Look Homeward, Angel - Thomas Wolfe (87 page)

"How about the
fricasseed bull?" said Luke.  "Have you got any of
that?"

"You don't need any
one to fricassee your bull, son," said McGuire. "You've got
plenty as it is."

Their bull-laughter
bellowed in the beanery.

With puckered forehead,
Luke stuttered over the menu.

"F-f-f-fried chicken
a la Maryland," he muttered.  "A la Maryland?" he
repeated as if puzzled.  "Now, ain't that nice?" he
said, looking around with mincing daintiness.

"Bring me one of
your this week's steaks," said Eugene, "well done, with a
meat-axe and the sausage-grinder."

"What do you want
the sausage-grinder for, son?" said Coker.

"That's for the
mince pie," said Eugene.

"Make it two,"
said Luke, "with a coupla cups of Mock-a, just like mother still
makes."

He looked crazily around
at Eugene, and burst into loud whah-whahs, prodding him in the ribs.

"Where they got you
stationed now, Luke?" said Harry Tugman, peering up snoutily
from a mug of coffee.

"At the
p-p-p-present time in Norfolk at the Navy Base," Luke answered,
"m-m-making the world safe for hypocrisy."

"Do you ever get out
to sea, son?" said Coker.

"Sure!" said
Luke.  "A f-f-five cent ride on the street-car brings me
right out to the beach."

"That boy has had
the makings of a sailor in him ever since he wet the bed," said
McGuire.  "I predicted it long ago."

Horse Hines came in
briskly, but checked himself when he saw the two young men.

"Look out!"
whispered the sailor to Eugene, with a crazy grin. "You're
next!  He's got his fishy eye glued on you.  He's already
getting you measured up for one."

Eugene looked angrily
around at Horse Hines, muttering.  The sailor chortled madly.

"Good-morning,
gentlemen," said Horse Hines, in an accent of refined sadness. 
"Boys," he said, coming up to them sorrowfully, "I was
mighty sorry to hear of your trouble.  I couldn't have thought
more of that boy if he'd been my own brother."

"Don't go on,
Horse," said McGuire, holding up four fat fingers of protest. 
"We can see you're heart-broken.  If you go on, you may get
hysterical with your grief, and break right out laughing.  We
couldn't bear that, Horse.  We're big strong men, but we've had
hard lives.  I beg of you to spare us, Horse."

Horse Hines did not
notice him.

"I've got him over
at the place now," he said softly.  "I want you boys
to come in later in the day to see him.  You won't know he's the
same person when I'm through."

"God!  An
improvement over nature," said Coker.  "His mother
will appreciate it."

"Is this an
undertaking shop you're running, Horse," said McGuire, "or
a beauty parlor?"

"We know you'll
d-d-do your best, Mr. Hines," said the sailor with ready earnest
insincerity.  "That's the reason the family got you."

"Ain't you goin' to
eat the rest of your steak?" said the counter-man to Eugene.

"Steak! 
Steak!  It's not steak!" muttered Eugene.  "I
know what it is now."  He got off the stool and walked over
to Coker.  "Can you save me?  Am I going to die? 
Do I look sick, Coker?" he said in a hoarse mutter.

"No, son," said
Coker.  "Not sick--crazy."

Horse Hines took his seat
at the other end of the counter.  Eugene, leaning upon the
greasy marble counter, began to sing:
 

    
"Hey,
ho, the carrion crow,
     
Derry, derry, derry, derr--oh!"
 

"Shut up, you damn
fool!" said the sailor in a hoarse whisper, grinning.
 

    
"A
carrion crow sat on a rock,
     
Derry, derry, derry, derr--oh!"
 
 

Outside, in the young
gray light, there was a brisk wakening of life.  A street-car
curved slowly into the avenue, the motorman leaning from his window
and shifting the switch carefully with a long rod, blowing the warm
fog of his breath into the chill air. Patrolman Leslie Roberts,
sallow and liverish, slouched by ané swinging his club.  The
negro man-of-all-work for Wood's Pharmacy walked briskly into the
post-office to collect the morning mail.  J. T. Stearns, the
railway passenger-agent, waited on the curb across the street for the
depot car.  He had a red face, and he was reading the morning
paper.

