Wise Blood (3 page)

“I’m sick!” he called. “I can’t be closed up in this thing. Get me out!”

The porter stood watching him and didn’t move.

“Jesus,” Haze said, “Jesus.”

The porter didn’t move. “Jesus been a long time gone,” he said in a sour triumphant
voice.

CHAPTER
2

He didn’t get to the city until six the next evening. That morning he had got off
the train at a junction stop to get some air and while he had been looking the other
way, the train had slid off. He had run after it but his hat had blown away and he
had had to run in the other direction to save the hat. Fortunately, he had carried
his duffel bag out with him lest someone should steal something out of it. He had
to wait six hours at the junction stop until the right train came.

When he got to Taulkinham, as soon as he stepped off the train, he began to see signs
and lights. P
EANUTS,
W
ESTERN
U
NION,
A
JAX,
T
AXI,
H
OTEL,
C
ANDY.
Most of them were electric and moved up and down or blinked frantically. He walked
very slowly, carrying his duffel bag by the neck. His head turned to one side and
then the other, first toward one sign and then another. He walked the length of the
station and then he walked back as if he might be going to get on the train again.
His face was stern and determined under the heavy hat. No one observing him would
have known that he had no place to go. He walked up and down the crowded waiting room
two or three times, but he did not want to sit on the benches there. He wanted a private
place to go to.

Finally he pushed open a door at one end of the station where a plain black and white
sign said, M
EN’S
T
OILET.
W
HITE.
He went into a narrow room lined on one side with washbasins and on the other with
a row of wooden stalls. The walls of this room had once been a bright cheerful yellow
but now they were more nearly green and were decorated with handwriting and with various
detailed drawings of the parts of the body of both men and women. Some of the stalls
had doors on them and on one of the doors, written with what must have been a crayon,
was the large word, W
ELCOME
, followed by three exclamation points and something that looked like a snake. Haze
entered this one.

He had been sitting in the narrow box for some time, studying the inscriptions on
the sides and door, before he noticed one that was to the left over the toilet paper.
It was written in a drunken-looking hand. It said,

                                           Mrs. Leora Watts!

                                           60 Buckley Road

                                           The friendliest bed in town!

                                                         Brother.

After a while he took a pencil out of his pocket and wrote down the address on the
back of an envelope.

Outside he got in a yellow taxi and told the driver where he wanted to go. The driver
was a small man with a big leather cap on his head and the tip of a cigar coming out
from the center of his mouth. They had driven a few blocks before Haze noticed him
squinting at him through the rear-view mirror. “You ain’t no friend of hers, are you?”
the driver asked.

“I never saw her before,” Haze said.

“Where’d you hear about her? She don’t usually have no preachers for company.” He
did not disturb the position of the cigar when he spoke; he was able to speak on either
side of it.

“I ain’t any preacher,” Haze said, frowning. “I only seen her name in the toilet.”

“You look like a preacher,” the driver said. “That hat looks like a preacher’s hat.”

“It ain’t,” Haze said, and leaned forward and gripped the back of the front seat.
“It’s just a hat.”

They stopped in front of a small one-story house between a filling station and a vacant
lot. Haze got out and paid his fare through the window.

“It ain’t only the hat,” the driver said. “It’s a look in your face somewheres.”

“Listen,” Haze said, tilting the hat over one eye, “I’m not a preacher.”

“I understand,” the driver said. “It ain’t anybody perfect on this green earth of
God’s, preachers nor nobody else. And you can tell people better how terrible sin
is if you know from your own personal experience.”

Haze put his head in at the window, knocking the hat accidentally straight again.
He seemed to have knocked his face straight too for it became completely expressionless.
“Listen,” he said, “get this: I don’t believe in anything.”

The driver took the stump of cigar out of his mouth. “Not in nothing at all?” he asked,
leaving his mouth open after the question.

“I don’t have to say it but once to nobody,” Haze said.

The driver closed his mouth and after a second he returned the piece of cigar to it.
“That’s the trouble with you preachers,” he said. “You’ve all got too good to believe
in anything,” and he drove off with a look of disgust and righteousness.

