The Heart is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers [114]
‘I wish I could kill them,’ Mick said.
The house quieted. The people in the dining-room went out to work. Mick and George left for school and the baby was shut into one of the front rooms. Mrs. Kelly wrapped a towel around her head and took a broom with her upstairs.
The mute still stood in the doorway. Doctor Copeland gazed up into his face. ‘You know of this?’ he asked again. The words did not sound--they choked in his throat--but his eyes asked the question all the same. Then the mute was gone.
Doctor Copeland and Portia were alone. He sat for some time on the stool in the corner. At last he rose to go.
‘You sit back down, Father. Us going to stay together this morning. I going to fry some fish and have egg-bread and potatoes for the dinner. You stay on here, and then I means to serve you a good hot meal.’
‘You know I have calls.’
‘Less us just this one day. Please, Father. I feels like I going to really bust loose. Besides, I don’t want you messing around in the streets by yourself.’
He hesitated and felt the collar of his overcoat. It was very damp. ‘Daughter, I am sorry. You know I have visits.’
Portia held his shawl over the stove until the wool was hot.
She buttoned his coat and turned up the collar about his neck.
He cleared his throat and spat into one of the squares of paper that he carried with him in his pocket Then he burned the paper in the stove. On the way out he stopped and spoke to Highboy on the steps. He suggested that Highboy stay with Portia if he could arrange to get leave from work.
The air was piercing and cold. From the low, dark skies the drizzling rain fell steadily. The rain had seeped into the garbage cans and in the alley there was the rank odor of wet refuse. As he walked he balanced himself with the help of a fence and kept his dark eyes on the ground.
He made all the strictly necessary visits. Then he attended to office patients from noon until two o’clock. Afterward he sat at his desk with his fists clenched tight. But it was useless to try to cogitate on this thing. He wished never again to see a human face. Yet at the same time he could not sit alone in the empty room. He put on his overcoat and went out again into the wet, cold street. In his pocket were several prescriptions to be left at the pharmacy.
But he did not wish to speak with Marshall Nicolls. He went into the store and laid the prescriptions upon the counter. The pharmacist turned from the powders he was measuring and held out both his hands. His thick lips worked soundlessly for a moment before he gained his poise.
‘Doctor,’ he said formally. ‘You must be aware that I and all our colleagues and the members of my lodge and church--we have your sorrow uppermost in our minds and wish to extend to you our deepest sympathy.’
Doctor Copeland turned shortly and left without a word. That was too little. Something more was needed. The strong, true purpose, the will to justice. He walked stiffly, his arms held close to his sides, toward the main street. He cogitated without success. He could think of no white person of power in all the town who was both brave and just. He thought of every lawyer, every judge, every public official with whose name he was familiar--but the thought of each one of these white men was bitter in his heart. At last he decided on the judge of the Superior Court. When he reached the courthouse he did not hesitate but entered quickly, determined to see the judge that afternoon.
The wide front hall was empty except for a few idlers who lounged in the doorways leading to the offices on either side.
He did not know where he could find the judge’s office, so he wandered uncertainly through the building, looking at the placards on the doors. At last he came to a narrow passage.
Halfway through this corridor three white men stood talking together and blocked the way. He drew close to the wall to pass, but one of them