"There they go!"
Eugene cried suddenly.  "As if they didn't know about it!"

"Luke," said
Harry Tugman, looking up from his paper, "I was certainly sorry
to hear about Ben.  He was one fine boy."  Then he
went back to his sheet.

"By God!" said
Eugene.  "This is news!"

He burst into a fit of
laughter, gasping and uncontrollable, which came from him with savage
violence.  Horse Hines glanced craftily up at him.  Then he
went back to his paper.
 
 

The two young men left
the lunch-room and walked homeward through the brisk morning. 
Eugene's mind kept fumbling with little things. There was a frosty
snap and clatter of life upon the streets, the lean rattle of wheels,
the creak of blinds, a cold rose-tint of pearled sky.  In the
Square, the motormen stood about among their cars, in loud foggy
gossip.  At Dixieland, there was an air of exhaustion, of
nervous depletion.  The house slept; Eliza alone was stirring,
but she had a smart fire crackling in the range, and was full of
business.

"You children go and
sleep now.  We've all got work to do later in the day."

Luke and Eugene went into
the big dining-room which Eliza had converted into a bed-room.

"D-d-d-damn if I'm
going to sleep upstairs," said the sailor angrily.  "Not
after this!"
 
"Pshaw!"
said Eliza.  "That's only superstition.  It wouldn't
bother me a bit."
 
 

The brothers slept
heavily until past noon.  Then they went out again to see Horse
Hines.  They found him with his legs comfortably disposed on the
desk of his dark little office, with its odor of weeping ferns, and
incense, and old carnations.

He got up quickly as they
entered, with a starchy crackle of his hard boiled shirt, and a
solemn rustle of his black garments.  Then he began to speak to
them in a hushed voice, bending forward slightly.

How like Death this man
is (thought Eugene).  He thought of the awful mysteries of
burial--the dark ghoul-ritual, the obscene communion with the dead,
touched with some black and foul witch-magic.  Where is the can
in which they throw the parts?  There is a restaurant near
here.  Then he took the cold phthisic hand, freckled on its
back, that the man extended, with a sense of having touched something
embalmed.  The undertaker's manner had changed since the
morning: it had become official, professional.  He was the alert
marshal of their grief, the efficient master-of-ceremonies. 
Subtly he made them feel there was an order and decorum in death: a
ritual of mourning that must be observed.  They were impressed.

"We thought we'd
like to s-s-s-see you f-f-f-first, Mr. Hines, about the
c-c-c-c-casket," Luke whispered nervously.  "We're
going to ask your advice.  We want you to help us find something
appropriate."

Horse Hines nodded with
grave approval.  Then he led them softly back, into a large dark
room with polished waxen floors where, amid a rich dead smell of wood
and velvet, upon wheeled trestles, the splendid coffins lay in their
proud menace.

"Now," said
Horse Hines quietly, "I know the family doesn't want anything
cheap."

"No, sir!" said
the sailor positively.  "We want the b-b-b-best you have."

"I take a personal
interest in this funeral," said Horse Hines with gentle
emotion.  "I have known the Gant and Pentland families for
thirty years or more.  I have had business dealings with your
father for nigh on to twenty years."

"And I w-w-want you
to know, Mr. Hines, that the f-f-f-family appreciates the interest
you're taking in this," said the sailor very earnestly.

He likes this, Eugene
thought.  The affection of the world.  He must have it.

"Your father,"
continued Horse Hines, "is one of the oldest and most respected
business men in the community.  And the Pentland family is one
of the wealthiest and most prominent."

Eugene was touched with a
moment's glow of pride.

"You don't want
anything shoddy," said Horse Hines.  "I know that.
What you get ought to be in good taste and have dignity.  Am I
right?"

Luke nodded emphatically.

"That's the way we
feel about it, Mr. Hines.  We want the best you have. 
We're not pinching p-p-p-pennies where Ben's concerned," he said
proudly.

