by James Agee
Darkness said: When is this meeting, child, where are we, who are you, child, who are you, do you know who you are, do you know who you are, child; are you?
He knew that he would never know, though memory, almost captured, unrecapturable, unbearably tormented him. That this little boy whom he inhabited was only the cruelest of deceits. That he was but the nothingness of nothingness, condemned by some betrayal, condemned to be aware of nothingness. That yet in that desolation, he was not without companions. For featureless on the abyss, invincible, moved monstrous intuitions. And from the depth and wide throat of eternity burned the cold, delirious chuckle of rare monsters beyond rare monsters, cruelty beyond cruelty.
Darkness said: Under my sheltering: in my great sheltering.
In the corner, not quite possible to detach from the darkness, a creature increased, which watched him.
Darkness said: You hear the man you call your father: how can you ever fear?
Under the washstand, carefully, something moved.
You hear the woman who thinks you are her child.
Beneath his prostrate head, eternity opened.
Hear how he laughs at you; in what amusement she agrees.
The curtain sighed as powers unspeakable passed through it.
Darkness purred with delight and said: What is this change your eye betrays?
Only a moment ago, I was your friend, or so you claimed; why this sudden loss of love?
Only a moment ago you were all eagerness to know my secrets; where is your hunger now?
Only be steadfast: for now, my dear, my darling, the moment comes when hunger and love will be forever satisfied.
And darkness, smiling, leaned ever more intimately inward upon him, laid open the huge, ragged mouth- Ahhhhh…!
Child, child, why do you betray me so?
Come near. Come very near.
Ohhhhhh…!
Must you be naughty? It would grieve me terribly to have to force you.
You know that you can never get away: you don't even want to get away.
But with that, the child was torn into two creatures, of whom one cried out for his father.
The shadows lay where they belonged, and he lay shaken in his tears. He saw the window; waited.
Still the cricket struck his chisel; the voices persisted, placid as bran.
But behind his head, in that tall shadow which his eyes could never reach, who could dare dream what abode its moment?
The voices chafed, untroubled: grumble and babble.
He cried out again more fiercely for his father.
There seemed a hollowing in the voices, as if they crossed a high trestle.
Serenely the curtain dilated, serenely failed.
The shadows lay where they belonged, but strain as he might, he could not descry what lay in the darkest of them.
The voices relaxed into their original heartlessness.
He swiftly turned his head and stared through the bars at the head of the crib. He could not see what stood there. He swiftly turned again. Whatever it might be had dodged, yet more swiftly: stood once more, still, forever, beyond and behind his hope of seeing.
He saw the basin and that it was only itself; but its eye was wicked ice.
Even the sugar curtains were evil, a senselessly fumbling mouth; and the leaves, wavering, stifled their tree like an infestation.
Near the window, a stain on the wallpaper, pale brown, a serpent shape.
Deadly, the opposite window returned his staring.
The cricket cherished what avaricious secret: patiently sculptured what effigy of dread?
The voices buzzed, pleased and oblivious as locusts. They cared nothing for him.
He screamed for his father.
And now the voices changed. He heard his father draw a deep breath and lock it against his palate, then let it out harshly against the bones of his nose in a long snort of annoyance. He heard the Morris chair creak as his father stood up and he heard sounds from his mother which meant that she was disturbed by his annoyance and that she would see to him, Jay; his uncle and his aunt made quick, small, attendant noises and took no further part in the discussion and his father's voice, somewhat less unkind than the snort and the way he had gotten from his chair but still annoyed, saying, "No, he hollered for me, I'll see to him"; and heard his mastering, tired approach. He was afraid, for he was no longer deeply frightened, he was grateful for the evidence of tears.
The room opened full of gold, his father stooped through the door and closed it quietly; came quietly to the crib. His face was kind.
"Wuzza matter?" he asked, teasing gently, his voice at its deepest.
"Daddy," the child said thinly. He sucked the phlegm from his nose and swallowed it.
His voice raised a little. "Why, what's the trouble with my little boy," he said and fumbled and got out his handkerchief. "What's the trouble! What's he crine about!" The harsh cloth smelt of tobacco; with his fingertips, his father removed crumbs of tobacco from the child's damp face.
"Blow," he said. "You know your mamma don't like you to swallah that stuff." He felt the hand strong beneath his head and a sob overtook him as he blew.
"Why, what's wrong?" his father exclaimed; and now his voice was entirely kind. He lifted the child's head a little more, knelt and looked carefully into his eyes; the child felt the strength of the other hand, covering his chest, patting gently. He endeavored to make a little more of his sobbing than came out, but the moment had departed.
"Bad dream?"
He shook his head, no.
"Then what's the trouble?"
He looked at his father.
"Feared a-fraid of the dark?"
He nodded; he felt tears on his eyes.
"Nooooooooo," his father said, pronouncing it like do. "You're a big boy now. Big boys don't get skeered of a little dark. Big boys don't cry. Where's the dark that skeered you? Is it over here?" With his head he indicated the darkest corner. The child nodded. He strode over, struck a match on the seat of his pants.
Nothing there.
