The Heart is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers [36]
But with this tall, thin white man with the gray-green eyes something had happened that had never happened to him with any white man before.
It came about on a dark, rainy night several weeks ago. He had just come from a maternity case and was standing in the rain on a corner. He had tried to light a cigarette and one by one the matches in his box fizzled out. He had been standing with the unlighted cigarette in his mouth when the white man stepped up and held for him a lighted match. In the dark with the flame between them they could see each other’s faces. The white man smiled at him and lighted for him his cigarette. He did not know what to say, for nothing like that had ever happened to him before.
They had stood for a few minutes on the street corner together, and then the white man had handed him his card. He wanted to talk to the white man and ask him some questions, but he did not know for sure if he could really understand.
Because of the insolence of all the white race he was afraid to lose his dignity in friendliness.
But the white man had lighted his cigarette and smiled and seemed to want to be with him. Since then he had thought this over many times.
‘I have a deaf-mute patient,’ said Doctor Copeland to Portia.
The patient is a boy five years of age. And somehow I cannot get over the feeling that I am to blame for his handicap. I delivered him, and after two post-delivery visits of course I forgot about him. He developed ear trouble, but the mother paid no attention to the discharges from his ears and did not bring him to me. When it was finally brought to my attention it was too late. Of course he hears nothing and of course he therefore cannot speak. But I have watched him carefully, and it seems to me that if he were normal he would be a very intelligent child.’
‘You always had a great interest in little children,’ said Portia. ‘You care a heap more about them than about grown peoples, don’t you?’
‘There is more hope in the young child,’ said Doctor Copeland. ‘But this deaf boy--I have been meaning to. make inquiries and find if there is some institution that would take him.’
‘Mr. Singer would tell you. He a truly kind white man and he not a bit biggity.’
‘I do not know--’ said Doctor Copeland. ‘I have thought once or twice about writing him a note and seeing if he could give me information.’
‘Sure I would if I was you. You a grand letter-writer and I would give it to Mr. Singer for you,’ said Portia. ‘He come down in the kitchen two-three weeks ago with a few shirts he wanted me to rinse out for him. Them shirts were no more dirty than if Saint John the Baptist hisself had been wearing them. All I had to do were dip them in warm water and give the collars a small rub and press them. But that night when I taken them five clean shirts up to his room you know how much he give me?’
‘No.’
‘He smile like he always do and hand over to me a dollar. A whole dollar just for them little shirts. He one really kind and pleasant white man and I wouldn’t be afraid to ask him any question. I wouldn’t even mind writing that nice white man a letter myself. You go right ahead and do it, Father, if you wants to.’
‘Perhaps I will,’ said Doctor Copeland.
Portia sat up suddenly and began arranging her tight, oily hair.
There was the faint sound of a harmonica and then gradually the music grew louder. ‘Here come Willie and Highboy,’ Portia said. ‘I got to go out now and meet them. You take care of yourself now, and send me a word if you needs me for anything. I did enjoy the supper with you and the talking very much.’
The music from the harmonica was very clear now, and they could tell that Willie was playing while he waited at the front gate.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Doctor Copeland. ‘I have only seen your husband with you about two times and I believe we have never really met each other. And it has been three years since William has visited his father. Why not tell them to drop in for a little while?