Suttree

by Cormac McCarthy

  They sat silently for a moment. The old man smelled of goats and woodsmoke. The boys were going from goat to goat down the field by the river.

  Why did Jesus weep? said Suttree.

  Eh?

  He pointed up at the sign. Why did Jesus weep?

  Dont know scriptures?

  Some.

  He wept over folks workin on Sundays. Suttree smiled.

  Jesus wept over Lazarus, said the goatman. It dont say it, but I reckon Lazarus might of wept back when he seen himself back in this vale of tears after he'd done been safe and dead four days. He must of been in heaven. Jesus wouldnt of brought one back from hell would he? I'd hate to get to heaven and then get recalled what about you?

  I guess so.

  You can bet I intend to ask him when I see him.

  Ask who?

  Jesus.

  You're going to ask Jesus about Lazarus?

  Sure. Wouldnt you? Oh I intend to have some questions for him. I'm goin to be talkin to him some day just like I'm talkin to you. I'd better have somethin to say.

  Suttree rose and swiped at the seat of his trousers and looked off down the river. Well, he said. I'll bring you a catfish if I get one.

  I dont require a big one.

  No. It's okay if it's caught on Sunday?

  Just dont tell me about it.

  All right.

  I wouldnt want to aid and abet.

  No. Here come some more fans.

  A group of people were picking their way across the pitted lot toward the goatman's camp.

  I preach at four, said the goatman. Ought to be a good crowd here by then.

  Preach?

  I preach ever Sunday at four oclock rain or shine. Just straight preachin. No cures, no predictions. Folks ask me about the second comin. Most aint heard of the first one yet. You be here?

  Suttree looked down at the goatman. Well, he said. If I'm not, just go ahead and start without me.

  He went up the river path toward Ab Jones's. The three black boys had one of the goats by the horns and were going around in circles with it while one of them attempted to climb on its back.

  A white derelict named Smokehouse opened the door. He recalled Suttree dimly through drinkgalled eyes and stood aside for him to enter.

  How's Tom, said Suttree.

  Tom's okay, said the derelict.

  Suttree entered the dim room with its odor of stale beer and the urinous smell of chitlins cooking in the back. The derelict shut the door and hobbled on his twisted legs to the wall where he'd left his broom leaning.

  Where's Ab? said Suttree.

  Aint seen him.

  Where's Doll?

  She's back in the back.

  What happened to your head?

  What happened to yours?

  Suttree smiled and rubbed the patch of stubble hair at the back of his head. The derelict had a massive bandage taped across the left side of his forehead.

  I got hit with a floorbuffer, Suttree said.

  I got hit by a bus.

  Again?

  Smokehouse nodded, looking down at the floor, sweeping futilely at the trash.

  Doesnt it hurt? said Suttree.

  Some.

  Some?

  I got drunk first.

  Oh.

  I wouldnt do it without I got drunk first. I got more sense than that.

  Well how do you manage to keep from getting killed if you're drunk?

  It aint easy. That's how come that bus run over my legs that time is cause I got too drunk. You got to keep your head about you.

  How much will you get this time?

  I dont know. They dont want to settle. I may have to get me another lawyer.

  What will you do with the money if you get it?

  Smokehouse looked up from the floor. He seemed surprised by the question. Well, he said. Get drunk, I reckon. Least I wont have to sweep the floor for no niggers.

  For a while.

  The derelict pushed at the trash. The sun dont shine up the same dog's ass ever day, he said.

  I hope not, said Suttree.

  Things is come to a sorry pass when a white man has to look to a nigger for work.

  Hard times on the land. Suttree agreed.

  You dont have a little drink on ye anywheres do ye?

  Suttree had not. Smokehouse had started a new tack when the curtain flipped back and Doll in her disheveled housecoat held out a halfdollar coin.

  Run get me two packs of Luckies, she said.

  He stood his broom carefully against the wall and took the coin and got his hat from the back of a chair where he'd hung it and shuffled out the door, his racked body like something disjointed and put back by drunken surgeons, the elbows hiked out, the feet bent wrong. Doll watched him with her one watery eye. Mornin, she said.

