The Heart is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers [143]
A wall, a flight of stairs, a road ahead. The burning sun was like a heavy weight on him. He started back the way he had come. This time he walked slowly, wiping his wet face with the greasy sleeve of his shirt. He could not stop the trembling of his lips and he bit them until he tasted blood.
At the corner of the next block he ran into Simms. The old codger was sitting on a box with his Bible on his knees. There was a tall board fence behind him, and on it a message was written with purple chalk.
He Died to Save You Hear the Story of His Love and Grace Every Nite 7:15 P.M. The street was empty. Jake tried to cross over to the other sidewalk, but Simms caught him by the arm. ‘Come, all ye disconsolate and sore of heart. Lay down your sins and troubles before the blessed feet of Him who died to save you. Wherefore goest thou, Brother Blount? ‘ ‘Home to hockey,’ Jake said. ‘I got to hockey. Does the Saviour have anything against that? ‘ ‘Sinner! The Lord remembers all your transgressions. The Lord has a message for you this very night.’
‘Does the Lord remember that dollar I gave you last week? ‘ ‘Jesus has a message for you at seven-fifteen tonight. You be here on time to hear His Word.’ Jake licked his mustache. ‘You have such a crowd every night I can’t get up close enough to hear.’
‘There is a place for scoffers. Besides, I have had a sign that soon the Saviour wants me to build a house for Him. On that lot at the corner of Eighteenth Avenue and Sixth Street.
A tabernacle large enough to hold five hundred people. Then you scoffers will see. The Lord prepareth a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; he anoint-eth my head with oil. My cup runneth--‘ ‘I can round you up a crowd tonight,’ Jake said.
‘How?’
‘Give me your pretty colored chalk. I promise a big crowd.’
‘I’ve seen your signs,’ Simms said. ‘‘Workers! America Is the Richest Country in the World Yet a Third of Us Are Starving. When Will We Unite and Demand Our Share?’--all that. Your signs are radical. I wouldn’t let you use my chalk.’
‘But I don’t plan to write signs.’ Simms fingered the pages of his Bible and waited suspiciously.
‘Til get you a fine crowd. On the pavements at each end of the block I’ll draw you some good-looking naked floozies. All in color with arrows to point the way. Sweet, plump, bare-tailed--’
‘Babylonian!’ the old man screamed. ‘Child of Sodom! God will remember this.’
Jake crossed over to the other sidewalk and started toward the house where he lived. ‘So long, Brother.’
‘Sinner,’ the old man called. ‘You come back here at seven-fifteen sharp. And hear the message from Jesus that will give you faith. Be saved.’
Singer was dead. And the way he had felt when he first heard that he had killed himself was not sad--it was angry. He was before a wall. He remembered all the innermost thoughts that he had told to Singer, and with his death it seemed to him that they were lost. And why had Singer wanted to end his life? Maybe he had gone insane. But anyway he was dead, dead, dead. He could not be seen or touched or spoken to, and the room where they had spent so many hours had been rented to a girl who worked as a typist. He could go there no longer. He was alone.
A wall, a flight of stairs, an open road.
Jake locked the door of his room behind him. He was hungry and there was nothing to eat. He was thirsty and only a few drops of warm water were left in the pitcher by the table. The bed was unmade and dusty fluff had accumulated on the floor.
Papers were scattered all about the room, because recently he had written many short notices and distributed them through the town. Moodily he glanced at one of the papers labeled ‘The T.W.O.C. Is Your Best Friend.’ Some of the notices consisted of only one sentence, others were longer. There was one full-page manifesto entitled ‘The Affinity Between Our Democracy and, Fascism.’
For a month he had worked on these papers, scribbling them during working hours, typing and making carbons on the typewriter at the New York Cafe, distributing them by hand.
He had worked day and night. But who read them? What good had any of it done? A town this size was too big for any one man. And now he was leaving.