Such Sweet Thunder (66 page)

“She’s got to know!” he said.

And as he passed quickly out of the gallery, he decided not to look at the fiery Greek’s face, but upon gaining the door, he felt compelled to put his feeling to a final test. He looked back.

“Eh — your momma tells me that you’re kinda keen on that little Thornton girl,” said the great man, and Amerigo burst blindly through
the door and buried his sensibility in the soft breast of evening, which lay waiting, burning with all the virulent colors of autumn, tingeing his delirium with a fearful apprehension of sadness. The thought: “It’s too good to be true” would have articulated itself into words had he not done his utmost to suppress it.

Speeding northward on the streetcar, the gradual shabbiness of the streets had a sobering effect upon him. He became aware of where
he
lived, and where
she
lived. And that she had
already
won a scholarship, according to the
Voice
and that
he
would probably have to stay at home and attend junior college,
and
work as well, and
then, if
things went well,
if
he won a scholarship, he
might
hope to attend whatever university it designated, because, although Rutherford had finally gotten a raise, which was
not
very much, he could
never
afford to send him to Harvard or Yale.

His shoulders sank deeper under the weight of impending reality. Gradually the noisy rumor about him and Cosima seemed a mockery. The thought of her knowing struck fear in his heart and caused him to walk straighter than ever after he had stepped down from the streetcar at Eighteenth Street. I must not let them see! he thought.

After the movie he strolled indifferently past
her
house, but she and her parents were not sitting out front, so with a casual air he glanced up at the windows. They were dark. Disappointed that he could not show his indifference he turned down the avenue, and then thought: Maybe she’s at church! He turned back toward Nineteenth Street, and when he arrived at the church he eased the door open and peeped in. There was no sign of her. Feeling foolish, guilty, even ridiculous, he turned down Nineteenth Street and interested himself in the men and women he met, and in the unique way in which the shadow from the lamppost fell across the broken bricks in the sidewalk. Then he observed that the YWCA was dark, and then watched with an air of superiority a couple talking on the corner. The boy held the girl by the waist and spoke softly to her and the girl smiled at the boy as though he were the only boy in the world. He began to sing softly as he approached them, but they did not notice him, so he resentfully left them to their folleh and grew more intensely involved in his song, a song with no words, with meaningless words he made up himself, sad autumnal articulations of pain, filling a melody that he had never heard before, but was familiar just the same. At Eighteenth Street he gazed left and right at the banal procession, turned right and followed the persistent sound of the
Boom! Boom! Boom!
that came from
Lincoln Hall. Now he was getting the hang of it, could ask the right girl in the right tone of voice at the right time and move in any direction at will to the beat — and s-m-o-o-t-h — of the rhythm and grind of the axising hip and release from quivering lip a flow of nervous images gleaned from the better movies and Palgrave’s Golden Treasury and smile with discreet sarcasm upon the primitive machinations of the mob: an aristocrat in a class of his own, proudly, defiantly alone.

The eyes of the world were upon him as he marched to school, a junior who
knew
with a desperate pounding of the heart, but
knew not
that he knew, a lieutenant in the ROTC, a member of the North High Choir, Quartet, Special Singers, and Glee Club, nervously contemplating the hazards of Chemistry! History! Geometry! French! And gladdened by the prospect of English Literature and Sociology: Tramp tramp tramp tramp, through the foggy morning.

Looks like smoke. That’s corny! He became aware somewhere in the half-sleeping part of his mind of the clouds of smoke that followed in the wake of the Great War that boomed overseas, that had shaken the Maginot Line, obscured the boundaries of half a dozen little countries, and caused a whirl of speculation as to whether England would get into it, and Russia, and what would happen if they did, now that Italy, Il Duce, had made a pact with Hitler. The wind moaned through the trees and broke up into a din of articulate whisperings that mingled with the rumble of the streetcar that sped across Fifteenth Street.

“What you say, Dad?”

He looked into the raw-boned handsome face of Roy Earle. Earle looked down at him with a smile that revealed a broken front tooth, and struggled beside him with the lazy movements of a natural athlete.