  Morning, said Suttree. How's the old man?

  I dont know. He laid up in the bed. Go on back.

  I dont want to bother him.

  He aint asleep. Go on. She held the curtain back for him.

  Suttree entered a room darker yet, some sort of heavy material curtaining the window on the river, a rich funk of nameless odors. There was a radio playing so softly that he just could hear it.

  The footrail of the bed came right to the door and Jones lay in the bed like a tree. Who that? he said.

  Suttree.

  Youngblood. Come in.

  You not asleep?

  No. I just restin. Come on in.

  He raised himself up slightly in the bed and Suttree heard him catch his breath.

  I just stopped by.

  Set down. Where your beer?

  I didnt want one.

  Hey old woman. He was groping around in the near dark for something and finally came up with a bottle and unscrewed the cap and drank and put it back. He wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand. Hey, he called out.

  She appeared at the curtain.

  Bring this man a beer. Set down Youngblood.

  Suttree could see him better. He shifted his huge frame and so clearly was he in pain that the fisherman sat at the foot of the bed and asked him what was wrong.

  Dont say nothin to her.

  What happened?

  Same old shit. Your little blue friends. Hush. She came to the curtain and handed a bottle of beer into the room. Suttree took it and thanked her and she went out again, no word.

  Did they put you in jail?

  Yeah. I got out about eight oclock this mornin. Made bond. She think I been out whorin I reckon.

  Suttree smiled. Werent you? he said.

  The scarred black face looked grieved. No man. I too old for that shit. Dont let her know it of course.

  Are you all right?

  Aint nothin. I got to keep my shirt on she dont see the tape.

  Who taped you?

  Me.

  You know how to do that?

  I done it a few times fore this.

  I guess you have.

  Bein a nigger is a interestin life.

  You make it that way.

  Maybe.

  Suttree sipped the beer. It was very quiet in the cabin.

  They dont like no nigger walkin around like a man, Jones said. He had drawn his bottle forth and unscrewed the cap and was taking a drink.

  Can you get up and around.

  Yeah. I aint down, just restin.

  If you need anything I can get it for you. If you need some whiskey.

  I know you would. I'm okay.

  Well.

  You got a good heart, Youngblood. Look out for you own.

  I dont have any own.

  Yes you do.

  Where are they?

  Jones wiped his mouth. Let me tell you about some people, he said. Some people aint worth a shit rich or poor and that's all you can say about em. But I never knowed a man that had it all but what he didnt forget where he come from. I dont know what it does. I had a friend in this town I stood up for him when he got married. I'd give him money when he was comin up.
Used to take him to the wrestlin matches, he was just a kid. He's a big man now. Drives a Cadillac. He dont know me. I got no use for a man piss backwards on his friends.

  Suttree was sitting at the foot of the bed. He took a sip of the beer and held the bottle between his hands.

  You see a man, he scratchin to make it. Think once he got it made everthing be all right. But you dont never have it made. Dont care who you are. Look up one mornin and you a old man. You aint got nothin to say to your brother. Dont know no more'n when you started.

  Suttree could see the huge veined hands in the gloom, black mannequin's hands, an ebon last for a glovemaker's outsize advertisement. They were moving as if to shape the dark to some purpose.

  I used to work on the river. The Cherokee. Then I was on the Hugh Martin. The H C Murry. It had a better store than them uptown. After the first war they wasnt no more packetboat trade. I was born in nineteen and hundred. Of a night you could hear them boats howlin on the river like souls. The old Martin had a steamhorn could and used to did bring the glass out of folks' sashes. I went on the river when I was twelve. I weighed a hunnerd and eighty pound then. This white man shot me cause I whipped him. I didnt know no better. I was older then, must of been fourteen. Dumb as shit. I went home and got better and fore I could see him to kill him somebody had done done it. Cut his head off. Wasnt no friend of mine. Thowed my black ass in the jailhouse. Went up the side of my head with they old clubs and shit. I laid there in the dark, they aint give me nothin to eat yet. That was my first acquaintance of the wrath of the path. That's goin on forty year now and it dont signify a goddamn thing. These bloods down here think it's somethin to whip up on some police. They think that's really somethin. Shit. You aint got nothin for it but a busted head. You caint do nothin with them motherfuckers. I wouldnt fight em at all if I could keep from it.

