The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter

by Carson McCullers

  Jake moved the bed across the room. On the part of the floor the bed had hidden there were a suitcase and a pile of books and dirty clothes. Impatiently he began to pack. The old Negro’s face was in his mind and some of the words they had said came back to him. Copeland was crazy. He was a fanatic, so that it was maddening to try to reason with him. Still the terrible anger that they had felt that night had been hard to understand. Copeland knew. And those who knew were like a handful of naked soldiers before an armed battalion. And what had they done? They had turned to quarrel with each other.

  Copeland was wrong--yes--he was crazy. But on some points they might be able to work together after all. If they didn’t talk too much. He would go and see him. A sudden urge to hurry came in him. Maybe that would be the best thing after all. Maybe that was the sign, the hand he had so long awaited.

  Without pausing to wash the grime from his face and hands he strapped his suitcase and left the room. Outside the air was sultry and there was a foul odor in the street. Clouds had formed in the sky. The atmosphere was so still that the smoke from a mill in the district went up in a straight, unbroken line.

  As Jake walked the suitcase bumped awkwardly against his knees, and often he jerked his head to look behind him.

  Copeland lived all the way across the town, so there was need to hurry. The clouds in the sky grew steadily denser, and foretold a heavy summer rain before nightfall.

  When he reached the house where Copeland lived he saw that the shutters were drawn. He walked to the back and peered through the window at the abandoned kitchen. A hollow, desperate disappointment made his hands feel sweaty and his heart lose the rhythm of its beat He went to the house on the left but no one was at home. There was nothing to do except to go to the Kelly house and question Portia.

  He hated to be near that house again. He couldn’t stand to see the hat rack in the front hall and the long flight of stairs he had climbed so many times. He walked slowly back across the town and approached by way of the alley. He went in the rear door. Portia was in the kitchen and the little boy was with her.

  ‘No, sir, Mr. Blount,’ Portia said. ‘I know you were a mighty good friend of Mr. Singer and you understand what Father thought of him. But we taken Father out in the country this morning and I know in my soul I got no business telling you exactly where he is. If you don’t mind I rather speak out and not minch the matter.’

  ‘You don’t have to minch anything,’ Jake said. ‘But why?’

  ‘After the time you come to see us Father were so sick us expected him to die. It taken us a long time to get him able to sit up. He doing right well now. He going to get a lot stronger where he is now. But whether you understand this or not he right bitter against white peoples just now and he very easy to upset. And besides, if you don’t mind speaking out, what you want with Father, anyway?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Jake said. ‘Nothing you would understand.’

  ‘Us colored peoples have feelings just like anybody else. And I stand by what I said, Mr. Blount. Father just a sick old colored man and he had enough trouble already. Us got to look after him. And he not anxious to see you--I know that.’

  Out in the street again he saw that the clouds had turned a deep, angry purple. In the stagnant air there was a storm smell.

  The vivid green of the trees along the sidewalk seemed to steal into the atmosphere so that there was a strange greenish glow over the street. All was so hushed and still that Jake paused for a moment to sniff the air and look around him. Then he grasped his suitcase under his arm and began to run toward the awnings of the main street. But he was not quick enough.

  There was one metallic crash of thunder and the air chilled suddenly. Large silver drops of rain hissed on the pavement.

  An avalanche of water blinded him. When he reached the New York Cafe his clothes clung wet and shriveled to his body and his shoes squeaked with water.

  Brannon pushed aside his newspaper and leaned his elbows on the counter. ‘Now, this is really curious. I had this intuition you would come here just after the rain broke. I knew in my bones you were coming and that you would make it just too late.’ He mashed his nose with this thumb until it was white and flat. ‘And a suitcase?’

  ‘It looks like a suitcase,’ Jake said. ‘And it feels like a suitcase. So if you believe in the actuality of suitcases I reckon this is one, all right.’

  ‘You ought not to stand around like this. Go on upstairs and throw me down your clothes. Louis will run over them with a hot iron.’