“Oh!… eh hello theah!” thinking: “He’s in the Golden Gloves, and on the football and basketball teams. Goes with Betty Love. Betty Love with long black curly hair with sideburns and slightly bow legs.” His resentment of Roy’s intrusion upon his thoughts deepened, as he struggled to suppress the image.

They turned into Eighteenth Street. A knot of girls passed them just in front of Street’s Hotel.

“Hi Roy!”

“Hi Roy!”

“Hi Roy!”

“Hi Roy!”

They looked back with seductive smiles.

“What you say, baby!” grabbing the nearest one by the waist. Loraine Turner, freshman. Her bosom bounced when she walked, short little peach-colored girl with lipstick and high-heeled shoes. “Look at that f-i-n-e bitch!” Earle exclaimed with a grin. “Ha — ha!… How’d you like to have a piece a that, dad?”

His mouth flew open.

“Aaaaaaaw! Roy Earle!” Loraine giggled.

She
likes
it! Amerigo observed with bewildered amazement as she struggled loose from him and he patted her on the behind. When she caught up with the others she whispered something to them and they burst into shrills of laughter, and looked back at him and giggled and switched their hips, at which Amerigo’s face grew hot with rage, disgust, and envy.

They were stepping off the curb at Eighteenth and Vine. Roy asked:

“How you makin’ out with Cosima?”

“Why — what — what-do-you-mean!”

“Aw-haw haw haw! Man. I know you stuck on that hinkty chick! Eeeeevery time I see ’er in the cafeteria or in the hall I see you, standin’ or sittin’ not too far away! Just gazin’ at ’er — like she was Lena Horne!”

“Aaaaaaaaw, maaaannn!”

“She’s a fine chick!” Roy said. “Goddamned
virgin!
Has to stay home a-l-l the time. Her ol’ man got the key to that pussy belt hisself! Ain’ nobody gittin’ none a that cock! Gotta have dough. Be a doctor’s son or one a them big-shot niggahs!”

He wants me to hit him, he thought. He’d like that, him being in the Golden Gloves and all.

“Ha!” Roy laughed to himself.

“What are you
laughing at!
”

“Old Chubby Collins tried to take ’er to the dance last year. He’s a cock-
hound!
”

“His old man’s a lawyer,” he said, “why didn’t her old man let her go?” He tried to control the tremor in his voice.

“He was afraid he’d try to git in them drawers! Ever’body knows Chubby! An’ his ol’ man’s worse than him! Comin’ to school in that bad Oldsmobile — all shaaaaarp! — like he was a movie star or somethin’!” They walked on quietly a few yards. “But that don’ cut no ice with me!” Roy continued, as if to himself.

“Whaat?”

“Foolin’ around with these virgin queens. I ain’ tryin’ to win no home, I just wanna lie up between a cool pair of thighs an’ git my
rocks
off!” He grinned with apparent satisfaction at the agitated expression on his face.

Everybody
knows! he thought with a heavy heart, just as they were turning up Woodland Avenue. He was glad that he remembered not to look at the house. But now they heard voices from behind, girls’ voices,
her
voice among them, laughing and talking gaily. He and Roy shifted to one side to let them pass, a little beyond the bridge. The sudden thought of Miss Jennings threw him into confusion.

“There’s your ol’ lady, man!” Roy yelled, and for an instant Amerigo contemplated dashing his brains out on the rails below. Instead he fled to the other side of the street and half stumbled, half walked up the hill, alone, his eyes fixed upon the ground, and tried to pretend that he had not heard the derisive “Huh!” that had issued from the lips of one of the girls.

Was it Cosima? he wondered. That she had to hear it from that bastard! Like
that! Her!

His diminished black body moved laboriously toward the summit of the great hill. Over the hazardous terrain of the age of her knowing.

Finally, after a tremendous effort, he entered the music room and took his seat a little before the bell rang. The hated room bubbled with the telling of the events of the last summer. Things had changed. There were several new men in the choir. Roscoe, Edna, Earline, Cecil, Virgil, and Sidney were gone. Dave was going with Susie now, and Betty was “sweet” on John, Willie and Pauline had had a “falling out,” Odell had been a playground instructor, Lydia had dropped out of school and had a job. Cosima entered the room and took a seat just in front of
him
.

Rrrrrrrring!

