more dresses, carried them over, stacked them on the first pile. “You know,” I said. “You’re the first person ever told me that. In all my life. I used to daydream about it, about how it was going to be. I never figured on this.” She was crying harder now, gasping, getting close to hysteria. Then she was up, brushing by me, tearing at the clothes in the closet, ripping her dresses off the hangers, throwing them wildly around the room.
“I guess you can pack for yourself,” I said. She stopped, trying to look at me. “Don’t forget anything,” I told her, pointing to the bookcase.
“To hell with the Bedside Digest!” she screamed.
I closed the door and went downstairs.
The noise was terrible. The house was crammed with noise, drunken laughing, loud talk, and I waited a minute before I could force my way through it. People came up to congratulate me. Old women kissed me. Men shook my hand. I tried losing myself in the living-room, but Mrs. Janes, who was “much better now,” got roaring and started a Charleston demonstration. I couldn’t watch, so I began edging out and as I did, I saw her husband. He saw me too. We both smiled, nodding to each other.
Then my mother cornered me, asking questions, where was Terry, where was Terry, what happened to Terry? I tore loose and headed for the bar.
Swallowing drink after drink, throat open, pouring them down as fast as I could. It all got hazy very quick and I needed a chair for support, but I kept drinking. Then my mother was on me again, Adrian beside her, asking me questions, again and again. The noise was worse than ever and I started shaking as if I had a fever, that noise pushing at me, knotting me so I couldn’t breathe. I felt myself going and I knew if I stayed in that house one minute more I’d split wide open.
Getting to my feet I headed for the door, bumping into people, into chairs, into walls, but I kept on going until I was outside. The air was cooler and it hit me hard so that I fell once or twice before I got my bearings. Finally I began walking, walking just as fast as I could, walking out there, to the cemetery, to where Zock was.
I never made it. Not that night. Patriot’s Square was too big and I fell on the grass in the middle, helpless.
The sun woke me. I don’t think I ever felt worse, but I got up all the same and, stumbling, lunging forward as best I could, I started again. “I’m coming,” I said out loud, over and over. “I’m coming, Zock. I’m coming. Wait for me.”
By that time I was pretty cut up from falling every few feet, and my clothes were in shreds. But it didn’t matter. I just kept going, falling, getting up again, making my way.
And then I was there, lying on the ground, just a little bit away from “Zachary Crowe, 1934-1954. R.I.P.” I crawled those few feet, clawed the ground with my fingers, stretching out on top of his grave and, for the first time, I think, since the death of Baxter, I cried.
“I made it, Zock,” I said. “I told you I was coming, and here I am. Just like I said. Just like I told you.” I pulled myself over to the tombstone and grabbed at it, holding it tight, crying, squeezing it against my own body.
“Zock, I’m cracking. Help me. Help me for Christ’s sake. I can’t find the handle, Zock. Tell me what to do. Tell me now because I’m cracking. I can’t go on much longer so for God’s sake, help me. Please. In the name of sweet Jesus, Zock, help me. Help me now because I’m cracking and I don’t know what to do.”
I clung to that stone for a long time, sobbing, trying to talk, hunched against his tombstone, holding it tight until finally I passed out again.
The sun was high when I woke. I don’t remember getting home, but when I did, they were waiting for me, my mother and Adrian Baugh. I said I was sorry and went up to wash. When I came down, I felt better.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, starting it off. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to be on your honeymoon?”
“What happened?” my mother said.
I laughed. “I guess I got drunk. Too much champagne. I’m sorry.”
“Raymond,” Adrian asked, “where is Terry?”
“She had to go home,” I answered. “In a hurry. Her father’s sick. She didn’t want to worry you so she
just slipped out. She didn’t want to spoil your honeymoon, and neither do I, and if you’re going to have one, you’d better get moving.”
“I don’t know,” my mother said.
I went up, threw my arms around her. “I do, Mother,” I said. “So take it from me. Get going. I’ll hold the fort.” She and Adrian looked at each other. I laughed, grabbed their luggage, carried it out to the car. Finally, they followed.
“Raymond,” my mother said, “are you sure you’re all right?”
“Never better,” I told her. Then I opened the car door. She waited. I bowed low, laughing, smiling away. That did it. She got in one side, Adrian the other.
