He told his own name and the name of the town where he lived. After that he could think of nothing else to tell about himself. He asked if they knew Spiros Antonapoulos. They did not know him. Singer stood with his hands dangling loose.
His head was still inclined to one side and his glance was oblique. He was so listless and cold that the three mutes in the bowler hats looked at him queerly. After a while they left him out of their conversation. And when they had paid for the rounds of beers and were ready to depart they did not suggest that he join them.
Although Singer had been adrift on the streets for half a day he almost missed his train. It was not clear to him how this happened or how he had spent the hours before. He reached the station two minutes before the train pulled out, and barely had time to drag his luggage aboard and find a seat. The car he chose was almost empty. When he was settled he opened the crate of strawberries and picked them over with finicky care.
The berries were of a giant size, large as walnuts and in full-blown ripeness. The green leaves at the top of the rich-colored fruit were like tiny bouquets. Singer put a berry in his mouth and though the juice had a lush, wild sweetness there was already a subtle flavor of decay. He ate until his palate was dulled by the taste and then rewrapped the crate and placed it on the rack above him. At midnight he drew the window-shade and lay down on the seat. He was curled in a ball, his coat pulled over his face and head. In this position he lay in a stupor of half-sleep for about twelve hours. The conductor had to shake him when they arrived.
Singer left his luggage in the middle of the station floor. Then he walked to the shop. He greeted the jeweler for whom he worked with a listless turn of his head. When he went out again there was something heavy in his pocket For a while he rambled with bent head along the streets. But the unrefracted brilliance of the sun, the humid heat, oppressed him. He returned to his room with swollen eyes and an aching head. After resting he drank a glass of iced coffee and smoked a cigarette. Then when he had washed the ash tray and the glass he brought out a pistol from his pocket and put a bullet in his chest.
Part Three
August 21, 1939
Morning
‘I WILL not be hurried,’ Doctor Copeland said. ‘Just let me be. Kindly allow me to sit here in peace a moment.’
‘Father, us not trying to rush you. But it time now to get gone from here.’
Doctor Copeland rocked stubbornly, his gray shawl drawn close around his shoulders. Although the morning was warm and fresh, a small wood fire burned in the stove. The kitchen was bare of all furniture except the chair in which he sat. The other rooms were empty, too. Most of the furniture had been moved to Portia’s house, and the rest was tied to the automobile outside. All was in readiness except his own mind. But how could he leave when there was neither beginning nor end, neither truth nor purpose in his thoughts? He put up his hand to steady his trembling head and continued to rock himself slowly in the creaking chair.
Behind the closed door he heard their voices: ‘I done all I can. He determined to sit there till he good and ready to leave.’
‘Buddy and me done wrapped the china plates and--’
‘Us should have left before the dew dried,’ said the old man. ‘As is, night liable to catch us on the road.’
Their voices quieted. Footsteps echoed in the empty hallway and he could hear them no more. On the floor beside him was a cup and saucer. He filled it with coffee from the pot on the top of the stove.
As he rocked he drank the coffee and warmed his fingers in the steam. This could not truly be the end. Other voices called wordless in his heart. The voice of Jesus and of John Brown. The voice of the great Spinoza and of Karl Marx. The calling voices of all those who had fought and to whom it had been vouchsafed to complete their missions. The grief-bound voices of his people. And also the voice of the dead. Of the mute Singer, who was a righteous white man of understanding. The voices of the weak and of the mighty. The , rolling voice of his people growing always in strength and in power. The voice of the strong, true purpose. And in answer the words trembled on his lips--the words which ‘ are surely the root of all human grief--so that he almost said aloud: ‘Almighty Host! Utmost power of the universe! I have done those things which I ought not to have done and left undone those things which I ought to have done.
So this cannot truly be the end.’
He had first come into the house with her whom he loved.
And Daisy was dressed in her bridal gown and wore a white lace veil. Her skin was the beautiful color of dark honey and her laughter was sweet. At night he had shut himself in the bright room to study alone. He had tried to cogitate and to discipline himself to study. But with Daisy near him there was a strong desire in him that would not go away with study. So sometimes he surrendered to these feelings, and again he bit his lips and meditated with the books throughout the night.
And then there were Hamilton and Karl Marx and William and Portia. All lost. No one remained.
And Madyben and Benny Mae. And Benedine Madine and Mady Copeland. Those who carried his name. And those whom he had exhorted. But out of the thousands of them where was there one to whom he could entrust the mission and then take ease? , All of his life he had known it strongly. He had known the reason for his working and was sure in his heart because he knew each day what lay ahead of him. He would go with his bag from house to house, and on all things he would talk to them and patiently explain. And then in the night he would be happy in the knowledge that the day had been a day of purpose. And even without Daisy and Hamilton and Karl Marx and William and Portia he could sit by the stove alone and take joy from this knowledge.
He would drink a pot of turnip-green liquor and eat a pone of cornbread. A deep feeling of satisfaction would be in him because the day was good.
There were thousands of such times of satisfaction. But what had been their meaning? Out of all the years he could think of no work of lasting value.
After a while the door to the hall was opened and Portia came in. ‘I reckon I going to have to dress you like a baby,’ she said.
‘Here your shoes and socks. Let me take off your bedroom shoes and put them on. We got to get gone from here pretty soon.’
‘Why have you done this to me?’ he asked bitterly.
‘What I done to you now?’
‘You know full well that I do not want to leave. You pressed me into saying yes when I was in no fit condition to make a decision. I wish to remain where I have always been, and you know it.’
‘Listen to you carry on!’ Portia said angrily. ‘You done grumbled so much that I nearly worn out. You done fumed and fussed so that I right shamed for you.’
‘Pshaw! Say what you will. You only come before me like a gnat. I know what I wish and will not be pestered into doing that which is wrong.’ Portia took off his bedroom shoes and unrolled a pair of clean black cotton socks. ‘Father, less us quit this here argument. Us have all done the best we know how. It entirely the best plan for you to go out with Grandpapa and Hamilton and Buddy. They going to take good care of you and you going to get well.’
‘No, I will not,’ said Doctor Copeland. ‘But I would have recovered here. I know it.’
‘Who you think could pay the note on this here house? How you think us could feed you? Who you think could take care you here? ‘ ‘I have always managed, and I can manage yet.’
‘You just trying to be contrary.’
‘Pshaw! You come before me like a gnat. And I ignore you.’
‘That certainly is a nice way to talk to me while I trying to put on your shoes and socks.’
‘I am sorry. Forgive me, Daughter.’
‘Course you sorry,’ she said. ‘Course we both sorry. Us can’t afford to quarrel. And besides, once we get you settled on the farm you going to like it. They got the prettiest vegetable garden I ever seen. Make my mouth slobber to think about it. And chickens and two breed sows and eighteen peach trees. You just going to be crazy about it there. I sure do wish it was me could get a chance to go.’