As the sound died away, Mr. Rogan entered in a flutter of nervous effeminate movement, in a perfectly tailored new blue serge suit, an off-white silk shirt, a soft blue tie, and a new pair of tan shoes.

“Look at that cat!” Carrol T. exclaimed, at which the others also exclaimed and whistled.

“All right!” cried Mr. Rogan, feigning anger, but the uproar continued.

“I said
all right!
Shut up! or get the
hell
out of here!” Silence. Then after two minutes, posing now behind the desk, his nose stuck up in the air, as though the room were filled with a bad smell, he began in an artificial tone: “I’m — eh — verreh pa-leased to see that seo meneh of you
— eh — ledes and
gentlemen
have managed to return to us.” He spoke of the schedule of concerts the choir was to give in the coming year, and concluded by announcing that the choir was to have an accompanist. “To those of you who don’t know her,” shooting a facetious look at Amerigo, “I’d like to introduce Miss Cosima Thornton, who has been studying music at the conservatory and is one of our most promising young pianists. Miss Thornton, would you be seo kind as to take a seat at the piaaaano!” She rose and seated herself at the piano. “All right,” he resumed, “we’re going to run down the old repertoire so that Miss Thornton can get acquainted with some of our standard arrangements.” He raised his arms, held them suspended for a second, and then down! — at which the word, “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” issued from sixty-five mouths. “My good LO — ORD — show me the WAAAAAAY!”

He studied her face in profile, as her fingers flitted excitedly, nervously over the keys, as her lips trembled and her eyes darted over the notes on the page.

She looks kinda like Mom. He studied her large brown eyes and the strong ridge that outlined her lips. But her eyebrows were different, rather heavy and almost meeting over the bridge of her nose, while a soft, barely perceptible fuzz grew on the side of her face. Her hair was different, too, a thick mass of reddish brown curls, which made her head seem too large for her thin neck and sloping shoulders. She’s sort of ugly! he thought with astonishment, suddenly smiling as a burst of warm affection flooded his senses. She reminded him of Toodle-lum! His smile deepened, a smile of remembering. How ridiculous it was, and yet how accurate the comparison seemed! But then, there was in her nature a nervous explosive quality that Toodle-lum did not have, not merely thinness, fragility, but the flighty fragility of a butterfly! And she always wore flowing things with a close neckline and skirts just a little too long. Now she made him think of Aunt Rose! Something about the lively expression in her eyes, they seemed to talk, to give expression to nuances of feeling that rendered words unneccessary. He stared at her neck.

Gradually he became aware of a dead silence that seemed to engulf him and interrupt the flow of his reverie like an intrusive sound. It woke him up. He looked about him, at Mr. Rogan, at
her
, sitting at the piano with her hands folded in her lap. She looked at the piano keys, but the rest of the class looked at him with expectant smiles on their faces.

“Mister Jones!” said Mr. Rogan in a cold incisive tone, “please forgive me for dis
turb
ing you, but would you be so kind as to tell me who — in your opinion — is directing this choir?”

“You.”

“Oh? I thought by the way you have been staring at Miss
Thornton
instead of looking at
me
that
she
was directing it!”

General laughter, gales of laughter, splashing against the cobblestones up and down the alley like summer rain, and swirling through the holes in the sewer lid where it whirred like the sound of the sea.

“Now let’s try it — a-gaine!” said Mr. Rogan. “And let us pray that the
lunk-head
second tenors come in on time!”

“Oooooooh — my good Lo-ord — show me the waaaay!”

Rrrrrrrrring!

He allowed himself to be washed through the door and down the hall into the French class where
she
sat in the first row, he in the third next to Mary Nixon who sat next to Mary Ann who smiled sympathetically at him, while the pretty-legged French teacher lectured and then asked questions. He stumbled through a translation and got his lip hung up on the
eu
, and was more than grateful when the bell rang. He fled toward the stinking odor of sulfuric acid that was chemistry under Mr. North, the shy, boy-faced chemistry professor whom he imagined to have been born in a test tube. He sat on the front row two seats from
her
, lucky Melvin Humphreys on the other side, whispering and smiling about something. By straining a little he could see, without attracting Mr. North’s attention, the tip of her nose and the fine pattern of the hairs on her legs.