"Nothing there that oughtn't to be… Under here?" He indicated the bureau. The child nodded, and began to suck at his lower lip. He struck another match, and held it under the bureau, then under the washstand.
Nothing there. There either.
"Nothing there but an old piece a baby-soap. See?" He held the soap close where the child could smell it; it made him feel much younger. He nodded. "Any place else?"
The child turned and looked through the head of the crib; his father struck a match. "Why, there's poor ole Jackie" he said. And sure enough, there he was, deep in the corner.
He blew dust from the cloth dog and offered it to the child. "You want Jackie?"
He shook his head.
"You don't want poor little ole Jackie? So lonesome? Alayin back there in the corner all this time?"
He shook his head.
"Gettin too big for Jackie?"
He nodded, uncertain that his father would believe him.
"Then you're gettin too big to cry."
Poor ole Jackie.
"Pore ole Jackie."
"Pore little ole Jackie, so lonesome."
He reached up for him and took him, and faintly recalled, as he gave him comfort, a multitude of fire-tipped candles (and bristling needles) and a strong green smell, a dog more gaily colored and much larger, over which he puzzled, and his father's huge face, smiling, saying, "It's a dog." His father too remembered how he had picked out the dog with great pleasure and had given it too soon, and here it was now too late. Comforting gave him comfort and a deep yawn, taking him by surprise, was half out of him before he could try to hide it. He glanced anxiously at his father.
"Gettin sleepy, uh?" his father said; it was hardly even a question.
He shook his head.
"Time you did. Time we all got to sleep."
He shook his head.
"You're not skeered any more are you?"
He consi
dered lying, and shook his head.
"Boogee man, all gone, scared away, huh?"
He nodded.
"Now go on to sleep then, son," his father said. He saw that the child very badly did not want him to go away, and realized suddenly that he might have lied about being scared, and he was touched, and put his hand on his son's forehead. "You just don't want to be lonesome," he said tenderly; "just like little ole Jackie. You just don't want to be left alone." The child lay still.
"Tell you what I'll do," his father said, "I'll sing you one song, and then you be a good boy and go on to sleep. Will you do that?" The child pressed his forehead upward against the strong warm hand and nodded.
"What'll we sing?" his father asked.
"Froggy would a wooin go," said the child; it was the longest.
"At's a long one," his father said, "at's a long old song. You won't ever be awake that long, will you?"
He nodded.
"Ah right," said his father; and the child took a fresh hold on Jackie and settled back looking up at him. He sang very low and very quietly: Frog he would a wooin' go uh-hooooo!, Frog he would go wooin' go uh-hooooo, uh-hoooooo, and all about the courting-clothes the frog wore, and about the difficulties and ultimate success of the courtship and what several of the neighbors said and who the preacher would be and what he said about the match, uhhoooo, and finally, what will the weddin supper be uhooooo, catfish balls and sassafras tea uhhoooo, while he gazed at the wall and the child gazed up into his eyes which did not look at him and into the singing face in the dark. Every couple of verses or so the father glanced down, but the child's eyes were as darkly and steadfastly open at the end of the long song as at the beginning, though it was beginning to be an effort for him.
He was amused and pleased. Once he got started singing, he always loved to sing. There were ever so many of the old songs that he knew, which he liked best, and also some of the popular songs; and although he would have been embarrassed if he had been made conscious of it, he also enjoyed the sound of his own voice. "Ain't you asleep yet?" he said, but even the child felt there was no danger of his leaving, and shook his head quite frankly.
"Sing gallon," he said, for he liked the amusement he knew would come into his father's face, though he did not understand it. It came, and he struck up the song, still more quietly because it was a fast, sassy tune that would be likely to wake you up. He was amused because his son had always mistaken the words "gal and" for "gallon," and because his wife and to a less extent her relatives were not entirely amused by his amusement. They felt, he knew, that he was not a man to take the word "gallon" so purely as a joke; not that the drinking had been any sort of problem, for a long time now. He sang.
I got a gallon an a sugarbabe too, my honey, my baby, I got a gallon an a sugarbabe too, my honey, my sweet thing.
I got a gallon an a sugarbabe too, Gal don't love me but my sugarbabe do This mornin, This evenin, So soon.
When they kill a chicken, she saves me the wing, my honey, my baby, When they kill a chicken, she saves me the wing, my honey, my sweet thing, When they kill a chicken, she saves me the wing, my honey Think I'm aworkin ain't adoin a thing This mornin, This evenin, So soon.
Every night about a half past eight, my honey, my baby, Every night about a half past eight, my honey, my sweet thing Every night about a half past eight, my honey Ya find me awaitin at the white folks' gate This mornin, This evenin, So soon.
The child still stared up at him; because there was so little light or perhaps because he was so sleepy, his eyes seemed very dark, although the father knew they were nearly as light as his own. He took his hand away and blew the moisture dry on the child's forehead, smoothed his hair away, and put his hand back: What in the world you doin, Google Eyes? he sang, very slowly, while he and the child looked at each other, What in the world you doin, Google Eyes?
What in the world you doin, Google Eyes?
