Thomas Wolfe, page 62
The maples were thin and sere. Their rotting leaves covered the ground. But the trees were not leafless yet. The leaves were quaking. Some birds began to chatter in the trees. Wind pressed the boughs, the withered leaves were shaking. It was October.
As Luke and Eugene turned up the street toward town, a woman came out of the big brick house across the street, and over the yard toward them. When she got near, they saw she was Mrs. Pert. It was October, but some birds were waking.
“Luke,” she said fuzzily. “Luke? Is it Old Luke?”
“Yes,” said Luke.
“And ’Gene? Is it old ’Gene?” She laughed gently, patting his hand, peering comically at him with her bleared oaken eyes, and swaying back and forth gravely, with alcoholic dignity. The leaves, the withered leaves, were shaking, quaking. It was October, and the leaves were shaking.
“They ran old Fatty away, ’Gene,” she said. “They won’t let her come in the house any more. They ran her away because she liked Old Ben. Ben. Old Ben.” She swayed gently, vaguely collecting her thought. “Old Ben. How’s Old Ben, ’Gene?” she coaxed. “Fatty wants to know.”
“I’m m-m-m-mighty sorry, Mrs. P-P-P-Pert . . .” Luke began.
Wind pressed the boughs, the withered leaves were quaking.
“Ben’s dead,” said Eugene.
She stared at him for a moment, swaying on her feet.
“Fatty liked Ben,” she said gently, in a moment. “Fatty and Old Ben were friends.”
She turned and started unsteadily across the street, holding one hand out gravely, for balance.
In that enormous silence, birds were waking. It was October, but some birds were waking.
Then Luke and Eugene walked swiftly townward, filled with great joy because they heard the sounds of life and daybreak. And as they walked, they spoke often of Ben, with laughter, with old pleasant memory, speaking of him not as of one who had died, but as of a brother who had been gone for years, and was returning home. They spoke of him with triumph and tenderness, as of one who had defeated pain, and had joyously escaped. Eugene’s mind groped awkwardly about. It fumbled like a child, with little things.
They were filled with a deep and tranquil affection for each other: they talked without constraint, without affectation, with quiet confidence and knowledge.
“Do you remember,” Luke began, “the t-t-t-time he cut the hair of Aunt Pett’s orphan boy—Marcus?”
“He—used—a chamber-pot—to trim the edges,” Eugene screamed, waking the street with wild laughter.
They walked along hilariously, greeting a few early pedestrians with ironical obsequiousness, jeering pleasantly at the world in brotherly alliance. Then they entered the relaxed and weary offices of the paper which Ben had served so many years, and gave their stick of news to the tired man there.
There was regret, a sense of wonder, in that office where the swift record of so many days had died—a memory that would not die, of something strange and passing.
“Damn! I’m sorry! He was a great boy!” said the men.
As light broke grayly in the empty streets, and the first car rattled up to town, they entered the little beanery where he had spent, in smoke and coffee, so many hours of daybreak.
Eugene looked in and saw them there, assembled as they had been many years before, like the nightmare ratification of a prophecy: McGuire, Coker, the weary counter-man, and, at the lower end, the press-man, Harry Tugman.
Luke and Eugene entered, and sat down at the counter.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Luke sonorously.
“Hello, Luke,” barked McGuire. “Do you think you’ll ever have any sense? How are you, son? How’s school?” he said to Eugene. He stared at them for a moment, his wet cigarette plastered comically on his full sag lip, his bleared eyes kindly and drunken.
“General, how’s the boy? What’re you drinking these days—turpentine or varnish?” said the sailor, tweaking him roughly in his larded ribs. McGuire grunted.
“Is it over, son?” said Coker quietly.
“Yes,” said Eugene.
Coker took the long cigar from his mouth and grinned malarially at the boy.
“Feel better, don’t you, son?” he said.
“Yes,” said Eugene. “A hell of a lot.”
“Well, Eugenics,” said the sailor briskly, “what are you eating?”
“What’s the man got?” said Eugene, staring at the greasy card. “Have you got any young roast whale left?”
“No,” said the counter-man. “We did have some, but we run out.”
