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The Heart is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers [10]

By Root 7074 0
nodded frequently and his face seemed contemplative. He was only slow--that was all. Blount began to crack a few jokes along with this talk about knowing. The mute never smiled until several seconds after the funny remark had been made; then when the talk was gloomy again the smile still hung on his face a little too long. The fellow was downright uncanny. People felt themselves watching him even before they knew that there was anything different about him. His eyes made a person think that he heard things nobody else had ever heard, that he knew things no one had ever guessed before. He did not seem quite human. Jake Blount leaned across the table and the words came out as though a dam inside him had broken. Biff could not understand him any more. Blount’s tongue was so heavy with drink and he talked at such a violent pace that the sounds were all shaken up together. Biff wondered where he would go when Alice turned him out of the place. And in the morning she would do it, too--like she said. Biff yawned wanly, patting his open mouth with his fingertips until his jaw had relaxed. It was almost three o’clock, the most stagnant hour in the day or night The mute was patient. He had been listening to Blount for almost an hour. Now he began to look at the clock occasionally. Blount did not notice this and went on without a pause. At last he stopped a to roll a cigarette, and then the mute nodded his head in the direction of the clock, smiled in that hidden way of his, and got up from the table. His hands stayed stuffed in his pockets as always. He went out quickly. Blount was so drunk that he did not know what had happened. He had never even caught on to the fact that the mute made no answers. He began to look around the place with his mouth open and his eyes rolling and fuddled. A red vein stood out on his forehead and he began to hit the table angrily with his fists. His bout could not last much longer now.

‘Come on over,’ Biff said kindly. ‘Your friend has gone.’ The fellow was still hunting for Singer. He had never seemed really drunk like that before. He had an ugly look. ‘I have something for you over here and I want to speak with you a minute,’ Biff coaxed. Blount pulled himself up from the table and walked with big, loose steps toward the street again. Biff leaned against the wall. In and out-in and out. After all, it was none of his business. The room was very empty and quiet. The minutes lingered. Wearily he let his head sag forward. All motion seemed slowly to be leaving the room. The counter, faces, the booths and tables, the radio in the corner, whirring fans on the ceiling--all seemed to become very faint and still. He must have dozed. A hand was shaking his elbow. His wits came back to him slowly and he looked up to see what was wanted.

Willie, the colored boy in the kitchen, stood before him dressed in his cap and his long white apron. Willie stammered because he was excited about whatever he was trying to say. ‘And so he were l-l-lamming his fist against this here brick w-w-wall.’

‘What’s that? ’

‘Right down one of them alleys two d-d-doors away.’

Biff straightened his slumped shoulders and arranged his tie. ‘What?’

‘And they means to bring him in here and they liable to pile in any minute--’

‘Willie,’ Biff said patiently. ‘Start at the beginning and let me get this straight.’

‘It this here short white man with the m-m-mustache.’

‘Mr. Blount. Yes.’

‘Well--I didn’t see how it commenced. I were standing in the back door when I heard this here commotion. Sound like a big fight in the alley. So I r-r-run to see. And this here white man had just gone hog wild. He were butting his head against the side of this brick wall and hitting with his fists. He were cussing and fighting like I never seen a white man fight before. With just this here wall. He liable to broken his own head the way he were carrying on. Then two white mens who had heard the commotion come up and stand around and look--’

‘So what happened?’

‘Well--you know this here dumb gentleman--hands in pockets--this here--’

‘Mr. Singer.’

‘And

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