The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter

by Carson McCullers

  ‘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.’

  ‘I wish so, too.’

  ‘How come you so determined to grieve?’

  ‘I just feel that I have failed,’ he said.

  ‘How you mean you done failed?’

  ‘I do not know. Just leave me be, Daughter. Just let me sit here in peace a moment.’

  ‘O.K. But us got to get gone from here pretty soon.’ He would be silent. He would sit quietly and rock in the chair until the sense of order was in him once more. His head trembled and his backbone ached.

  ‘I certainly hope this,’ Portia said. ‘I certainly hope that when I dead and gone as many peoples grieves for me as grieves for Mr. Singer. I sure would like to know I were going to have as sad a funeral as he had and as many peoples--’

  ‘Hush!’ said Doctor Copeland roughly. ‘You talk too much.’

  But truly with the death of that white man a dark sorrow had lain down in his heart. He had talked to him as to no other white man and had trusted him. And the mystery of his suicide had left him baffled and without support. There was neither beginning nor end to this sorrow. Nor understanding. Always he would return in his thoughts to this white man who was not insolent or scornful but who was just. And how can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind? But of all this he must not think. He must thrust it from him now.

  For it was discipline he needed. During the past month the black, terrible feelings had arisen again to wrestle with his spirit. There was the hatred that for days had truly let him down into the regions of death. After the quarrel with Mr. Blount, the midnight visitor, there had been in him a murderous darkness. Yet now he could not clearly recall those issues which were the cause of their dispute. And then the different anger that came in him when he looked on the stumps of Willie’s legs. The warring love and hatred--love for his people and hatred for the oppressors of his people--that left him exhausted and sick in spirit ‘Daughter,’ he said. ‘Get me my watch and coat. I am going.’

  He pushed himself up with the arms of the chair. The floor seemed a far way from his face and after the long time in bed his legs were very weak. For a moment he felt he would fall.

  He walked dizzily across the bare room and stood leaning against the side of the doorway. He coughed and took from his pocket one of the squares of paper to hold over his mouth.

  ‘Here your coat,’ Portia said. ‘But it so hot outside you not going to need it.’

  He walked for the last time through the empty house. The blinds were closed and in the darkened rooms there was the smell of dust. He rested against the wall of the vestibule and then went outside. The morning was bright and warm. Many friends had come to say goodbye the night before and in the very early morning--but now only the family was congregated on the porch. The wagon and the automobile were parked out in the street. ‘Well, Benedict Mady,’ the old man said. ‘I reckon yoa ghy be a little bit homesick these first few days. But won’t be long.’

  ‘I do not have any home. So why should I be homesick? Portia wet her lips nervously and said: ‘He coming back whenever he get good and ready. Buddy will be glad to ride him to town in the car. Buddy just love to drive.’ The automobile was loaded. Boxes of books were tied to the running-board. The back seat was crowded with two chairs and the filing case. His office desk, legs in the air, had been fastened to the top. But although the car was weighted down the wagon was almost empty. The mule stood patiently, a brick tied to his reins. ‘Karl Marx,’ Doctor Copeland said. ‘Look sharp. Go over the house and make sure that nothing is left. Bring the cup I left on the floor and my rocking-chair.’

  ‘Less us get started. I anxious to be home by dinnertime, ‘ Hamilton said. At last they were ready. Highboy cranked the automobile. Karl Marx sat at the wheel and Portia, Highboy, and William were crowded together on the back seat. ‘Father, suppose you set on Highboy’s lap. I believe you be more comfortable than scrouged up here with us and all this furniture.’

  ‘No, it is too crowded. I would rather ride in the wagon.’

  ‘But you not used to the wagon,’ Karl Marx said. ‘It going to be very bumpy and the trip liable to take all day.’

  ‘That does not matter. I have ridden in many a wagon before this.’

  ‘Tell Hamilton to come with us. I sure he rather ride in the automobile.’ Grandpapa had driven the wagon into town the day before. They brought with them a load of produce, peaches and cabbages and turnips, for Hamilton to sell in town. All except a sack of peaches had been marketed. ‘Well, Benedict Mady, I see you riding home with me,’ the old man said. Doctor Copeland climbed into the back of the wagon. He was weary as though his bones were made of lead. His head trembled and a sudden spasm of nausea made him lie down flat on the rough boards.

  ‘I right glad you coming,’ Grandpapa said. ‘You understand I always had deep respect for scholars. Deep respect I able to overlook and forget a good many things if a man be a scholar.

  I very glad to have a scholar like you in the fambly again.’

  The wheels of the wagon creaked. They were on the way. ‘I will return soon,’ Doctor Copeland said. ‘After only a month or two I will return.’

  ‘Hamilton he a right good scholar. I think he favors you some.

  He do all my figuring on paper for me and he read the newspapers. And Whitman I think he ghy be a scholar. Right now he able to read the Bible to me. And do number work.

  Small a child as he is. I always had a deep respect for scholars.’

  The motion of the wagon jolted his back. He looked up at the branches overhead, and then when there was no shade he covered his face with a handkerchief to shield his eyes from the sun. It was not possible that this could be the end. Always he had felt in him the strong, true purpose. For forty years his mission was his life and his life was his mission. And yet all remained to be done and nothing was completed.

