Thomas Wolfe: Of Time and the River, You Can't Go Home Again & Look Homeward, Angel. Thomas Wolfe
Читать онлайн книгу.
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 a 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