“How about the fricasseed bull?” said Luke. “Have you got any of that?”
“You don’t need any one to fricassee your bull, son,” said McGuire. “You’ve got plenty as it is.”
Their bull-laughter bellowed in the beanery.
With puckered forehead, Luke stuttered over the menu.
“F-f-f-fried chicken à la Maryland,” he muttered. “A la Maryland?” he repeated as if puzzled. “Now, ain’t that nice?” he said, looking around with mincing daintiness.
“Bring me one of your this week’s steaks,” said Eugene, “well done, with a meat-axe and the sausage-grinder.”
“What do you want the sausage-grinder for, son?” said Coker.
“That’s for the mince pie,” said Eugene.
“Make it two,” said Luke, “with a coupla cups of Mock-a, just like mother still makes.”
He looked crazily around at Eugene, and burst into loud whah-whahs, prodding him in the ribs.
“Where they got you stationed now, Luke?” said Harry Tugman, peering up snoutily from a mug of coffee.
“At the p-p-p-present time in Norfolk at the Navy Base,” Luke answered, “m-m-making the world safe for hypocrisy.”
“Do you ever get out to sea, son?” said Coker.
“Sure!” said Luke. “A f-f-five-cent ride on the street-car brings me right out to the beach.”
“That boy has had the makings of a sailor in him ever since he wet the bed,” said McGuire. “I predicted it long ago.”
Horse Hines came in briskly, but checked himself when he saw the two young men.
“Look out!” whispered the sailor to Eugene, with a crazy grin. “You’re next! He’s got his fishy eye glued on you. He’s already getting you measured up for one.”
Eugene looked angrily around at Horse Hines, muttering. The sailor chortled madly.
“Good-morning, gentlemen,” said Horse Hines, in an accent of refined sadness. “Boys,” he said, coming up to them sorrowfully, “I was mighty sorry to hear of your trouble. I couldn’t have thought more of that boy if he’d been my own brother.”
“Don’t go on, Horse,” said McGuire, holding up four fat fingers of protest. “We can see you’re heart-broken. If you go on, you may get hysterical with your grief, and break right out laughing. We couldn’t bear that, Horse. We’re big strong men, but we’ve had hard lives. I beg of you to spare us, Horse.”
Horse Hines did not notice him.
“I’ve got him over at the place now,” he said softly. “I want you boys to come in later in the day to see him. You won’t know he’s the same person when I’m through.”
“God! An improvement over nature,” said Coker. “His mother will appreciate it.”
“Is this an undertaking shop you’re running, Horse,” said McGuire, “or a beauty parlor?”
“We know you’ll d-d-do your best, Mr. Hines,” said the sailor with ready earnest insincerity. “That’s the reason the family got you.”
“Ain’t you goin’ to eat the rest of your steak?” said the counter-man to Eugene.
“Steak! Steak! It’s not steak!” muttered Eugene. “I know what it is now.” He got off the stool and walked over to Coker. “Can you save me? Am I going to die? Do I look sick, Coker?” he said in a hoarse mutter.
“No, son,” said Coker. “Not sick—crazy.”
Horse Hines took his seat at the other end of the counter. Eugene, leaning upon the greasy marble counter, began to sing:
“Hey, ho, the carrion crow,
Derry, derry, derry, derr—oh!”
“Shut up, you damn fool!” said the sailor in a hoarse whisper, grinning.
“A carrion crow sat on a rock,
Derry, derry, derry, derr—oh!”
Outside, in the young gray light, there was a brisk wakening of life. A street-car curved slowly into the avenue, the motorman leaning from his window and shifting the switch carefully with a long rod, blowing the warm fog of his breath into the chill air. Patrolman Leslie Roberts, sallow and liverish, slouched by anæmically, swinging his club. The negro man-of-all-work for Wood’s Pharmacy walked briskly into the post-office to collect the morning mail. J. T. Stearns, the railway passenger-agent, waited on the curb across the street for the depot car. He had a red face, and he was reading the morning paper.
“There they go!” Eugene cried suddenly. “As if they didn’t know about it!”
