carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第10章

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From　behind　the　closed　door　of　the　next　room　she　could　hear　
the　sound　of　voices；　and　she　decided　to　go　inside。　
Hazel　and　Etta　stopped　talking　when　they　saw　her。　Etta　was　
sitting　in　the　chair　by　the　window；　painting　her　toe…nails　with　
the　red　polish。　Her　hah…　was　done　up　in　steel　rollers　and　there　
was　a　white　dab　of　face　cream　on　a　little　place　under　her　chin　
where　a　pimple　had　come　out。　Hazel　was　flopped　out　lazy　on　
the　bed　as　usual。　'What　were　you　all　jawing　about？'　It's　none　of　
your　nosy　business；'　Etta　said。　'Just　you　hush　up　and　leave　us　
alone。'　
'It's　my　room　just　as　much　as　it　is　either　one　of　yours。　I　have　as　
good　a　right　hi　here　as　you　do。'　Mick　strutted　from　one　corner　
to　the　other　until　she　had　covered　all　the　floor　space。　'But　then　
I　don't　care　anything　about　picking　any　fight。　All　I　want　are　
my　own　rights。'　


Mick　brushed　back　her　shaggy　bangs　with　the　palm　of　her　
hand。　She　had　done　this　so　often　that　there　was　a　little　row　of　
cowlicks　above　her　forehead。　She　quivered　her　nose　and　made　
faces　at　herself　in　the　mirror。　Then　she　began　walking　around　
the　room　again。　
Hazel　and　Etta　were　O。K。　as　far　as　sisters　went。　But　Etta　was　
like　she　was　full　of　worms。　All　she　thought　about　was　movie　
stars　and　getting　in　the　movies。　Once　she　had　

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written　to　Jeanette　MacDonald　and　had　got　a　typewritten　letter　
back　saying　that　if　ever　she　came　out　to　Hollywood　she　could　
come　by　and　swim　in　her　swimming　pool。　And　ever　since　that　
swimming　pool　had　been　preying　on　Etta's　mind。　All　she　
thought　about　was　going　to　Hollywood　when　she　could　scrape　
up　the　bus　fare　and　getting　a　job　as　a　secretary　and　being　
buddies　with　Jeanette　MacDonald　and　getting　in　the　movies　
herself。　
She　primped　all　the　day　long。　And　that　was　the　bad　part。　Etta　
wasn't　naturally　pretty　like　Hazel。　The　main　thing　was　she　
didn't　have　any　chin。　She　would　pull　at　her　jaw　and　go　through　
a　lot　of　chin　exercises　she　had　read　in　ft　movie　book。　She　was　
always　looking　at　her　side　profile　in　the　mirror　and　trying　to　
keep　her　mouth　set　in　a　certain　way。　But　it　didn't　do　any　good。　
Sometimes　Etta　would　hold　her　face　with　her　hands　and　cry　hi　
the　night　about　it。　
Hazel　was　plain　lazy。　She　was　good…looking　but　thick　in　the　
head。　She　was　eighteen　years　old；　and　next　to　Bill　she　was　the　
oldest　of　all　the　kids　in　the　family。　Maybe　that　was　the　trouble。　
She　got　the　first　and　biggest　share　of　everything—the　first　
whack　at　the　new　clothes　and　the　biggest　part　of　any　special　
treat。　Hazel　never　had　to　grab　for　anything　and　she　was　soft。　
'Are　you　just　going　to　tramp　around　the　room　all　day？　It　makes　
me　sick　to　see　you　hi　those　silly　boy's　clothes。　Somebody　
ought　to　clamp　down　on　you；　Mick　Kelly；　and　make　you　
behave；'　Etta　said。　
'Shut　up；'　said　Mick。　'I　wear　shorts　because　I　don't　want　to　
wear　your　old　hand…me…downs。　I　don't　want　to　be　like　either　of　
you　and　I　don't　want　to　look　like　either　of　you。　And　I　won't。　
That's　why　I　wear　shorts。　I'd　rather　be　a　boy　any　day；　and　I　
wish　I　could　move　in　with　Bill。'　


