The Heart is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers [109]
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 a gray-blue sheen. Some of the coffee had sloshed over into the saucer, so first he dried the saucer and the rim of the cup with his handkerchief. He had not wanted coffee at all.
‘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.