  Suttree bent to see his face. Jones blinked, eyeballs like eggs in the mammoth black skull. He must have read his pale friend's look because he said almost to himself: That's the truth.

  How did you get out?

  They found his head. Man had it in a shoebox.

  He was unscrewing the bottlecap, taking a drink. His eyes closed and opened slowly in the gloom. This man was a gambler and a whoremaster. He never drunk nor smoked. Run a whorehouse on Front Street that was well known in them days. Boats come in, the hands would all turn out for his place. Streets full of whores, queers any color. Thieves. They come out like roaches whenever you had a dockin. Then this feller cut his head off and carried it around in a shoebox with him. He got drunk one night down on Central Avenue and started showin the old head around. Folks runnin screamin into the streets. Next day I's out.

  Was he crazy?

  Who?

  The murderer.

  I dont know. He didnt kill him to rob him. I guess he was a little bit crazy.

  Would you have killed him?

  I dont know. I reckon I would if that was how he'd of wanted it.

  Suttree took a sip of his beer. He could hear Smokehouse in the outer room again, puttering about, glass clinking. He looked at Jones. Have you ever killed anyone? he said.

  Not on purpose, said Jones.

  It was dark when he came in from running his lines. The nose of the skiff broaching rafts of drifted trash and skeins of shorelight in the black river. Radio music from a shack on Front Street carrying clearly over the night waters. The slamming of a door. He could see the lights at Ab Jones's and downriver he could see the fire at the goatman's camp with the goatman's cart in silhouette and dark goat shadows shifting in the forward reach of light. He boated the oars and stalled against the tirecasings alongside his houseboat and stood up in the skiff and made fast.

  He had a livebox made from angleiron and chickenwire hanging in the river by a rope and he hauled this up and opened the top and transferred the fish from the boat to the box and lowered it into the river again. Then he hefted a small catfish up from the floor of the skiff, holding it by the gills, and climbed over the rail and went down the walk to the river path and down to the goatman's camp.

  A few people were gathered at the fire. When Suttree came up the goatman turned as if he'd sensed him there and he smiled and nodded.

  I thought you'd forgot me.

  I brought your fish.

  I see you did.

  You've not eaten supper have you?

  No no. You?

  Suttree shrugged.

  You welcome to share with me if you like.

  I dont much like fish.

  That there is a nice one.

  Suttree handed down the fish and the goatman took it and held it to the fire to see.

  What do I owe you?

  I dont know, said Suttree. We can trade it out if you like.

  Trade it out, said the goatman. I dont know what I'd trade. Aint got nothin but some picture postcards I sell.

  That'll be okay.

  Postcards?

  Sure. Why not?

  The goatman looked at Suttree, then rose and turned toward the wagon. The eyes of the visitors at his fire followed him. He rummaged through his duffel and called out to Suttree. How many you want?

  I dont know. What do you get for them?

  Ten cents.

  Well, what about a half dozen?

  He came from the wagon with the cards. The fish bowed and shivered in the firelight.

  Take these, he said.

  Suttree took the cards. The cards were old but the goatman by the fire was not changed from him that posed upon them.

  Okay, said Suttree.

  Aint no need to rush off.

  What makes you think I was rushing off?

  I dont know. But you welcome to stay.

  I'd better get on.

  The goatman watched him. He was trudging out across the field with his chin down so that withdrawing in the firelight he looked like a headless revenant turned away from the warmth of men's gatherings.

  Say, called the goatman.

  Suttree turned.

  You know if you had you a goat or two down here they'd be good company. You never would be lonely.

  What makes you think I'm lonely? said Suttree.