  ‘Yes, Benedict Mady, I right glad to have you with us again. I been waiting to ask you about this peculiar feeling in my right foot. A queer feeling like my foot gone to sleep. I taken and rubbed it with liniment. I hoping you will find me a good treatment.’

  ‘I will do what I can.’

  ‘Yes, I glad to have you. I believe in all kinfolks sticking together--blood kin and marriage kin. I believe in all us struggling along and helping each other out, and some day us will have a reward in the Beyond.’

  ‘Pshaw!’ Doctor Copeland said bitterly. ‘I believe in justice now.’

  ‘What that you say you believe in? You speak so hoarse I ain’t able to hear you.’

  ‘In justice for us. Justice for us Negroes!’

  ‘That right.’

  He felt the fire in him and he could not be still. He wanted to sit up and speak in a loud voice-yet when he tried to raise himself he could not find the strength. The words in his heart grew big and they would not be silent But the old man had ceased to listen and there was no one to hear him.

  ‘Git, Lee Jackson. Git, Honey. Pick up your feets and quit this here poking. Us got a long way to go.
’

  Afternoon.

  Jake ran at a violent, clumsy pace. He went through Weavers Lane and then cut into a side alley, climbed a fence, and hastened onward. Nausea rose in his belly so that there was the taste of vomit in his throat. A barking dog chased beside him until he stopped long enough to threaten it with a rock.

  His eyes were wide with horror and he held his hand clapped to his open mouth.

  Christ! So this was the finish. A brawl. A riot. A fight with every man for himself. Bloody heads and eyes cut with broken bottles. Christ! And the wheezy music of the flying jinny above the noise. The dropped hamburgers and cotton candy and the screaming younguns. And him in it all. Fighting blind with the dust and sun. The sharp cut of teeth against his knuckles. And laughing. Christ! And the feeling that he had let loose a wild, hard rhythm in him that wouldn’t stop. And then looking close into the dead black face and not knowing.

  Not even knowing if he had killed or not. But wait. Christ! Nobody could have stopped it.

  Jake slowed and jerked his head nervously to look behind him.

  The alley was empty. He vomited and wiped his mouth and forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. Afterward he rested for a minute and felt better. He had run for about eight blocks and with short cuts there was about half a mile to go. The dizziness cleared in his head so that from all the wild feelings he could remember facts. He started off again, this time at a steady jog.

  Nobody could have stopped it. All through the summer he had stamped them out like sudden fires. All but this one. And this fight nobody could have stopped. It seemed to blaze up out of nothing. He had been working on the machinery of the swings and had stopped to get a glass of water. As he passed across the grounds he saw a white boy and a Negro walking around each other. They were both drunk. Half the crowd was drunk that afternoon, for it was Saturday and the mills had run full time that week. The heat and the sun were sickening and there was a heavy stink in the air.

  He saw the two fighters close in on each other. But he knew that this was not the beginning. He had felt a big fight coming for a long time. And the funny thing was he found time to think of all this. He stood watching for about five seconds before he pushed into the crowd. In that short time he thought of many things. He thought of Singer. He thought of the sullen summer afternoons and the black, hot nights, of all the fights he had broken up and the quarrels he had hushed.

  Then he saw the flash of a pocketknife in the sun. He shouldered through a knot of people and jumped on the back of the Negro who held the knife. The man went down with him and they were on the ground together. The smell of sweat on the Negro was mixed with the heavy dust in his lungs. Someone trampled on his legs and his head was kicked. By the time he got to his feet again the fight had become general. The Negroes were fighting the white men and the white men were fighting the Negroes. He saw clearly, second by second. The white boy who had picked the fight seemed a kind of leader. He was the leader of a gang that came often to the show. They were about sixteen years old and they wore white duck trousers and fancy rayon polo shirts.

  The Negroes fought back as best they could. Some had razors.

  He began to yell out words: Order! Help! Police! But it was like yelling at a breaking dam. There was a terrible sound in his ear--terrible because it was human and yet without words.

  The sound rose to a roar that deafened him. He was hit on the head. He could not see what went on around him. He saw only eyes and mouths and fists--wild eyes and half-closed eyes, wet, loose mouths and clenched ones, black fists and white.

  He grabbed a knife from a hand and caught an upraised fist.

  Then the dust and the sun blinded him and the one thought in his mind was to get out and find a telephone to call for help.

  But he was caught. And without knowing when it happened he piled into the fight himself. He hit out with his fists and felt the soft squish of wet mouths. He fought with his eyes shut and his head lowered. A crazy sound came out of his throat. He hit with all his strength and charged with his head like a bull.

  Senseless words were in his mind and he was laughing. He did not see who he hit and did not know who hit him. But he knew that the line-up of the fight had changed and now each man was for himself.