Haze turned and looked at the house he was going into. It was little more than a shack
but there was a warm glow in one front window. He went up on the front porch and put
his eye to a convenient crack in the shade, and found himself looking directly at
a large white knee. After some time he moved away from the crack and tried the front
door. It was not locked and he went into a small dark hall with a door on either side
of it. The door to the left was cracked and let out a narrow shaft of light. He moved
into the light and looked through the crack.

Mrs. Watts was sitting alone in a white iron bed, cutting her toenails with a large
pair of scissors. She was a big woman with very yellow hair and white skin that glistened
with a greasy preparation. She had on a pink nightgown that would better have fit
a smaller figure.

Haze made a noise with the doorknob and she looked up and observed him standing behind
the crack. She had a bold steady penetrating stare. After a minute, she turned it
away from him and began cutting her toenails again.

He went in and stood looking around him. There was nothing much in the room but the
bed and a bureau and a rocking chair full of dirty clothes. He went to the bureau
and fingered a nail file and then an empty jelly glass while he looked into the yellowish
mirror and watched Mrs. Watts, slightly distorted, grinning at him. His senses were
stirred to the limit. He turned quickly and went to her bed and sat down on the far
corner of it. He drew a long draught of air through one side of his nose and began
to run his hand carefully along the sheet.

The pink tip of Mrs. Watts’s tongue appeared and moistened her lower lip. She seemed
just as glad to see him as if he had been an old friend but she didn’t say anything.

He picked up her foot, which was heavy but not cold, and moved it about an inch to
one side, and kept his hand on it.

Mrs. Watts’s mouth split in a wide full grin that showed her teeth. They were small
and pointed and speckled with green and there was a wide space between each one. She
reached out and gripped Haze’s arm just above the elbow. “You huntin’ something?”
she drawled.

If she had not had him so firmly by the arm, he might have leaped out the window.
Involuntarily his lips formed the words, “Yes, mam,” but no sound came through them.

“Something on your mind?” Mrs. Watts asked, pulling his rigid figure a little closer.

“Listen,” he said, keeping his voice tightly under control, “I come for the usual
business.”

Mrs. Watts’s mouth became more round, as if she were perplexed at this waste of words.
“Make yourself at home,” she said simply.

They stared at each other for almost a minute and neither moved. Then he said in a
voice that was higher than his usual voice, “What I mean to have you know is: I’m
no goddam preacher.”

Mrs. Watts eyed him steadily with only a slight smirk. Then she put her other hand
under his face and tickled it in a motherly way. “That’s okay, son,” she said. “Momma
don’t mind if you ain’t a preacher.”

CHAPTER
3

His second night in Taulkinham, Hazel Motes walked along down town close to the store
fronts but not looking in them. The black sky was underpinned with long silver streaks
that looked like scaffolding and depth on depth behind it were thousands of stars
that all seemed to be moving very slowly as if they were about some vast construction
work that involved the whole order of the universe and would take all time to complete.
No one was paying any attention to the sky. The stores in Taulkinham stayed open on
Thursday nights so that people could have an extra opportunity to see what was for
sale. Haze’s shadow was now behind him and now before him and now and then broken
up by other people’s shadows, but when it was by itself, stretching behind him, it
was a thin nervous shadow walking backwards. His neck was thrust forward as if he
were trying to smell something that was always being drawn away. The glary light from
the store windows made his blue suit look purple.

After a while he stopped where a lean-faced man had a card table set up in front of
a department store and was demonstrating a potato peeler. The man had on a small canvas
hat and a shirt patterned with bunches of upside-down pheasants and quail and bronze
turkeys. He was pitching his voice under the street noises so that it reached every
ear distinctly as if in a private conversation. A few people gathered around. There
were two buckets on the card table, one empty and the other full of potatoes. Between
the two buckets there was a pyramid of green cardboard boxes and, on top of the stack,
one peeler was open for demonstration. The man stood in front of this altar, pointing
over it at various people. “How about you?” he said, pointing at a damp-haired pimpled
boy. “You ain’t gonna let one of these go by?” He stuck a brown potato in one side
of the open machine. The machine was a square tin box with a red handle, and as he
turned the handle, the potato went into the box and then in a second, backed out the
other side, white. “You ain’t gonna let one of these go by!” he said.