  Jake sat at one of the back booth tables and rested his head in his hands. ‘No, thanks. I just want to rest here and get my wind again.’

  ‘But your lips are turning blue. You look all knocked up.’

  ‘I’m all right. What I want is some supper.’

  ‘Supper won’t be ready for half an hour,’ Brannon said patiently.

  ‘Any old leftovers will do. Just put them on a plate. You don’t even have to bother to heat them.’

  The emptiness in him hurt. He wanted to look neither backward nor forward. He walked two of his short, chunky fingers across the top of the table. It was more than a year now since he had sat at this table for the first time. And how much further was he now than then? No further. Nothing had happened except that he had made a friend and lost him. He had given Singer everything and then the man had killed himself. So he was left out on a limb. And now it was up to him to get out of it by himself and make a new start again. At the thought of it panic came in him. He was tired. He leaned his head against the wall and put his feet on the seat beside him.

  ‘Here you are,’ Brannon said. ‘This ought to help out.’

  He put down a glass of some hot drink and a plate of chicken pie. The drink had a sweet, heavy smell. Jake inhaled the steam and closed his eyes. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Lemon rind rubbed on a lump of sugar and boiling water with rum. It’s a good drink.’

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘I don’t know offhand, but I’ll figure it out before you leave.’

  Jake took a deep draught of the toddy and washed it around in his mouth before swallowing. ‘You’ll never get the money,’ he said. ‘I don’t have it to pay you--and if I did I probably wouldn’t anyway.’

  ‘Well, have I been pressing you? Have I ever made you out a bill and asked you to pay up?’

  ‘No,’ Jake said. ‘You been very reasonable. And since I think about it you’re a right decent guy--from the personal perspective, that is.’

  Brannon sat across from him at the table. Something was on his mind. He slid the salt-shaker back and forth and kept smoothing his hair. He smelled like perfume and his striped blue shirt was very fresh and clean. The sleeves were rolled and held in place by old-fashioned blue sleeve garters.

  At last he cleared his throat in a hesitating way and said: ‘I was glancing through the afternoon paper just before you came. It seems you had a lot of trouble at your place today. ‘That’s right. What did it say?’

  ‘Wait. I’ll get it.’ Brannon fetched the paper from the counter and leaned against the partition of the booth. ‘It says on the front page that at the Sunny Dixie Show, located so and so, there was a general disturbance. Two Negroes were fatally injured with wounds inflicted by knives. Three others suffered minor wounds and were taken for treatment to the city hospital. The dead were Jimmy Macy and Lancy Davis. The wounded were John Hamlin, white, of Central Mill City, Various Wilson, Negro, and so forth and so on. Quote: ‘A number of arrests were made. It is alleged that the disturbance was caused by labor agitation, as papers of a subversive nature were found on and about the site of disturbance. Other arrests are expected shortly.’ Brannon clicked his teeth together. ‘The setup of this paper gets worse every day. Subversive spelled with a u in the second syllable and arrests with only one r.’

  ‘They’re smart, all right,’ Jake said sneeringly. ‘Caused by labor agitation.’

  ‘That’s r
emarkable.’

  ‘Anyway, the whole thing is very unfortunate.’ Jake held his hand to his mouth and looked down at his empty plate. ‘What do you mean to do now? Tm leaving. I’m getting out of here this afternoon.’ Brannon polished his nails on the palm of his hand. ‘Well, of course it’s not necessary--but it might be a good thing. Why so headlong? No sense in starting out this time of day.’

  ‘I just father.’

  ‘I do not think it behooves you to make a new start. At the same time why don’t you take my advice on this? Myself--I’m a conservative and of course I think your opinions are radical. But at the same time I like to know all sides of a matter. Anyway, I want to see you straighten out. So why don’t you go some place where you can meet a few people more or less like yourself? And then settle down? ‘ Jake pushed his plate irritably away from him. ‘I don’t know where I’m going. Leave me’alone. I’m tired.’ Brannon shrugged his shoulders and went back to the counter. He was tired enough. The hot rum and the heavy sound of the rain made him drowsy. It felt good to be sitting safe in a booth and to have just eaten a good meal. If he wanted to he could lean over and take a nap--a short one. Already his head felt swollen and heavy and he was more comfortable with his eyes closed. But it would have to be a short sleep because soon he must get out of here.