  The goatman smiled. I dont know, he said. I aint wrong.

  It is told first by Oceanfrog Frazer to idlers at the store. How a madman came down from the town and through the steep and vacant lots above the river. Frazer saw him plunging past in a drunken run, fording a briarbush with no regard and on across the stony yard until he was capsized by a clotheswire.

  He's murdered someone, Oceanfrog said.

  The fallen man mauled at the earth like a child, not even putting a hand to his throat where the wire had all but garroted him. He scrabbled off on hands and knees across the dirt and soon he was running again. He ran fulltilt into the barbedwire fence at the lower end of the lot.

  He's crazy, said Oceanfrog. He stepped to the door and called to him.

  The man turned. His clothing was ripped and the shreds of his shirtfront lifted about him like confetti in the breeze and he was covered with blood.

  What are you doing? called Oceanfrog.

  The man screamed. A high parched gurgle like a rutting cat. Then he turned and ran again, following the fence, out of the lot, crashing through the crude pole gate and crossing the road and disappearing in the fields by the river.

  A few dead bats or dying appeared in the streets. Roving bands of unclaimed dogs were herded off to the gas chamber. Harrogate kept himself attuned, somehow fearing that he might be next. One day by Suttree's he said he'd seen a bat.

  A dead one?

  Just up yander.

  You'd better go get it, said Suttree. It's worth a dollar.

  It's worth what?

  A dollar. You have to take it to the Board of Health. It was in the paper.

  You're shittin me.

  No, it's worth a dollar.

  Why would anybody want to give a dollar for a old dead bat?

  They think they've got rabies. It s
ays not to touch them, just scoop them up and put them in a bag.

  Harrogate had already started out the door.

  Hey Gene.

  Yeah.

  Do you know where to take it?

  No, where do I go?

  General Hospital. Out Central.

  Yeah. I know where it's at. That's where they took me.

  It was true. Legal tender for all debts public and private. He had the bill changed at Comer's, dropping it with a careless flourish onto the glass countertop. He took the change downstairs to Helm's and got a dollar for it and changed the dollar at the Sanitary Lunch but no one seemed to notice. Already schemes were clambering through his head. He bought a chocolate milk and sat wedged in the row of theatre seats at Comer's before a twodollar check game and pondered and sipped the milk.

  Fucking rat poison, he said, suddenly looking up through the smoke and the din toward a far wall with wide eyes.

  People turned to look at him. Cocky paused in midstroke at the table, the cue quivering in his old palsied hands. Harrogate rose and drained the carton of milk and dropped it in a spittoon and went out.

  Ratlike himself, quietly in the dimestore aisles. A small box of pellets slid between the lowermost shirtbuttons to lay against his skin. Things to be done. The Ford hood that he portaged on his shoulders up the river path had sheltered chickens. He stopped often to rest. It had rained in the night and his clothes were soaked from the bushes.

  Scarlet trumpets of cowitch overhung the little house and wildflowers bloomed up through the twisted shapes of steel by whatever miracle renders grease and cinders arable and the junkman's lot was a garden more lovely for the phantasm from which it sprang. Harrogate paused at the fence and leaned his hood there. He pushed open the weighted gate, starting a hummingbird from the flowers in the dooryard. Rainwater still dripped from the tarpaper eaves and it lay in bright pools and slashes on the gray and steaming backs of the autos where they reared above the grass and fronds like feeding bovines. He rapped at the open door. The cane at the corner of the shack rattled gently in the wind. Everything lay quiet and sundabbled in this quaint garden by the river.

  What can I do for ye? said the junkman.

  Harrogate stepped back and looked. The junkman was hanging half drunk from the one small window.

  You remember me dont ye? said Harrogate.

  No.

  Well, listen. I need a car hood.

  Just a minute.

  He appeared at the door. With splayed fingers attacking the matter that webbed his eyes.

  What kind? he said.

  It's a Ford.

  Any particular year?

  I dont know. I got it out here if you could match it up.

  The junkman spat and looked at him and started down the stoop past him.