An all night long I heard you murmurin that devilish word. They thought
I didnt hear y, but I did. Mumblin, feedin that ornery thing thats
livin on my insides. Father John. Father of Satan, more likely. What
does it mean t you? Youre dead already. Death. What does it mean t you?
To you who died way back there in th ’sixties. What are y throwin it
in my throat for? Whats it goin t get y? A good smashin in th mouth,
thats what. My fist’ll sink int y black mush face clear t y guts—if y
got any. Dont believe y have. Never seen signs of none. Death. Death.
Sin an Death. All night long y mumbled death. (He forgets the old man
as his mind begins to play with the word and its associations.) Death
... these clammy floors ... just like th place they used t stow away th
worn-out, no-count niggers in th days of slavery ... that was long ago;
not so long ago ... no windows (he rises higher on his elbows to verify
this assertion. He looks around, and, seeing no one but the old man,
calls.) Halsey! Halsey! Gone an left me. Just like a nigger. I thought
he was a nigger all th time. Now I know it. Ditch y when it comes right
down t it. Damn him anyway. Godam him. (He looks and re-sees the old
man.) Eh, you? T hell with you too. What do I care whether you can see
or hear? You know what hell is cause youve been there. Its a feelin an
its ragin in my soul in a way that’ll pop out of me an run you through,
an scorch y, an burn an rip your soul. Your soul. Ha. Nigger soul. A
gin soul that gets drunk on a preacher’s words. An screams. An shouts.
God Almighty, how I hate that shoutin. Where’s th beauty in that? Gives
a buzzard a windpipe an I’ll bet a dollar t a dime th buzzard ud beat
y to it. Aint surprisin th white folks hate y so. When you had eyes,
did you ever see th beauty of th world? Tell me that. Th hell y did.
Now dont tell me. I know y didnt. You couldnt have. Oh, I’m drunk an
just as good as dead, but no eyes that have seen beauty ever lose their
sight. You aint got no sight. If you had, drunk as I am, I hope Christ
will kill me if I couldnt see it. Your eyes are dull and watery, like
fish eyes. Fish eyes are dead eyes. Youre an old man, a dead fish man,
an black at that. Theyve put y here t die, damn fool y are not t know
it. Do y know how many feet youre under ground? I’ll tell y. Twenty.
An do y think you’ll ever see th light of day again, even if you wasnt
blind? Do y think youre out of slavery? Huh? Youre where they used t
throw th worked-out, no-count slaves. On a damp clammy floor of a dark
scum-hole. An they called that an infirmary. Th sons-a... Why I can
already see you toppled off that stool an stretched out on th floor
beside me—not beside me, damn you, by yourself, with th flies buzzin
an lickin God knows what they’d find on a dirty, black, foul-breathed
mouth like yours...
Some one is coming down the stairs. Carrie, bringing food for the old
man. She is lovely in her fresh energy of the morning, in the calm
untested confidence and nascent maternity which rise from the purpose
of her present mission. She walks to within a few paces of Kabnis.
Carrie K.: Brother says come up now, brother Ralph.
Kabnis: Brother doesnt know what he’s talkin bout.
Carrie K.: Yes he does, Ralph. He needs you on th wagon.
Kabnis: He wants me on th wagon, eh? Does he think some wooden thing
can lift me up? Ask him that.
Carrie K.: He told me t help y.
Kabnis: An how would you help me, child, dear sweet little sister?
She moves forward as if to aid him.
Carrie K.: I’m not a child, as I’ve more than once told you, brother
Ralph, an as I’ll show you now.
Kabnis: Wait, Carrie. No, thats right. Youre not a child. But twont do
t lift me bodily. You dont understand. But its th soul of me that needs
th risin.
Carrie K: Youre a bad brother an just wont listen t me when I’m tellin
y t go t church.
Kabnis doesnt hear her. He breaks down and talks to himself.
Kabnis: Great God Almighty, a soul like mine cant pin itself onto a
wagon wheel an satisfy itself in spinnin round. Iron prongs an hickory
sticks, an God knows what all ... all right for Halsey ... use him. Me?
I get my life down in this scum-hole. Th old man an me—
Carrie K.: Has he been talkin?
Kabnis: Huh? Who? Him? No. Dont need to. I talk. An when I really talk,
it pays th best of them t listen. Th old man is a good listener. He’s
deaf; but he’s a good listener. An I can talk t him. Tell him anything.
Carrie K.: He’s deaf an blind, but I reckon he hears, an sees too, from
th things I’ve heard.