“Luke,” said Harry Tugman, looking up from his paper, “I was certainly sorry to hear about Ben. He was one fine boy.” Then he went back to his sheet.
“By God!” said Eugene. “This is news!’”
He burst into a fit of laughter, gasping and uncontrollable, which came from him with savage violence. Horse Hines glanced craftily up at him. Then he went back to his paper.
The two young men left the lunch-room and walked homeward through the brisk morning. Eugene’s mind kept fumbling with little things. There was a frosty snap and clatter of life upon the streets, the lean rattle of wheels, the creak of blinds, a cold rose-tint of pearled sky. In the Square, the motormen stood about among their cars, in loud foggy gossip. At Dixieland, there was an air of exhaustion, of nervous depletion. The house slept; Eliza alone was stirring, but she had a smart fire crackling in the range, and was full of business.
“You children go and sleep now. We’ve all got work to do later in the day.”
Luke and Eugene went into the big dining-room which Eliza had converted into a bed-room.
“D-d-d-damn if I’m going to sleep upstairs,” said the sailor angrily. “Not after this!”
“Pshaw!” said Eliza. “That’s only superstition. It wouldn’t bother me a bit.”
The brothers slept heavily until past noon. Then they went out again to see Horse Hines. They found him with his legs comfortably disposed on the desk of his dark little office, with its odor of weeping ferns, and incense, and old carnations.
He got up quickly as they entered, with a starchy crackle of his hard boiled shirt, and a solemn rustle of his black garments. Then he began to speak to them in a hushed voice, bending forward slightly.
How like Death this man is (thought Eugene). He thought of the awful mysteries of burial—the dark ghoul-ritual, the obscene communion with the dead, touched with some black and foul witch-magic. Where is the can in which they throw the parts? There is a restaurant near here. Then he took the cold phthisic hand, freckled on its back, that the man extended, with a sense of having touched something embalmed. The undertaker’s manner had changed since the morning: it had become official, professional. He was the alert marshal of their grief, the efficient master-of-ceremonies. Subtly he made them feel there was an order and decorum in death: a ritual of mourning that must be observed. They were impressed.
“We thought we’d like to s-s-s-see you f-f-f-first, Mr. Hines, about the c-c-c-c-casket,” Luke whispered nervously. “We’re going to ask your advice. We want you to help us find something appropriate.”
Horse Hines nodded with grave approval. Then he led them softly back, into a large dark room with polished waxen floors where, amid a rich dead smell of wood and velvet, upon wheeled trestles, the splendid coffins lay in their proud menace.
“Now,” said Horse Hines quietly, “I know the family doesn’t want anything cheap.”
“No, sir!” said the sailor positively. “We want the b-b-b-best you have.”
“I take a personal interest in this funeral,” said Horse Hines with gentle emotion. “I have known the Gant and Pentland families for thirty years or more. I have had business dealings with your father for nigh on to twenty years.”
“And I w-w-want you to know, Mr. Hines, that the f-f-f-family appreciates the interest you’re taking in this,” said the sailor very earnestly.
He likes this, Eugene thought. The affection of the world. He must have it.
“Your father,” continued Horse Hines, “is one of the oldest and most respected business men in the community. And the Pentland family is one of the wealthiest and most prominent.”
Eugene was touched with a moment’s glow of pride.
“You don’t want anything shoddy,” said Horse Hines. “I know that. What you get ought to be in good taste and have dignity. Am I right?”
Luke nodded emphatically.
“That’s the way we feel about it, Mr. Hines. We want the best you have. We’re not pinching p-p-p-pennies where Ben’s concerned,” he said proudly.
“Well, then,” said Horse Hines, “I’ll give you my honest opinion. I could give you this one cheap,” he placed his hand upon one of the caskets, “but I don’t think it’s what you want. Of course,” he said, “it’s good at the price. It’s worth the money. It’ll give you service, don’t worry. You’ll get value out of it——”
Now there’s an idea, thought Eugene.
“They’re all good, Luke. I haven’t got a bad piece of stock in the place. But——”
“We want something b-b-b-better,” said Luke earnestly. He turned to Eugene. “Don’t you think so, ’Gene?”