  Then suddenly it was finished. He tripped and fell over backward. He was knocked out so that it may have been a minute or it may have been much longer before he opened his eyes. A few drunks were still fighting but two dicks were breaking it up fast. He saw what he had tripped over. He lay half on and half beside the body of a young Negro boy. With only one look he knew that he was dead. There was a cut on the side of his neck but it was hard to see how he had died in such a hurry. He knew the face but could not place it. The boy’s mouth was open and his eyes were open in surprise. The ground was littered with papers and broken bottles and trampled hamburgers. The head was broken off one of the jinny horses and a booth was destroyed.

  He was sitting up. He saw the dicks and in a panic he started to run. By now they must have lost his track.

  There were only four more blocks ahead, and then he would be safe for sure. Fear had shortened his breath so that he was winded. He clenched his fists and lowered his head. Then suddenly he slowed and halted. He was alone in an alley near the main street. On one side was the wall of a building and he slumped against it, panting, the corded vein in his forehead inflamed. In his confusion he had run all the way across the town to reach the room of his friend. And Singer was dead. He began to cry. He sobbed aloud, and water dripped down from his nose and wet his mustache.

  A wall, a flight of stairs, a road ahead. The burning sun was like a heavy weight on him. He started back the way he had come. This time he walked slowly, wiping his wet face with the greasy sleeve of his shirt. He could not stop the trembling of his lips and he bit them until he tasted blood.

  At the corner of the next block he ran into Simms. The old codger was sitting on a box with his Bible on his knees. There was a tall board fence behind him, and on it a message was written with purple chalk.

  He Died to Save You Hear the Story of His Love and Grace Every Nite 7:15 P.M. The street was empty. Jake tried to cross over to the other sidewalk, but Simms caught him by the arm. ‘Come, all ye disconsolate and sore of heart. Lay down your sins and troubles before the blessed feet of Him who died to save you. Wherefore goest thou, Brother Blount? ‘ ‘Home to hockey,’ Jake said. ‘I got to hockey. Does the Saviour have anything against that? ‘ ‘Sinner! The Lord remembers all your transgressions. The Lord has a message for you this very night.’

  ‘Does the Lord remember that dollar I gave you last week? ‘ ‘Jesus has a message for you at seven-fifteen tonight. You be here on time to hear His Word.’ Jake licked his mustache. ‘You have such a crowd every night I can’t get up close enough to hear.’

  ‘There is a place for scoffers. Besides, I have had a sign that soon the Saviour wants me to build a house for Him. On that lot at the corner of Eighteenth Avenue and Sixth Street.

  A tabernacle large enough to hold five hundred people. Then you scoffers will see. The Lord prepareth a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; he anoint-eth my head with oil. My cup runneth--‘ ‘I can round you up a crowd tonight,’ Jake said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Give me your pretty colored chalk. I promise a big crowd.’

  ‘I’ve seen your signs,’ Simms said. ‘‘Workers! America Is the Richest Country in the World Yet a Third of Us Are Starving. When Will We Unite and Demand Our Share?’--all that. Your signs are radical. I wouldn’t let you use my chalk.’

  ‘But I don’t plan to write signs.’ Simms fingered the pages of his Bible and waited suspiciously.

  ‘Til get you a fine crowd. On the pavements at each end of the block I’ll draw you some good-looking naked floozies. All in color with arrows to point the way. Sweet, plump, bare-tailed--’

  ‘Babylonian!’ the old man screamed. ‘Child of Sodom! God will remember this.
’

  Jake crossed over to the other sidewalk and started toward the house where he lived. ‘So long, Brother.’

  ‘Sinner,’ the old man called. ‘You come back here at seven-fifteen sharp. And hear the message from Jesus that will give you faith. Be saved.’

  Singer was dead. And the way he had felt when he first heard that he had killed himself was not sad--it was angry. He was before a wall. He remembered all the innermost thoughts that he had told to Singer, and with his death it seemed to him that they were lost. And why had Singer wanted to end his life? Maybe he had gone insane. But anyway he was dead, dead, dead. He could not be seen or touched or spoken to, and the room where they had spent so many hours had been rented to a girl who worked as a typist. He could go there no longer. He was alone.

  A wall, a flight of stairs, an open road.

  Jake locked the door of his room behind him. He was hungry and there was nothing to eat. He was thirsty and only a few drops of warm water were left in the pitcher by the table. The bed was unmade and dusty fluff had accumulated on the floor.

  Papers were scattered all about the room, because recently he had written many short notices and distributed them through the town. Moodily he glanced at one of the papers labeled ‘The T.W.O.C. Is Your Best Friend.’ Some of the notices consisted of only one sentence, others were longer. There was one full-page manifesto entitled ‘The Affinity Between Our Democracy and, Fascism.’

  For a month he had worked on these papers, scribbling them during working hours, typing and making carbons on the typewriter at the New York Cafe, distributing them by hand.

  He had worked day and night. But who read them? What good had any of it done? A town this size was too big for any one man. And now he was leaving.

  But where would it be this time? The names of cities called to him--Memphis, Wilmington, Gastonia, New Orleans. He would go somewhere. But not out of the South. The old restlessness and hunger were in him again. It was different this time. He did not long for open space and freedom--just the reverse. He remembered what the Negro, Copeland, had said to him, ‘Do not attempt to stand alone.’ There were times when that was best.