carson mccullers - the heart is a lonely hunter-第48章

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big　kitchen　where　Antonapoulos　had　cooked　all　their　meals。　
Through　the　lighted　window　he　watched　a　woman　move　back　
and　forth　across　the　room。　She　was　large　and　vague　against　
the　light　and　she　wore　an　apron。　A　man　sat　with　the　evening　
newspaper　in　his　hand。　A　child　with　a　slice　of　bread　came　to　
the　window　and　pressed　his　nose　against　the　pane。　Singer　saw　
the　room　just　as　he　had　left176　

it—with　the　large　bed　for　Antonapoulos　and　the　iron　cot　for　
himself；　the　big　overstuffed　sofa　and　the　camp　chair。　The　
broken　sugar　bowl　used　for　an　ash　tray；　the　damp　spot　on　the　
ceiling　where　the　roof　leaked；　the　laundry　box　in　the　corner。　
On　late　afternoons　like　this　there　would　be　no　light　in　the　
kitchen　except　the　glow　from　the　oil…burners　of　the　big　stove。　
Antonapoulos　always　turned　the　wicks　so　that　only　a　ragged　
fringe　of　gold　and　blue　could　be　seen　inside　each　burner。　The　
room　was　warm　and　full　of　the　good　smells　from　the　supper。　
Antonapoulos　tasted　the　dishes　with　his　wooden　spoon　and　
they　drank　glasses　of　red　wine。　On　the　linoleum　rug　before　the　
stove　the　flames　from　the　burners　made　luminous　reflections　
—five　little　golden　lanterns。　As　the　milky　twilight　grew　darker　
these　little　lanterns　were　more　intense；　so　that　when　at　last　the　
night　had　come　they　burned　with　vivid　purity。　Supper　was　
always　ready　by　that　time　and　they　would　turn　on　the　light　and　
draw　their　chairs　to　the　table。　
Singer　looked　down　at　the　dark　front　door。　He　thought　of　them　
going　out　together　in　the　morning　and　coming　home　at　night。　
There　was　the　broken　place　in　the　pavement　where　
Antonapoulos　had　stumbled　once　and　hurt　his　elbow。　There　
was　the　mailbox　where　their　bill　from　the　light　company　came　
each　month。　He　could　feel　the　warm　touch　of　his　friend's　arm　
against　his　fingers。　
The　street　was　dark　now。　He　looked　up　at　the　window　once　
more　and　he　saw　the　strange　woman　and　the　man　and　the　child　


in　a　group　together。　The　emptiness　spread　in　him。　All　was　
gone。　Antonapoulos　was　away；　he　was　not　here　to　remember。　
The　thoughts　of　his　friend　were　somewhere　else。　Singer　shut　
his　eyes　and　tried　to　think　of　the　asylum　and　the　room　that　
Antonapoulos　was　in　tonight。　He　remembered　the　narrow　
white　beds　and　the　old　men　playing　slapjack　in　the　corner。　He　
held　his　eyes　shut　tight；　but　that　room　would　not　become　clear　
in　his　mind。　The　emptiness　was　very　deep　inside　him；　and　
after　a　while　he　glanced　up　at　the　window　once　more　and　
started　down　the　dark　sidewalk　where　they　had　walked　
together　so　many　times。　
It　was　Saturday　night。　The　main　street　was　thick　with　people。　
Shivering　Negroes　in　overalls　loitered　before　the　windows　of　
the　ten…cent　store。　Families　stood　in　line　be

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fore　the　ticket　box　of　the　movie　and　young　boys　and　girls　
stared　at　the　posters　on　display　outside。　The　traffic　from　the　
automobiles　was　so　dangerous　that　he　had　to　wait　a　long　time　
before　crossing　the　street。　
He　passed　the　fruit　store。　The　fruits　were　beautiful　inside　the　
windows—bananas；　oranges；　alligator　pears；　bright　little　
cumquats；　and　even　a　few　pineapples。　But　Charles　Parker　
waited　on　a　customer　inside。　The　face　of　Charles　Parker　was　
very　ugly　to　him。　Several　times　when　Charles　Parker　was　
away　he　had　entered　the　store　and　stood　around　a　long　while。　
He　had　even　gone　to　the　kitchen　in　the　back　where　
Antonapoulos　made　the　candies。　But　he　never　went　into　the　
store　while　Charles　Parker　was　inside。　They　had　both　taken　
care　to　avoid　each　other　since　that　day　when　Antonapoulos　
left　on　the　bus。　When　they　met　in　the　street　they　always　turned　
away　without　nodding。　Once　when　he　had　wanted　to　send　his　
friend　a　jar　of　his　favorite　tupelo　honey　he　had　ordered　it　from　
Charles　Parker　by　mail　so　as　not　to　be　obliged　to　meet　him。　
Singer　stood　before　the　window　and　watched　the　cousin　of　his　
friend　wait　on　a　group　of　customers。　Business　was　always　
good　on　Saturday　night。　Antonapoulos　sometimes　had　to　work　
as　late　as　ten　o'clock。　The　big　automatic　popcorn　popper　was　
near　the　door。　A　clerk　shoved　in　a　measure　of　kernels　and　the　
corn　whirled　inside　the　case　like　giant　flakes　of　snow。　The　