  ‘How long will this rain keep on?’

  Brannon’s voice had drowsy overtones. ‘You can’t tell--a tropical cloudburst. Might clear up suddenly--or might thin a little and set in for the night.’

  Jake laid his head down on his arms. The sound of the rain was nice the swelling sound of the sea. He heard a clock tick and the far-off rattle of dishes. Gradually his hands relaxed.

  They lay open, palm upward, on the table.

  Then Brannon was shaking him by the shoulders and looking into his face. A terrible dream was in his mind. ‘Wake up,’ Brannon was saying. ‘You’ve had a nightmare. I looked over here and your mouth was open and you were groaning and shuffling your feet on the floor. I never saw anything to equal it.’

  The dream was still heavy in his mind. He felt the old terror that always came as he awakened. He pushed Brannon away and stood up. ‘You don’t have to tell me I had a nightmare. I remember just how it was. And I’ve had the same dream for about fifteen times before.’

  He did remember now. Every other time he had been unable to get the dream straight in his waking mind. He had been walking among a great crowd of people--like at the show. But there was also something Eastern about the people around him. There was a terrible bright sun and the people were half-naked. They were silent and slow and their faces had a look in them of starvation. There was no sound, only the sun, and the silent crowd of people. He walked among them and he carried a huge covered basket. He was taking the basket somewhere but he could not find the place to leave it And in the dream there was a peculiar horror in wandering on and on through the crowd and not knowing where to lay down the burden he had carried in his arms so long.

  ‘What was it?’ Brannon asked. ‘Was the devil chasing you?’ Jake stood up and went to the mirror behind the counter. His face was dirty and sweaty. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. He wet his handkerchief under the fountain faucet and wiped off his face. Then he took out a pocket comb and neatly combed his mustache.

  ‘The dream was nothing. You got to be asleep to understand why it was such a nightmare.’

  The clock pointed to five-thirty. The rain had almost stopped.

  Jake picked up his suitcase and went to the front door. ‘So long. I’ll send you a postcard maybe.’

  ‘Wait,’ Brannon said. ‘You can’t go now. It’s still raining a little.’

  ‘Just dripping off the awning. I rather get out of town before dark.’

  ‘But hold on. Do you have any money? Enough to keep going for a week?’

  ‘I don’t need money. I been broke before.’ Brannon had an envelope ready and in it were two twenty-dollar bills. Jake looked at them on both sides and put them in his pocket. ‘God knows why you do it. You’ll never smell them again. But thanks. I won’t forget.’

  ‘Good luck. And let me hear from you.’

  ‘Adios! ‘Goodbye.’

  The door closed behind him. When he looked back at the end of the block, Brannon was watching from the sidewalk. He walked until he reached the railroad tracks. On either side there were rows of dilapidated two-room houses. In the cramped back yards were rotted privies and lines of torn, smoky rags hung out to dry. For two miles there was not one sight of comfort or space or cleanliness. Even the earth itself seemed filthy and abandoned. Now and then there were signs that a vegetable row had been attempted, but only a few withered collards had survived. And a few fruitless, smutty fig trees. Little younguns swarmed in this filth, the smaller of them stark naked. The sight of this poverty was so cruel and hopeless that Jake snarled and clenched his fists.

  He reached the edge of town and turned off on a highway.

  Cars passed him by. His shoulders were too wide and his arms too long. He was so strong and ugly that no one wanted to take him in. But maybe a truck would stop before long. The late afternoon sun was out again. Heat made the steam rise from the wet pavement. Jake walked steadily.