“Happy honeymoon,” I said, waving.
My mother waved back. Adrian tooted the horn twice. Then they were gone.
I went back inside the house and up to my room. I took off my clothes and showered, letting the water splash over me, scrubbing my body as hard as I could. My knee was swelling some and it hurt, but I scrubbed it too. I stayed in the shower a long time, the water stinging me, my leg aching. Then I dried off, left the bathroom, and flopped down in bed, closing my eyes.
But I couldn’t sleep. I was so tired I ached all over, but I couldn’t sleep. I just lay there in bed, listening to the house. There wasn’t a sound. No noise. Nothing. I tossed and turned and swore and flicked the radio on and off, always listening for some sound.
I got up and walked to the kitchen, opening the icebox. I wasn’t hungry. I went back upstairs and lay down again, closing my eyes as tight as I could, the pillow over my head, my hands grabbing at the mattress.
I don’t know when I figured out what to do, but it was late afternoon before I got to Crystal City.
I rang the bell to her old apartment, waited a minute until I heard footsteps. The door opened.
“I’m looking for Terry Clark,” I said to the woman in the doorway. “She used to live here.”
“She got married,” the woman said.
“I know that. But is she here now?”
“She got married last fall. She hasn’t been back since.”
“Is she here now?”
“I just told you she hasn’t been here since last fall.”
“She didn’t come back last night? You sure she isn’t here now?”
The door closed. I turned, hurrying toward the center of town, going into the dress shop on the corner. “I’m looking for Terry Clark,” I said. “She used to live in Crystal City.”
But she wasn’t there. And they hadn’t heard of her. So I went next door to the grocery. But she wasn’t there. After the grocery was a shoe shop. She wasn’t there. I kept on, walking down the street, going into every store. I crossed the street, worked my way up. She wasn’t there. Then I started on the bars. I went to every bar in Crystal City. But she wasn’t there. Nobody had heard of her. Nobody had seen her. I kept going, asking the same questions, getting the same answers.
By then it was dusk. Neon lights began flickering. Red and Green. Blue and Red. Red and Blue. I stood in the center of town, turning around and around, reading all the signs, shivering, turning around, pulling up my collar, cold and shivering from the wind, standing there, turning around. EAT. Bar. Dance. Drugs. EAT. Eat. Dance. Drugs. Eat. DANCE. Dance. Dance. BAR. BAR. BAR.
Finally, I started looking in the whorehouses.
The first was on the edge of town. Music was playing on a radio somewhere upstairs. I stood there, shivering still, listening to the music, sweet and soft, drifting down to me. I waited and waited and then a tall, thin woman came downstairs, a shawl across her shoulders.
I want to see Terry Clark.
She don’t work here no more.
The stars were out. Billions of stars. I counted them as I walked along. Ninety-five. Shivering. Five hundred. The wind got stronger. A million. I leaned over the curb, tried to throw up. Two million. Ten.
I’m looking for Terry Clark.
Never heard of her.
Why was the wind so strong? I couldn’t figure it out. Where did it all come from? Where does the wind come from? Why doesn’t it blow the stars away? Twenty million. Twenty billion. How many stars could there be? A trillion. Two trillion. Ten.
Is Terry Clark here?
Nobody here by that name.
Why weren’t the madams fat? Madams were supposed to be fat. Why were they thin? I went to the curb again, put my finger down my throat. I couldn’t throw up. I hadn’t eaten. That was why. You can’t throw up when you haven’t eaten. Anybody knows that. I waited downstairs for the madam to show. This one was quiet. No music. That was wrong. There ought to be music in a whorehouse. I kept listening for it, but it wasn’t there. I waited for the madam, but she didn’t show. Then I heard footsteps. I looked up.
Felix Brown was coming down the stairs.
His arm around a colored whore. I stared at him. He was wearing an Army uniform. Sergeant First Class. A bunch of combat ribbons on his chest. And he was bigger than before. Not taller, but bigger, heavier, thicker. I shouted to him. “Fee! Hey, Fee!”
He stopped, looking down. Then he said something to the whore and left her. I ran up to him.
“Fee!” I yelled again.
“Hello, Trevitt,” he said.
“Fee. What are you doing around here?”