smell　from　the　store　was　warm　and　familiar。　Peanut　hulls　were　
trampled　on　the　floor。　
Singer　passed　on　down　the　street。　He　had　to　weave　his　way　
carefully　in　the　crowds　to　keep　from　being　jostled。　The　streets　
were　strung　with　red　and　green　electric　lights　because　of　the　
holidays。　People　stood　in　laughing　groups　with　their　arms　
about　each　other。　Young　fathers　nursed　cold　and　crying　babies　
on　their　shoulders。　A　Salvation　Army　girl　in　her　red…and…blue　
bonnet　tinkled　a　bell　on　the　corner；　and　when　she　looked　at　
Singer　he　felt　obliged　to　drop　a　coin　into　the　pot　beside　her。　
There　were　beggars；　both　Negro　and　white；　who　held　out　caps　
or　crusty　hands。　The　neon　advertisements　cast　an　orange　glow　
on　the　faces　of　the　crowd。　
He　reached　the　corner　where　he　and　Antonapoulos　had　once　
seen　a　mad　dog　on　an　August　afternoon。　Then　he　passed　the　
room　above　the　Army　and　Navy　Store　where178　

Antonapoulos　had　had　his　picture　taken　every　pay…day。　He　
carried　many　of　the　photographs　in　his　pocket　now。　He　turned　
west　toward　the　river。　Once　they　had　taken　a　picnic　lunch　and　
crossed　the　bridge　and　eaten　in　a　field　on　Hie　other　side。　
Singer　walked　along　the　main　street　for　about　an　hour。　In　all　
the　crowd　he　seemed　the　only　one　alone。　At　last　he　took　out　
his　watch　and　turned　toward　the　house　where　he　lived。　
Perhaps　one　of　the　people　would　come　this　evening　to　his　
room。　He　hoped　so。　
He　mailed　Antonapoulos　a　large　box　of　presents　for　
Christmas。　Also　he　presented　gifts　to　each　of　the　four　people　
and　to　Mrs。　Kelly。　For　all　of　them　together　he　had　bought　a　
radio　and　put　it　on　the　table　by　the　window。　Doctor　Copeland　
did　not　notice　the　radio。　Biff　Brannon　noticed　it　immediately　
and　raised　his　eyebrows。　Jake　Blount　kept　it　turned　on　all　the　
time　he　was　there；　at　the　same　station；　and　as　he　talked　he　
seemed　to　be　shouting　above　the　music；　for　the　veins　stood　out　
on　his　forehead。　Mick　Kelly　did　not　understand　when　she　saw　
the　radio。　Her　face　was　very　red　and　she　asked　him　over　and　
over　if　it　was　really　his　and　whether　she　could　listen。　She　
worked　with　a　dial　for　several　minutes　before　she　got　it　to　the　
place　that　suited　her。　She　sat　leaning　forward　in　her　chair　with　
her　hands　on　her　knees；　her　mouth　open　and　a　pulse　beating　


very　fast　in　her　temple。　She　seemed　to　listen　all　over　to　
whatever　it　was　she　heard。　She　sat　there　the　whole　afternoon；　
and　when　she　grinned　at　him　once　her　eyes　were　wet　and　she　
rubbed　them　with　her　fists。　She　asked　him　if　she　could　come　
in　and　listen　sometimes　when　he　was　at　work　and　he　nodded　
yes。　So　for　the　next　few　days　whenever　he　opened　the　door　he　
found　her　by　the　radio。　Her　hand　raked　through　her　short　
rumpled　hair　and　there　was　a　look　in　her　face　he　had　never　
seen　before。　
One　night　soon　after　Christmas　all　four　of　the　people　chanced　
to　visit　him　at　the　same　time。　This　had　never　happened　before。　
Singer　moved　about　the　room　with　smiles　and　refreshments　
and　did　his　best　in　the　way　of　politeness　to　make　his　guests　
comfortable。　But　something　was　wrong。　
Doctor　Copeland　would　not　sit　down。　He　stood　in　the　

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doorway；　hat　in　hand；　and　only　bowed　coldly　to　the　others。　
They　looked　at　him　as　though　they　wondered　why　he　was　
there。　Jake　Blount　opened　the　beers　he　had　brought　with　him　
and　the　foam　spilled　down　on　his　shirtfront。　Mick　Kelly　
listened　to　the　music　from　the　radio。　Biff　Brannon　sat　on　the　
bed；　his　knees　crossed；　his　eyes　scanning　the　group　before　him　
and　then　becoming　narrow　and　fixed。　
Singer　was　bewildered。　Always　each　of　them　had　so　much　to　
say。　Yet　now　that　they　were　together　they　were　silent。　When　
they　came　in　he　had　expected　an　outburst　of　some　kind。　In　a　
vague　way　he　had　expected　this　to　be　the　end　of　something。　
But　in　the　room　there　was　only　a　feeling　of　strain。　His　hands　
worked　nervously　as　though　they　were　pulling　things　unseen　
from　the　air　and　binding　them　together。　
Jake　Blount　stood　beside　Doctor　Copeland。　'I　know　your　face。　
We　run　into　each　other　once　be