  As soon as the town was behind a new surge of energy came to him. But was this flight or was it onslaught? Anyway, he was going. All this to begin another time. The road ahead lay to the north and slightly to the west. But he would not go too far away. He would not leave the South. That was one clear thing. There was hope in him, and soon perhaps the outline of his journey would take form.

  Evening.

  WHAT good was it? That was the question she would like to know. What the hell good was it. All the plans she had made, and the music. When all that came of it was this trap--the store, then home to sleep, and back at the store again. The clock in front of the place where Mister Singer used to work pointed to seven. And she was just getting off. Whenever there was overtime the manager always told her to stay.

  Because she could stand longer on her feet and work harder before giving out than any other girl. The heavy rain had left the sky a pale, quiet blue. Dark was coming. Already the lights were turned on. Automobile horns honked in the street and the newsboys hollered out the headlines in the papers. She didn’t want to go home. If she went home now she would lie down on the bed and bawl. That was how tired she was. But if she went into the New York Cafe and ate some ice cream she might feel O.K. And smoke and be by herself a little while.

  The front part of the cafe was crowded, so she went to the very last booth. It was the small of her back and her face that got so tired. Their motto was supposed to be ‘Keep on your toes and smile.’ Once she was out of the store she had to frown a long time to get her face natural again. Even her ears were tired. She took off the dangling green earrings and pinched the lobes of her ears. She had bought the earrings the week before--and also a silver bangle bracelet. At first she had worked in Pots and Pans, but now they had changed her to Costume Jewelry.

  ‘Good evening, Mick,’ Mister Brannon said. He wiped the bottom of a glass of water with a napkin and set it on the table.

  ‘I want me a chocolate sundae and a nickel glass of draw beer.’

  ‘Together?’ He put down a menu and pointed with Ms little finger that wore a lady’s gold ring. ‘See--here’s some nice roast chicken or some veal stew. Why don’t you have a little supper with me?’

  ‘No, thanks. All I want is the sundae and the beer. Both plenty cold.’

  Mick raked her hair from her forehead. Her mouth was open so that her cheeks seemed hollow. There were these two things she could never believe. That Mister Singer had killed himself and was dead. And that she was grown and had to work at Woolworth’s.

  She was the one who found him. They had thought the noise was a backfire from a car, and it was not until the next day that they knew. She went in to play the radio. The blood was all over his neck and when her Dad came
he pushed her out of the room. She had run into the dark and hit herself with her fists. And then the next night he was in a coffin in the living-room. The undertaker had put rouge and lipstick on his face to make him look natural. But he didn’t look natural. He was very dead. And mixed with the smell of flowers there was this other smell so that she couldn’t stay in the room. But through ail those days she held down the job. She wrapped packages and handed them across the counter and rung the money in the till. She walked when she was supposed to walk and ate when she sat down to the table. Only at first when she went to bed at night she couldn’t sleep. But now she slept like she was supposed to, also.

  Mick turned sideways in the seat so that she could cross her legs. There was a run in her stocking. It had started while she was walking to work and she had spit on it Then later the run had gone farther and she had stuck a little piece of chewing-gum on the end. But even that didn’t help. Now she would have to go home and sew. It was hard to know what she could do about stockings. She wore them out so fast Unless she was the kind of common girl that would wear cotton stockings.

  She oughtn’t to have come in here. The bottoms of her shoes were clean worn out. She ought to have saved the twenty cents toward a new half-sole. Because if she kept on standing on a shoe with a hole in it what would happen? A blister would come on her foot. And she would have to pick it with a burnt needle. She would have to stay home from work and be fired.

  And then what would happen? ‘Here you are,’ said Mister Brannon. ‘But I never heard of such a combination before.’

  He put the sundae and the beer on the table. She pretended to clean her fingernails because if she noticed him he would start talking. He didn’t have this grudge against her any more, so he must have forgotten about the pack of gum. Now he always wanted to talk to her. But she wanted to be quiet and by herself. The sundae was O.K., covered all over with chocolate and nuts and cherries. And the beer was relaxing. The beer had a nice bitter taste after the ice cream and it made her drunk. Next to music beer was best.