‘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?’
Portia stood in the doorway, fingering her hair and her earrings.
‘Last time Willie come in here you hurted his feelings. You see you don’t understand just how--’
‘Very well,’ said Doctor Copeland. ‘it was only a suggestion.’
‘Wait,’ said Portia. ‘I going to call them. I going to invite them in right now.’
Doctor Copeland lighted a cigarette and walked up and down the room. He could not straighten his glasses to just the right position and his fingers kept trembling. From the front yard there was the sound of low voices. Then heavy footsteps were in the hall and Portia, William, and Highboy entered the kitchen.
‘Here we is,’ said Portia. ‘Highboy, I don’t believe you and my Father has ever truly been introduced to each other. But you knows who each other is.’
Doctor Copeland shook hands with both of them. Willie hung back shyly against the wall, but Highboy stepped forward and bowed formally. ‘I has always heard so much about you,’ he said. ‘I be very pleased to make your acquaintance.’
Portia and Doctor Copeland brought in chairs from the hall and the four of them sat around the stove. They were silent and uneasy. Willie gazed nervously around the room--at the books on the kitchen table, the sink, the cot against the wall, and at his father. Highboy grinned and picked at his tie.
Doctor Copeland seemed about to speak, and then he wet his lips and was still silent.
‘Willie, you were going pretty good with your harp,’ said Portia finally. ‘Look to me like you and Highboy must of got into somebody’s gin bottle.’
‘No, ma’am,’ said Highboy very politely. ‘Us haven’t had anything since Saturday. Us have just been enjoying our horseshoe game.’
Doctor Copeland still did not speak, and they all kept glancing at him and waiting. The room was close and the quietness made everyone nervous.
‘I do haves the hardest time with them boys’ clothes,’ Portia said. ‘I washes both of them white suits ever Saturday and I presses them twice a week. And look at them now. Course they don’t wear them except when they gets home from work. But after two days they seems to be potty black. I ironed them pants just last night and now there not a crease left.’
Still Doctor Copeland was silent. He kept his eyes on his son’s face, but when Willie noticed this he bit his rough, blunt fingers and stared at his feet. Doctor Copeland felt his pulse hammering at his wrists and temples. He coughed and held his fist to his chest. He wanted to speak to his son, but he could think of nothing to say. The old bitterness came up in him and he did not have time to cogitate and push it down. His pulse hammered in him and he was confused. But they all looked at him, and the silence was so strong that he had to speak.
His voice was high and it did not sound as though it came from himself. ‘William, I wonder how much of all the things I have said to you when you were a child have stayed in your mind.’
‘I don’t know what you m-m-means,’ Willie said.
The words came before Doctor Copeland knew what he would say. ‘I mean that to you and Hamilton and Karl Marx I gave all that was in me. And I put all of my trust and hope in you. And all I get is blank misunderstanding and idleness and indifference. Of all I have put in nothing has remained. All has been taken away from me. All that I have tried to do--’
‘Hush,’ said Portia. ‘Father, you promised me that us would not quarrel. This here is crazy. Us can’t afford to quarrel.’
Portia got up and started toward the front door. Willie and Highboy followed quickly. Doctor Copeland was the last to come.
They stood in the dark before the front door. Doctor Copeland tried to speak, but his voice seemed lost some--.. where deep inside him. Willie and Portia and Highboy stood in a group together.
With one arm Portia held to her husband and brother and with the other she reached out to Doctor Copeland. ‘Less us all make up now before us goes. I can’t stand this here fighting between us. Less us not ever quarrel no more.’
In silence Doctor Copeland shook hands again with each of them. ‘I am sorry,’ he said.
‘It quite all right with me,’ said Highboy politely.
‘It quite all right with me too,’ Willie mumbled.
Portia held all of their hands together. ‘Us just can’t afford to quarrel.’
They said goodbye, and Doctor Copeland watched them from the dark front porch as they went together up the street. Their footsteps as they walked away had a lonesome sound and he felt weak and tired. When they were a block away William began playing his harmonica again. The music was sad and empty. He stayed on the. front porch until he could neither see nor hear them any longer.
Doctor Copeland turned off the lights in his house and sat in the dark before the stove. But peace would not come to him.
He wanted to remove Hamilton and Karl Marx and William from his mind. Each word that Portia had said to him came back in a loud, hard way to his memory. He got up suddenly and turned on the light. He settled himself at the table with his books by Spinoza and William Shakespeare and Karl Marx.
When he read the Spinoza aloud to himself the words had a rich, dark sound.
He thought of the white man of whom they had spoken. It would be good if the white man could help him with Augustus Benedict Mady Lewis, the deaf patient. It would be good to write to the white man even if he did not have this reason and these questions to ask. Doctor Copeland held his head in his hands and from his throat there came the strange sound like a kind of singing moan. He remembered the white man’s face when he smiled behind the yellow match flame on that rainy night--and peace was in him.
BY MIDSUMMER Singer had visitors more often than any other person in the house. From his room in the evening there was nearly always the sound of a voice. After dinner at the New York Cafe he bathed and dressed himself in one of his cool wash suits and as a rule did not go out again.
The room was cool and pleasant. He had an icebox in the closet where he kept bottles of cold beer and fruit drinks. He was never busy or in a hurry. And always he met his guests at the door with a welcome smile.
Mick loved to go up to Mister Singer’s room. Even if he was a deaf-and-dumb mute he understood every word she said to him. Talking with him was like a game. Only there was a whole lot more to it than any game. It was like finding out new things about music. She would tell him some of her plans that she would not tell anybody else. He let her meddle with his cute little chess men. Once when she was excited and caught her shirt-tail in the electric fan he acted in such a kindly way that she was not embarrassed at all. Except for her Dad, Mister Singer was the nicest man she knew.