Kabnis: No. Cant. Cant I tell you. How’s he do it?
Carrie K.: Dunno, except I’ve heard that th souls of old folks have a
way of seein things.
Kabnis: An I’ve heard them call that superstition.
The old man begins to shake his head slowly. Carrie and Kabnis watch
him, anxiously. He mumbles. With a grave motion his head nods up and
down. And then, on one of the down-swings—
Father John (remarkably clear and with great conviction): Sin.
He repeats this word several times, always the downward nodding.
Surprised, indignant, Kabnis forgets that Carrie is with him.
Kabnis: Sin! Shut up. What do you know about sin, you old black
bastard. Shut up, an stop that swayin an noddin your head.
Father John: Sin.
Kabnis tries to get up.
Kabnis: Didnt I tell y t shut up?
Carrie steps forward to help him. Kabnis is violently shocked at her
touch. He springs back.
Kabnis: Carrie! What .. how .. Baby, you shouldnt be down here. Ralph
says things. Doesnt mean to. But Carrie, he doesnt know what he’s
talkin about. Couldnt know. It was only a preacher’s sin they knew in
those old days, an that wasnt sin at all. Mind me, th only sin is whats
done against th soul. Th whole world is a conspiracy t sin, especially
in America, an against me. I’m th victim of their sin. I’m what sin
is. Does he look like me? Have you ever heard him say th things youve
heard me say? He couldnt if he had th Holy Ghost t help him. Dont look
shocked, little sweetheart, you hurt me.
Father John: Sin.
Kabnis: Aw, shut up, old man.
Carrie K.: Leave him be. He wants t say somethin. (She turns to the old
man.) What is it, Father?
Kabnis: Whatsha talkin t that old deaf man for? Come away from him.
Carrie K.: What is it, Father?
The old man’s lips begin to work. Words are formed incoherently.
Finally, he manages to articulate—
Father John: Th sin whats fixed... (Hesitates.)
Carrie K. (restraining a comment from Kabnis): Go on, Father.
Father John: ... upon th white folks—
Kabnis: Suppose youre talkin about that bastard race thats roamin round
th country. It looks like sin, if thats what y mean. Give us somethin
new an up t date.
Father John:—f tellin Jesus—lies. O th sin th white folks ’mitted
when they made th Bible lie.
Boom. Boom. BOOM! Thuds on the floor above. The old man sinks back into
his stony silence. Carrie is wet-eyed. Kabnis, contemptuous.
Kabnis: So thats your sin. All these years t tell us that th white
folks made th Bible lie. Well, I’ll be damned. Lewis ought t have been
here. You old black fakir—
Carrie K.: Brother Ralph, is that your best Amen?
She turns him to her and takes his hot cheeks in her firm cool hands.
Her palms draw the fever out. With its passing, Kabnis crumples. He
sinks to his knees before her, ashamed, exhausted. His eyes squeeze
tight. Carrie presses his face tenderly against her. The suffocation of
her fresh starched dress feels good to him. Carrie is about to lift her
hands in prayer, when Halsey, at the head of the stairs, calls down.
Halsey: Well, well. Whats up? Aint you ever comin? Come on. Whats up
down there? Take you all mornin t sleep off a pint? Youre weakenin,
man, youre weakenin. Th axle an th beam’s all ready waitin f y. Come on.
Kabnis rises and is going doggedly towards the steps. Carrie notices
his robe. She catches up to him, points to it, and helps him take it
off. He hangs it, with an exaggerated ceremony, on its nail in the
corner. He looks down on the tousled beds. His lips curl bitterly.
Turning, he stumbles over the bucket of dead coals. He savagely jerks
it from the floor. And then, seeing Carrie’s eyes upon him, he swings
the pail carelessly and with eyes downcast and swollen, trudges
upstairs to the work-shop. Carrie’s gaze follows him till he is gone.
Then she goes to the old man and slips to her knees before him. Her
lips murmur, “Jesus, come.”
Light streaks through the iron-barred cellar window. Within its soft
circle, the figures of Carrie and Father John.
Outside, the sun arises from its cradle in the tree-tops of the
forest. Shadows of pines are dreams the sun shakes from its eyes. The
sun arises. Gold-glowing child, it steps into the sky and sends a
birth-song slanting down gray dust streets and sleepy windows of the
southern town.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes:
- Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
- Blank pages have been removed.
- Redundant title page removed.
- Silently corrected a few typographical errors.
- Otherwise spelling and hyphenation left unchanged.
- Ellipses period counts left unchanged.