The boy guffawed and looked at the other people gathered around. He had yellow hair
and a fox-shaped face.

“What’s yer name?” the peeler man asked.

“Name Enoch Emery,” the boy said and snuffled.

“Boy with a pretty name like that ought to have one of these,” the man said, rolling
his eyes, trying to warm up the others. Nobody laughed but the boy. Then a man standing
across from Hazel Motes laughed, not a pleasant laugh but one that had a sharp edge.
He was a tall cadaverous man with a black suit and a black hat on. He had on dark
glasses and his cheeks were streaked with lines that looked as if they had been painted
on and had faded. They gave him the expression of a grinning mandrill. As soon as
he laughed, he began to move forward in a deliberate way, jiggling a tin cup in one
hand and tapping a white cane in front of him with the other. Just behind him there
came a child, handing out leaflets. She had on a black dress and a black knitted cap
pulled down low on her forehead; there was a fringe of brown hair sticking out from
it on either side; she had a long face and a short sharp nose. The man selling peelers
was irritated when he saw the people looking at this pair instead of him. “How about
you, you there,” he said, pointing at Haze. “You’ll never be able to get a bargain
like this in any store.”

Haze was looking at the blind man and the child. “Hey!” Enoch Emery said, reaching
across a woman and punching his arm. “He’s talking to you! He’s talking to you!” Enoch
had to punch him again before he looked at the peeler man.

“Whyn’t you take one of these home to yer wife?” the peeler man was saying.

“Don’t have one,” Haze muttered, looking back at the blind man again.

“Well, you got a dear old mother, ain’t you?”

“No.”

“Well pshaw,” the man said, with his hand cupped to the people, “he needs one theseyer
just to keep him company.”

Enoch Emery thought that was so funny that he doubled over and slapped his knee, but
Hazel Motes didn’t look as if he had heard it yet. “I’m going to give away a half
a dozen peeled potatoes to the first person purchasing one theseyer machines,” the
man said. “Who’s gonna step up first? Only a dollar and a half for a machine’d cost
you three dollars in any store!” Enoch Emery began fumbling in his pockets. “You’ll
thank the day you ever stopped here,” the man said, “you’ll never forget it. Ever’
one of you people purchasing one theseyer machines’ll never forget it!”

The blind man was moving forward slowly, saying in a kind of garbled mutter, “Help
a blind preacher. If you won’t repent, give up a nickel. I can use it as good as you.
Help a blind unemployed preacher. Wouldn’t you rather have me beg than preach? Come
on and give a nickel if you won’t repent.”

There were not many people gathered around but the ones who were began to move off.
When the machine-seller saw this, he leaned, glaring over the card table. “Hey you!”
he yelled at the blind man. “What you think you doing? Who you think you are, running
people off from here?” The blind man didn’t pay any attention to him. He kept on rattling
the cup and the child kept on handing out the pamphlets. He passed Enoch Emery and
came on toward Haze, hitting the white cane out at an angle from his leg. Haze leaned
forward and saw that the lines on his face were not painted on; they were scars.

“What the hell you think you doing?” the man selling peelers yelled. “I got these
people together, how you think you can horn in?”

The child held one of the pamphlets out to Haze and he grabbed it. The words on the
outside of it said, “Jesus Calls You.”

“I’d like to know who the hell you think you are!” the man with the peelers was yelling.
The child went back to where he was and handed him a tract. He looked at it for an
instant with his lip curled and then he charged around the card table, upsetting the
bucket of potatoes. “These damn Jesus fanatics,” he yelled, glaring around, trying
to find the blind man. New people gathered, hoping to see a disturbance. “These goddam
Communist foreigners!” the peeler man screamed. “I got this crowd together!” He stopped,
realizing there was a crowd.