"Well, then,"
said Horse Hines, "I'll give you my honest opinion. I could give
you this one cheap," he placed his hand upon one of the caskets,
"but I don't think it's what you want.  Of course," he
said, "it's good at the price.  It's worth the money. 
It'll give you service, don't worry.  You'll get value out of
it--"

Now there's an idea,
thought Eugene.

"They're all good,
Luke.  I haven't got a bad piece of stock in the place. 
But--"

"We want something
b-b-b-better," said Luke earnestly.  He turned to Eugene. 
"Don't you think so, 'Gene?"

"Yes," said
Eugene.

"Well," said
Horse Hines, "I could sell you this one," he indicated the
most sumptuous casket in the room.  "They don't come better
than that, Luke.  That's the top.  She's worth every dollar
I ask for her."

"All right,"
said Luke.  "You're the judge.  If that's the best
you've g-g-g-got, we'll take it."

No, no! thought Eugene. 
You mustn't interrupt.  Let him go on.

"But," said
Horse Hines relentlessly, "there's no need for you to take that
one, either.  What you're after, Luke, is dignity and
simplicity.  Is that right?"

"Yes," said the
sailor meekly, "I guess you're right at that, Mr. Hines."

Now we'll have it,
thought Eugene.  This man takes joy in his work.

"Well, then,"
said Horse Hines decisively, "I was going to suggest to you boys
that you take this one."  He put his hand affectionately
upon a handsome casket at his side.

"This is neither too
plain nor too fancy.  It's simple and in good taste. 
Silver handles, you see--silver plate here for the name. You can't go
wrong on this one.  It's a good buy.  She'll give you value
for every dollar you put into it."

They walked around the
coffin, staring at it critically.

After a moment, Luke said
nervously:

"How--wh--wh--wh-what's
the price of this one?"

"That sells for
$450," said Horse Hines.  "But," he added, after
a moment's dark reflection, "I'll tell you what I'll do. 
Your father and I are old friends.  Out of respect for the
family, I'll let you have it at cost--$375."

"What do you say,
'Gene?" the sailor asked.  "Does it look all right to
you?"

Do your Christmas
shopping early.

"Yes," said
Eugene, "let's take it.  I wish there were another color. 
I don't like black," he added.  "Haven't you got any
other color?"

Horse Hines stared at him
a moment.

"Black IS the
color," he said.

Then, after a moment's
silence, he went on:

"Would you boys care
to see the body?"

"Yes," they
said.

He led them on tiptoe
down the aisle of the coffins, and opened a door to a room behind. 
It was dark.  They entered and stood with caught breath. 
Horse Hines switched on a light and closed the door.

Ben, clad in his best
suit of clothes, a neat one of dark gray-black, lay in rigid
tranquillity upon a table.  His hands, cold and white, with
clean dry nails, withered a little like an old apple, were crossed
loosely on his stomach.  He had been closely shaved: he was
immaculately groomed.  The rigid head was thrust sharply upward,
with a ghastly counterfeit of a smile: there was a little gum of wax
at the nostrils, and a waxen lacing between the cold firm lips. 
The mouth was tight, somewhat bulging.  It looked fuller than it
ever had looked before.

There was a faint
indefinably cloying odor.

The sailor looked with
superstition, nervously, with puckered forehead.  Then he
whispered to Eugene:

"I g-g-guess that's
Ben, all right."

Because, Eugene thought,
it is not Ben, and we are lost.  He looked at the cold bright
carrion, that bungling semblance which had not even the power of a
good wax-work to suggest its image.  Nothing of Ben could be
buried here.  In this poor stuffed crow, with its pathetic
bartering, and its neat buttons, nothing of the owner had been left. 
All that was there was the tailoring of Horse Hines, who now stood
by, watchfully, hungry for their praise.

No, this is not Ben
(Eugene thought).  No trace of him is left in this deserted
shell.  It bears no mark of him.  Where has he gone? Is
this his bright particular flesh, made in his image, given life by
his unique gesture, by his one soul?  No, he is gone from that
bright flesh.  This thing is one with all carrion; it will be
mixed with the earth again.  Ben?  Where?  O lost!