What in the world you doin, Google Eyes?
His eyes slowly closed, sprang open, almost in alarm, closed again.
Where did you get them great big Google Eyes?
Where did you get them great big Google Eyes?
You're the best there is and I need you in my biz, Where in the world did you get them Google Eyes?
He waited. He took his hand away. The child's eyes opened and he felt as if he had been caught at something. He touched the forehead again, more lightly. "Go to sleep, honey," he said. "Go on to sleep now." The child continued to look up at him and a tune came unexpectedly into his head, and lifting his voice almost to tenor he sang, almost inaudibly: Oh, I hear them train car wheels arumblin, Ann, they're mighty near at hand, I hear that train come arumblin, Come arumblin through the land.
Git on board, little children, Git on board, little children, Git on board, little children, There's room for many and more.
To the child it looked as if his father were gazing oft into a great distance and, looking up into these eyes which looked so far away, he too looked far away: Oh, I look a way down yonder, Ann, uh what dyou reckon I see, A band of shinin angels, A comin' after me.
Git on board, little children, Git on board, little children, Git on board, little children, There's room for many and more.
He did not look down but looked straight on into the wall in silence for a good while, and sang: Oh, every time the sun goes down, There's a dollar saved for Betsy Brown, Sugar Babe.
He looked down. He was almost certain now that the child was asleep. So much more quietly that he could scarcely hear himself, and that the sound stole upon the child's near sleep like a band of shining angels, he went on: There's a good old sayin, as you all know, That you can't track a rabbit when there ain't no snow Sugar Babe.
Here again he waited, his hand listening against the child, for he was so fond of the last verse that he always hated to have to come to it and end it; but it came into his mind and became so desirable to sing that he could resist it no longer: Oh, tain't agoin to rain on, tain't agoin to snow: He felt a strange coldness on his spine, and saw the glistening as a great cedar moved and tears came into his eyes: But the sun's agoin to shine, and the wind's agoin to blow Sugar Babe.
A great cedar, and the colors of limestone and of clay; the smell of wood smoke and, in the deep orange light of the lamp, the silent logs of the walls, his mother's face, her ridged hand mild on his forehead: Don't you fret, Jay, don't you fret. And before his time, before even he was dreamed of in this world, she must have lain under the hand of her mother or her father and they in their childhood under other hands, away on back through the mountains, away on back through the years, it took you right on back as far as you could ever imagine, right on back to Adam, only no one did it for him; or maybe did God?
How far we all come. How far we all come away from ourselves. So far, so much between, you can never go home again. You can go home, it's good to go home, but you never really get all the way home again in your life. And what's it all for? All I tried to be, all I ever wanted and went away for, what's it all for?
Just one way, you do get back home. You have a boy or a girl of your own and now and then you remember, and you know how they feel, and it's almost the same as if you were your own self again, as young as you could remember.
And God knows he was lucky, so many ways, and God knows he was thankful. Everything was good and better than he could have hoped for, better than he ever deserved; only, whatever it was and however good it was, it wasn't what you once had been, and had lost, and could never have again, and once in a while, once in a long time, you remembered, and knew how far you were away, and it hit you hard enough, that little while it lasted, to break your heart.
He felt thirsty, and images of stealthiness and deceit, of openness, anger and pride, immediately possessed him, and immediately he fought them off. If ever I get drunk again, he told himself proudly, I'll kill myself. And there are plenty good reasons why I won't kill myself. So I won't even get drunk again.
He felt consci
ously strong, competent both for himself and against himself, and this pleasurable sense of firmness contended against the perfect and limpid remembrance he had for a moment experienced, and he tried sadly, vainly, to recapture it. But now all that he remembered, clear as it was to him, and dear to him, no longer moved his heart, and he was in this sadness, almost without thought, staring at the wall, when the door opened softly behind him and he was caught by a spasm of rage and alarm, then of shame for these emotions.
"Jay," his wife called softly. "Isn't he asleep yet?"
"Yeah, he's asleep," he said, getting up and dusting his knees. "Reckon it's later than I knew."
"Andrew and Amelia had to go," she whispered, coming over. She leaned past him and straightened the sheet. "They said tell you good night." She lifted the child's head with one hand, while her husband, frowning, vigorously shook his head; "It's all right, Jay, he's sound asleep;" she smoothed the pillow, and drew away: "They were afraid if they disturbed you they might wake Rufus."
"Gee. I'm sorry not to see them. Is it so late?"
"You must have been in here nearly an hour! What was the matter with him?"
"Bad dream, I reckon; fraid of the dark."
"He's all right? Before he went to sleep, I mean?"
"Sure, he's all right." He pointed at the dog. "Look what I found."
"Goodness sake, where was it?"
"Back in the corner, under the crib."
"Well shame on me! But Jay, it must be awfully dirty!"
"Naww; I dusted it off."
She said, shyly, "I'll be glad when I can stoop again."
He put his hand on her shoulder. "So will I."
"Jay," she drew away, really offended.
"Honey!" he said, amused and flabbergasted. He put his arm around her. "I only meant the baby! I'll be glad when the baby's here!"