“I came home to see Pa,” he answered.
“What are you doing in that uniform? Whose is it? And those ribbons?”
“Mine,” he answered. That was all.
“How’d you get to be an SFC in two years? Tell me. How’d you do it?”
“I enlisted five years ago,” he said. “I’m a career man.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “You can’t be serious. You’ve got to be kidding. You’re getting out soon. Sure you are. What are you going to be?”
“I think I’ll be a nigger,” he said, starting to move away.
“I like your answer,” I said, grabbing him by the arm. “Now quit the kidding. This is me. Euripides.”
“I know that.”
“Well then, quit the kidding around.”
“I’m late,” he said. “I’ve got to go.”
“Invite me. I’ll come with you.”
“No,” he answered and he walked away. I followed him outside.
“Fee,” I said, grabbing him again. “What’s the matter with you? I tell you it’s me you’re talking to. Remember? ‘Pale amber sunlight falls across the reddening October trees.’ Remember?”
“I already forgot that,” he said. “Why don’t you try.” He pulled free. “So long, Trevitt.” He started off.
“So long,” I said. And then I let go. “So long, nigger!”
He stopped, turning to face me.
“Well, isn’t that right? Aren’t you a nigger? A big, buck nigger. Isn’t that what they call you? You don’t meet a big buck nigger every night. It’s something special when you meet a real live buck nigger.”
“Shut up, Trevitt,” he said.
“Sure, nigger. I’ll shut up. I won’t say one more word. But you might have had the nigger courtesy to ask about Zock. You might like to know he’s dead. He’s dead, nigger. Aren’t you glad to know? He’s as dead as you’ll be someday, but you didn’t even have the nigger courtesy to ask. Or don’t niggers have any courtesy? Maybe they only have thick skulls. How thick is your skull, nigger? One inch? Two inches? How about that, nigger? How thick is your skull?”
He walked away from me but I stood right there, yelling: “Hey, nigger! Hey, nigger! Hey!” until he was gone.
Then I started to run. I ran by the whorehouses and I ran by the stores and the shops and the bars in Crystal City. I ran along the road that led to Athens. I ran past the bushes and the trees and the lanes and the big highway leading to Chicago. I ran past the college and Patriot’s Square. I ran until I saw my bed in front of me and then I lay down, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling or out the window at the sunrise.
I tried not to think, but the house was too quiet. I wante
d to talk to somebody. I wanted to talk to somebody but I didn’t know who. That was a lie. I knew. It was only a matter of admitting it.
So, finally, Sunday afternoon, I went to church.
I’m not even sure which one it was, but that doesn’t matter. I rang the front doorbell of the rectory until the minister came.
Whose name was Holloway. He was very young, no more than thirty, short, and red-faced. I barged in and told him I wanted to have a chat. He nodded and he took me into the church to his office, a small room in the back, lined with books. He sat at his desk while I pulled up a chair.
“I don’t think we’ve met before,” he said, smiling.
“No, sir,” I told him. “I’ve never been here. But my name is Trevitt.”
“Fine, Trevitt,” he said. “Now. What can I do for you?”
“I don’t know. I thought we might have a talk, is all.”
“Fine,” he said again. “About anything special? Or what?”
I was trying to get hold of myself. My stomach was knotted and I hit it some, hoping he wouldn’t see.
“Just relax, Trevitt. We’ve got all day. So relax.”
I kept on hitting my stomach, harder and harder, concentrating on the books, trying to read the titles, which was easy, for they stood out plain as day. He didn’t say a word and neither did I, but we both sat there, him watching me, me staring at the titles of those books.
“They stand out plain as day,” I said.
“What?”
“The books.” I pointed. “I can read the titles clear over here. They stand out plain as day.”
“Yes,” he said, and we were quiet again. “Perhaps I ought to leave you for a while, Trevitt. Perhaps you might use the time to think.”
“No,” I told him. “I don’t need any time to think.”
“Yes,” he said.
I looked at him. “I killed my best friend,” I said.
“How did it happen?”
“On Half Day Bridge.”
“Why don’t you start from the beginning, Trevitt?”
“I killed Zock,” I said, louder. “Can’t you understand that?”
“Just relax,” he said, leaning forward. “Take it easy.”