The Heart is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers [113]
He waited for the black, terrible anger as though for some beast out of the night. But it did not come to him. His bowels seemed weighted with lead, and he walked slowly and lingered against fences and the cold, wet walls of buildings by the way. Descent into the depths until at last there was no further chasm below. He touched the solid bottom of despair and there took ease.
In this he knew a certain strong and holy gladness. The persecuted laugh, and the black slave sings to his outraged soul beneath the whip. A song was in him now--although it was not music but only the feeling of a song. And the sodden heaviness of peace weighted down his limbs so that it was only with the strong, true purpose that he moved. Why did he go onward? Why did he not rest here upon the bottom of utmost humiliation and for a while take his content? But he went onward.
‘Uncle,’ said Mick. ‘You think some hot coffee would make you feel better?’
Doctor Copeland looked into her face but gave no sign that he heard. They had crossed the town and come at last to the alley behind the Kellys’ house. Portia had entered first and then he followed. Highboy remained on the steps outside. Mick and her two little brothers were already in the kitchen. Portia told of William. Doctor Copeland did not listen to the words but her voice had a rhythm--a start, a middle, and an end. Then when she was finished she began all over. Others came into the room to hear.
Doctor Copeland sat on a stool in the corner. His coat and shawl steamed over the back of a chair by the stove. He held his hat on his knees and his long, dark hands moved nervously around the worn brim. The yellow insides of his hands were so moist that occasionally he wiped them with a handkerchief.
His head trembled, and all of his muscles were stiff with the effort to make it be still. Mr. Singer came into the room. Doctor Copeland raised up his face to him. ‘Have you heard of this?’ he asked. Mr. Singer nodded. In his eyes there was no horror or pity or hate. Of all those who knew, his eyes alone did not express these reactions. For he alone understood this thing. Mick whispered to Portia, ‘What’s your father’s name?’
‘He named Benedict Mady Copeland.’ Mick leaned over close to Doctor Copeland and shouted in his face as though he were deaf. ‘Benedict, don’t you think some hot coffee would make you feel a little better? ‘ Doctor Copeland started. ‘Quit that hollering,’ Portia said. ‘He can hear well as you can.’
‘Oh,’ said Mick. She emptied the grounds from the pot and put the coffee on the stove to boil again. The mute still lingered in the doorway. Doctor Copeland still looked into his face. ‘You heard? ‘ ‘What’ll they do to those prison guards?’ Mick asked. ‘Honey, I just don’t know,’ Portia said. ‘I just don’t know.’
‘I’d do something. I’d sure do something about it.’
‘Nothing us could do would make no difference. Best thing us can do is keep our mouth shut’
‘They ought to be treated just like they did Willie and them. Worse. I wish I could round up some people and kill those men myself.’
‘That ain’t no Christian way to talk,’ Portia said. I can just rest back and know they going to be chopped up with pitchforks and fried everlasting by Satan.’
‘Anyway Willie can still play his harp.’
‘With both feets sawed off that about all he can do.’ The house was full of noise and unrest. In the room above the kitchen someone was moving furniture about. The dining-room was crowded with boarders. Mrs. Kelly hurried back and forth from the breakfast table to the kitchen. Mr. Kelly wandered about in a baggy pair of trousers and a bathrobe. The young Kelly children ate greedily in the kitchen. Doors banged and voices could be heard in all parts of the house. Mick handed Doctor Copeland a cup of coffee mixed with watery milk. The milk gave the drink