Mick　scrambled　under　the　bed　and　brought　out　a　large　hatbox。　
As　she　carried　it　to　the　door　both　of　them　called　after　her；　
'Good　riddance！'　
Bill　had　the　nicest　room　of　anybody　in　the　family。　Like　a　den　
—and　he　had　it　all　to　himself—except　for　Bubber。　Bill　had　
pictures　cut　out　from　magazines　tacked　on　the　walls；　mostly　
faces　of　beautiful　ladies；　and　in　another　corner　were　some　
pictures　Mick　had　painted　last　year　herself　at　the　free　art　class。　
There　was　only　a　bed　and　a　desk　in　the　room。JO　
Bill　was　sitting　hunched　over　the　desk；　reading　Popular　
Mechanics。　She　went　up　behind　him　and　put　her　arms　around　
his　shoulders。　'Hey；　you　old　son…of…a…gun。'　
He　did　not　begin　tussling　with　her　like　he　used　to　do。　。Hey；'　he　
said；　and　shook　his　shoulders　a　little。　
'Will　it　bother　you　if　I　stay　in　here　a　little　while？'　
'Sure—I　don't　mind　if　you　want　to　stay。'　
Mick　knelt　on　the　floor　and　untied　the　string　on　the　big　
hatbox。　Her　hands　hovered　over　the　edge　of　the　lid；　but　for　
some　reason　she　could　not　make　up　her　mind　to　open　it　
'I　been　thinking　about　what　I've　done　on　this　already；'　she　said。　
'And　it　may　work　and　it　may　not。'　
Bill　went　on　reading。　She　still　knelt　over　the　box；　but　did　not　
open　it。　Her　eyes　wandered　over　to　Bill　as　he　sat　with　his　back　
to　her。　One　of　his　big　feet　kept　stepping　on　the　other　as　he　
read。　His　shoes　were　scuffed。　Once　their　Dad　had　said　that　all　
Bill's　dinners　went　to　his　feet　and　his　breakfast　to　one　ear　and　
bis　supper　to　the　other　ear；　that　was　a　sort　of　mean　thing　to　say　
and　Bill　had　been　sour　over　it　for　a　month；　but　it　was　funny。　
His　ears　flared　out　and　were　very　red；　and　though　he　was　just　
out　of　high　school　he　wore　a　size　thirteen　shoe。　He　tried　to　
hide　his　feet　by　scraping　one　foot　behind　the　other　when　he　
stood　up；　but　that　only　made　it　worse。　
Mick　opened　the　box　a　few　inches　and　then　shut　it　again。　She　
felt　too　excited　to　look　into　it　now。　She　got　up　and　walked　
around　the　room　until　she　could　calm　down　a　little。　After　a　
few　minutes　she　stopped　before　the　picture　she　had　painted　at　
the　free　government　art　class　for　school　kids　last　winter。　There　
was　a　picture　of　a　storm　on　the　ocean　and　a　sea　gull　being　
dashed　through　the　air　by　the　wind。　It　was　called　'Sea　Gull　
with　Back　Broken　in　Storm。'　The　teacher　had　described　the　


ocean　during　the　first　two　or　three　lessons；　and　that　was　what　
nearly　everybody　started　with。　Most　of　the　kids　were　like　her；　
though；　and　they　had　never　really　seen　the　ocean　with　their　
own　eyes。　
That　was　the　first　picture　she　had　done　and　Bill　had　tacked　it　
on　his　wall。　All　the　rest　of　her　pictures　were　full　of　people。　
She　had　done　some　more　ocean　storms　at　first　—one　with　an　
airplane　crashing　down　and　people　jumping　out　to　save　
themselves；　and　another　with　a　trans…Atlan

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tic　liner　going　down　and　all　the　people　trying　to　push　and　
crowd　into　one　little　lifeboat。　
Mick　went　into　the　closet　of　Bill's　room　and　brought　out　some　
other　pictures　she　had　done　in　the　class—some　pencil　
drawings；　some　water…colors；　and　one　canvas　with　oils。　They　
were　all　full　of　people。　She　had　imagined　a　big　fire　on　Broad　
Street　and　painted　how　she　thought　it　would　be。　The　flames　
were　bright　green　and　orange　and　Mr。　Bran…non's　restaurant　
and　the　First　National　Bank　were　about　the　only　buildings　left。　
People　were　lying　dead　in　the　streets　and　others　were　running　
for　their　lives。　One　man　was　in　his　nightshirt　and　a　lady　was　
trying　to　carry　a　bunch　of　bananas　with　her。　Another　picture　
was　called　'Boiler　Busts　in　Factory；'　and　men　were　jumping　
out　of　windows　and　running　while　a　knot　of　kids　in　overalls　
stood　scrouged　together；　holding　the　buckets　of　dinner　they　
had　brought　to　their　Daddies。　The　oil　painting　was　a　picture　of　
the　whole　town　fighting　on　Broad　Street。　She　never　knew　why　
she　had　painted　this　one　and　she　couldn't　think　of　the　right　
name　for　it。　There　wasn't　any　fire　or　storm　or　reason　you　could　
see　in　the　picture　why　all　this　battle　was　happening。　But　there　
were　more　people　and　more　moving　around　than　in　any　other　
picture。　This　was　the　best　one；　and　it　was　too　bad　that　she　
couldn't　think　up　the　real　name。　In　the　back　of　her　mind　
somewhere　she　knew　what　it　was。　
Mick　put　the　picture　back　on　the　closet　shelf。　None　of　them　
were　any　good　much。　The　people　didn't　have　fingers　and　some　
of　the　arms　were　longer　than　the　legs。　The　class　had　been　fun；　
though。　But　she　had　just　drawn　whatever　came　into　her　head　
without　reason—and　in　her　heart　it　didn't　give　her　near　the　


same　feeling　that　music　did。　Nothing　was　really　as　good　as　
music。　
Mick　knelt　down　on　the　floor　and　quickly　lifted　the　top　of　the　
big　hatbox。　Inside　was　a　cracked　ukulele　strung　with　two　
violin　strings；　a　guitar　string　and　a　banjo　string。　The　crack　on　
the　back　of　the　ukulele　had　been　neatly　mended　with　sticking　
plaster　and　the　round　hole　in　the　middle　was　covered　by　a　
piece　of　wood。　The　bridge　of　a　violin　held　up　the　strings　at　the　
end　and　some　sound…holes　had　been　carved　on　either　side。　
Mick　was　making　herself　a　violin。　She　held　the　vi