“Yes,” said Eugene.
“Well,” said Horse Hines, “I could sell you this one,” he indicated the most sumptuous casket in the room. “They don’t come better than that, Luke. That’s the top. She’s worth every dollar I ask for her.”
“All right,” said Luke. “You’re the judge. If that’s the best you’ve g-g-g-got, we’ll take it.”
No, no! thought Eugene. You mustn’t interrupt. Let him go on.
“But,” said Horse Hines relentlessly, “there’s no need for you to take that one, either. What you’re after, Luke, is dignity and simplicity. Is that right?”
“Yes,” said the sailor meekly, “I guess you’re right at that, Mr. Hines.”
Now we’ll have it, thought Eugene. This man takes joy in his work.
“Well, then,” said Horse Hines decisively, “I was going to suggest to you boys that you take this one.” He put his hand affectionately upon a handsome casket at his side.
“This is neither too plain nor too fancy. It’s simple and in good taste. Silver handles, you see—silver plate here for the name. You can’t go wrong on this one. It’s a good buy. She’ll give you value for every dollar you put into it.”
They walked around the coffin, staring at it critically.
After a moment, Luke said nervously:
“How—wh—wh—wh-what’s the price of this one?”
“That sells for $450,” said Horse Hines. “But,” he added, after a moment’s dark reflection, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Your father and I are old friends. Out of respect for the family, I’ll let you have it at cost—$375.”
“What do you say, ’Gene?” the sailor asked. “Does it look all right to you?”
Do your Christmas shopping early.
“Yes,” said Eugene, “let’s take it. I wish there were another color. I don’t like black,” he added. “Haven’t you got any other color?”
Horse Hines stared at him a moment.
“Black is the color,” he said.
Then, after a moment’s silence, he went on:
“Would you boys care to see the body?”
“Yes,” they said.
He led them on tiptoe down the aisle of the coffins, and opened a door to a room behind. It was dark. They entered and stood with caught breath. Horse Hines switched on a light and closed the door.
Ben, clad in his best suit of clothes, a neat one of dark gray-black, lay in rigid tranquillity upon a table. His hands, cold and white, with clean dry nails, withered a little like an old apple, were crossed loosely on his stomach. He had been closely shaved: he was immaculately groomed. The rigid head was thrust sharply upward, with a ghastly counterfeit of a smile: there was a little gum of wax at the nostrils, and a waxen lacing between the cold firm lips. The mouth was tight, somewhat bulging. It looked fuller than it ever had looked before.
There was a faint indefinably cloying odor.
The sailor looked with superstition, nervously, with puckered forehead. Then he whispered to Eugene:
“I g-g-guess that’s Ben, all right.”
Because, Eugene thought, it is not Ben, and we are lost. He looked at the cold bright carrion, that bungling semblance which had not even the power of a good wax-work to suggest its image. Nothing of Ben could be buried here. In this poor stuffed crow, with its pathetic barbering, and its neat buttons, nothing of the owner had been left. All that was there was the tailoring of Horse Hines, who now stood by, watchfully, hungry for their praise.
No, this is not Ben (Eugene thought). No trace of him is left in this deserted shell. It bears no mark of him. Where has he gone? Is this his bright particular flesh, made in his image, given life by his unique gesture, by his one soul? No, he is gone from that bright flesh. This thing is one with all carrion; it will be mixed with the earth again. Ben? Where? O lost!
The sailor, looking, said:
“That b-b-b-boy sure suffered.” Suddenly, turning his face away into his hand, he sobbed briefly and painfully, his confused stammering life drawn out of its sprawl into a moment of hard grief.
Eugene wept, not because he saw Ben there, but because Ben had gone, and because he remembered all the tumult and the pain.
“It is over now,” said Horse Hines gently. “He is at peace.”
“By God, Mr. Hines,” said the sailor earnestly, as he wiped his eyes on his jacket, “that was one g-g-great boy.”
Horse Hines looked raptly at the cold strange face.
“A fine boy,” he murmured as his fish-eye fell tenderly on his work. “And I have tried to do him justice.”
