Thomas Wolfe: Of Time and the River, You Can't Go Home Again & Look Homeward, Angel. Thomas Wolfe
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that might never be relived, the great evil of forgetfulness and indifference that could never be righted now. Like a child she was grateful for his caress, and his heart twisted in him like a wild and broken thing, and he kept mumbling:
“It’s all right! It’s all right! It’s all right!”— knowing that it was not, could never be, all right.
“If I had known. Child, if I had known,” she wept, as she had wept long before at Grover’s death.
“Brace up!” he said. “He’ll pull through yet. The worst is over.”
“Well, I tell you,” said Eliza, drying her eyes at once, “I believe it is. I believe he passed the turning-point last night. I was saying to Bessie —”
The light grew. Day came, bringing hope. They sat down to breakfast in the kitchen, drawing encouragement from every scrap of cheer doctor or nurse would give them. Coker departed, non-committally optimistic. Bessie Gant came down to breakfast and was professionally encouraging.
“If I can keep his damn family out of the room, he may have some chance of getting well.”
They laughed hysterically, gratefully, pleased with the woman’s abuse.
“How is he this morning?” said Eliza. “Do you notice any improvement?”
“His temperature is lower, if that’s what you mean.”
They knew that a lower temperature in the morning was a fact of no great significance, but they took nourishment from it: their diseased emotion fed upon it — they had soared in a moment to a peak of hopefulness.
“And he’s got a good heart,” said Bessie Gant. “If that holds out, and he keeps fighting, he’ll pull through.”
“D-d-don’t worry about his f-f-fighting,” said Luke, in a rush of eulogy. “That b-b-boy’ll fight as long as he’s g-g-got a breath left in him.”
“Why, yes,” Eliza began, “I remember when he was a child of seven — I know I was standing on the porch one day — the reason I remember is Old Mr. Buckner had just come by with some butter and eggs your papa had —”
“O my God!” groaned Helen, with a loose grin. “Now we’ll get it.”
“Whah — whah!” Luke chortled crazily, prodding Eliza in the ribs.
“I’ll vow, boy!” said Eliza angrily. “You act like an idiot. I’d be ashamed!”
“Whah — whah — whah!”
Helen sniggered, nudging Eugene.
“Isn’t he crazy, though? Tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh.” Then, with wet eyes, she drew Eugene roughly into her big bony embrace.
“Poor old ‘Gene. You always got on together, didn’t you? You’ll feel it more than any of us.”
“He’s not b-b-buried yet,” Luke cried heartily. “That boy may be here when the rest of us are pushing d-d-daisies.”
“Where’s Mrs. Pert?” said Eugene. “Is she in the house?”
A strained and bitter silence fell upon them.
“I ordered her out,” said Eliza grimly, after a moment. “I told her exactly what she was — a whore.” She spoke with the old stern judiciousness, but in a moment her face began to work and she burst into tears. “If it hadn’t been for that woman I believe he’d be well and strong today. I’ll vow I do!”
“Mama, in heaven’s name!” Helen burst out furiously. “How dare you say a thing like that? She was the only friend he had: when he was taken sick she nursed him hand and foot. Why, the idea! The idea!” she panted in her indignation. “If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Pert he’d have been dead by now. Nobody else did anything for him. You were willing enough, I notice, to keep her here and take her money until he got sick. No, sir!” she declared with emphasis. “Personally, I like her. I’m not going to cut her now.”
“It’s a d-d-d-damn shame!” said Luke, staunch to his goddess. “If it hadn’t been for Mrs. P-P-P-Pert and you, Ben would be S. O. L. Nobody else around here gave a damn. If he d-d-d-dies, it’s because he didn’t get the proper care when it would have done him some good. There’s always been too d-d-damn much thought of saving a nickel, and too d-d-damn little about flesh and blood!”
“Well, forget about it!” said Helen wearily. “There’s one thing sure: I’ve done everything I could. I haven’t been to bed for two days. Whatever happens, I’ll have no regrets on that score.” Her voice was filled with a brooding ugly satisfaction.
“I know you haven’t! I know that!” The sailor turned to Eugene in his excitement, gesticulating. “That g-g-girl’s worked her fingers to the bone. If it hadn’t been for her —” His eyes got wet; he turned his head away and blew his nose.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Eugene yelled, springing up from the table. “Stop it, won’t you! Let’s wait till later.”
In this way, the terrible hours of the morning lengthened out, while they spent themselves trying to escape from the tragic net of frustration and loss in which they were caught. Their spirits soared to brief moments of insane joy and exultancy, and plunged into black pits of despair and hysteria. Eliza alone seemed consistently hopeful. Trembling with exacerbated nerves, the sailor and Eugene paced the lower hall, smoking incessant cigarettes, bristling as they approached each other, ironically polite when their bodies touched. Gant dozed in the parlor or in his own room, waking and sleeping by starts, moaning petulantly, detached, vaguely aware only of the meaning of events, and resentful because of the sudden indifference to him. Helen went in and out of the sick-room constantly, dominating the dying boy by the power of her vitality, infusing him with moments of hope and confidence. But when she came out, her hearty cheerfulness was supplanted by the strained blur of hysteria; she wept, laughed, brooded, loved, and hated by turns.
Eliza went only once into the room. She intruded with a hotwater bag, timidly, awkwardly, like a child, devouring Ben’s face with her dull black eyes. But when above the loud labor of his breath his bright eyes rested on her, his clawed white fingers tightened their grip in the sheets, and he gasped strongly, as if in terror:
“Get out! Out! Don’t want you.”
Eliza left the room. As she walked she stumbled a little, as if her feet were numb and dead. Her white face had an ashen tinge, and her dull eyes had grown bright and staring. As the door closed behind her, she leaned against the wall and put one hand across her face. Then, in a moment, she went down to her pots again.
Frantically, angrily, with twitching limbs they demanded calm and steady nerves from one another; they insisted that they keep away from the sick-room — but, as if drawn by some terrible magnet, they found themselves again and again outside the door, listening, on tiptoe, with caught breath, with an insatiate thirst for horror, to the hoarse noise of his gasping as he strove to force air down into his strangled and cemented lungs. And eagerly, jealously, they sought entrance to the room, waiting their turn for carrying water, towels, supplies.
Mrs. Pert, from her refuge in the boarding-house across the street, called Helen on the phone each half-hour, and the girl talked to her while Eliza came from the kitchen into the hall, and stood, hands folded, lips pursed, with eyes that sparkled with her hate.
The girl cried and laughed as she talked.
“Well . . . that’s all right, Fatty. . . . You know how I feel about it. . . . I’ve always said that if he had one true friend in the world, it’s you . . . and don’t think we’re ALL ungrateful for what you’ve done . . . .”
During the pauses, Eugene could hear the voice of the other woman across the wires, sobbing.
And Eliza said, grimly: “If she calls up again you let me talk to her. I’ll fix her!”
“Good heavens, mama!” Helen cried angrily. “You’ve done enough already. You drove her out