The Third Generation (47 page)

He saw his mother push Dave aside and come quickly into the room, calling, “Charles!” He saw Dave clutch her arm and jerk her about.

“You son of a bitch! That’s my mother!” he cried thickly, pushing to his feet. His legs buckled and he was trying to get his feet underneath him when he heard his mother say sharply, “Don’t you dare touch me,” and then he saw her slap Dave.

Fury rent his heart as he saw the sudden pimp rise in Dave’s flushed face, the moronic bestiality in the character of men who murder women, and heard Veeny shriek, “Don’t hit her, hon!” He knew that Dave was going to strike her, and he groped for a weapon and tensed himself to leap even before Dave actually struck her, knocking her off balance. But the actual sight of his mother being struck by a depraved pimp cut his will loose from his mind, and turned his mind back thirteen years to its first impression of horror.
He saw her hands grope desperately for the spokes of the first wheel, and then fall limply, jerking spasmodically in the dust as the hurt came overwhelmingly into her bulging eyes
. The two scenes fused together and were sealed in transcendent horror. He felt the flood of brackish bile drenching him in shock. He was caught, anchored in paralysis, stripped to his naked soul in a sudden world of no values, no right, no wrong—his mother struck down by a sullen brute and himself helpless in the flood of brackish bile. He was standing half crouched in the doorway between the rooms, gripping the bedspread he had seized for a weapon.

As he tried vainly to move, his will still severed from his mind, he saw his father strike Dave across the forehead with a chair. He saw Dave stagger back, the white cut over his eye not yet beginning to bleed, whip out his knife and loom above his father like an enraged monster, stabbing him in the chest. He saw his father grapple with the brute, struggling desperately to clutch his wrist, the knife rising again through the solid terror of Veeny’s screams. All happening in nightmare perspective, too rapidly for his mind to rationalize, too horrible to retain. And then he saw his mother rising from the floor, moving to his father’s aid, entering the area of ultimate danger. He tried to leap to her defense, to call out a warning. But he couldn’t move or cry or breathe. Then he felt himself going down-down-down into the cool dark valley of oblivion….

They drove through a land that had no roads and parked on the crest of a hill without trees and scores of laughing brown men, seeing the shiny car, scrambled up the steep ascent and beckoned to him, their black eyes glittering and their white teeth flashing in the sun, saying, come on, we’ll get you some fine sexy girls, juicy as melons and sweet as honey, there are thousands of them down there just waiting to be had, pointing to the village of huts without doors that lay in the valley below. His mother said no, don’t go, my son, there’s only destruction and ruin down there, but he could see girls with thighs as firm as river banks and breasts as sharp as mountain peaks dancing on the rooftops, their red mouths smiling up at him like the sun rising from a sea of pearls as huge as cannon balls, and his desire was too great to withstand. He sprang from the car and left his mother sitting there on the pinnacle of the hill, turning away his gaze from the entreaty in her eyes, and followed the brown men down the precipitous slope. Like ravenous wolves they chased the girls through the dusty streets of the village and caught them and threw them down and ravished them in the sight of each other in the bright sunshine in the hot dry dust and their blood blazed with carnal lust and they chased still others and ravished them. Then he felt a burning pain pass down through his body like a bolt of fire from heaven and he looked to the sky to see from whence it came and he found himself in a narrow street of a city that was ancient before Rome was born where the crooked houses were seven stories high and men with satyrs’ heads were leaning from the upper windows shooting down at him with guns that made no sound and laughing insanely as he danced in agony. He ran headlong in blind panic, the terror eating at his loins, not knowing which way to turn, and the buildings grew higher and the streets narrower and darkness descended and men of all nations with bestial faces fought savagely with gleaming knives, cursing in a thousand tongues, gutting each other with inhuman ecstasy, while the screams of the women trampled underneath rose from the dark narrow crevices like anguished wails from hell. He was fighting desperately with no weapon?, with all his might and soul, swinging his own body like a broadax to cut a path through the bloody slaughter back to the pinnacle of the hill where he’d left his mother defenseless and alone, his heart caught in the grip of an unearthly fear. But when he came to the path that ascended to the pinnacle of the hill his way was blocked by an ancient hearse drawn by four black horses standing before the entrance of a crude stone temple and flanked by hundreds of very old women clad in long black gowns who were showering their heads with dust scooped from the ground and wailing lamentations to heaven. And twelve short black men with identical faces graven in grief, six on each side, bore a plain black coffin from the temple and lifted it into the hearse. His heart stopped beating, caught in a terrible presentiment. He pushed the old women aside and ran forward and leaped into the hearse and tore loose the lid of the coffin, but he knew it held the body of his mother even before he looked down and saw her face, the mouth opened and twisted in infinite agony and the marks of the brutality livid on the fair skin of her neck and body. It was as if by taking part in the carnival of lust and savagery he had ravished her himself. He was struck down with a bolt of guilt that burned like the fires of hell.

“Oh God!” he cried aloud, the anguished cry torn from the very depths of his soul.

“Easy, lad,” he heard a voice say.

He opened his eyes and looked into the face of a policeman who bent over him, holding a bottle to his nose. He turned his head away. For a moment the dream seemed so real he thought his mother was dead. He felt the deepest, bitterest torment of all his life.

Then he heard the policeman saying, “Better get up and get dressed. Your father’s been hurt. They’ve taken him to the hospital.”

He looked about the room. There was only another policeman present. To one side was an overturned chair. Dark patches of blood made a grim arabesque on the floor, dots like macabre footsteps leading toward the door. Suddenly the horror returned.

He heard his own voice, torn from the constriction of his heart, “My mother—”

“She’s all right. She’s with your father.”

Slowly he got to his feet and put on his shoes and coat. With the knowledge of his mother’s safety his mind had ceased to work. They drove him to the hospital in a police car. He was permitted into the operating room.

At first he had eyes only for his mother. She stood beside the operating table with her back to the door, holding his father’s hand. Her small, worn body was immobile, held in a posture of absolute faith. He knew that whatever the outcome, she had placed her trust in God. Somehow, it was reassuring to see her thus.

Then he looked at his father. His nude black body lay passively on the white stretcher, almost as if resigned. His eye were closed and the deep lines about his mouth and nose were relaxed. All of the signs of frustration and defeat had gone from his face and it was calm. There was a great dignity in his calm as if he had prepared himself to meet his Maker without excuses or deceit.

Cotton swabs covering the wounds were stained with blood. Two doctors were rapidly tying a suture. Another, assisted by a nurse, was giving him a transfusion. Charles could not tell whether he was under anesthetic or not. He went forward slowly and stood beside his mother. He didn’t feel anything at all. His body was drained of all emotion. His head was light and empty and he was fearful he might topple and fall. His mother didn’t look about or give any sign that she was aware of him.

But suddenly, as if sensing his presence, his father opened his eyes. He saw his father’s lips moving, the struggle to speak mirrored in his eyes. He leaned forward to hear.

“Son, be a good boy,” his father whispered.

One of the doctors looked up, frowning. “You mustn’t talk, sir,” he cautioned.

His father gave no sign that he had heard. “Take care of your mother, son,” he continued to whisper.

Charles nodded and looked at his mother’s face. Its set composure was held in a complete and untouchable grief. She was looking at his father’s face. She didn’t see him.

He felt a strange sense of rejection, as if he didn’t belong there, as if he were intruding on an intimate scene between the two of them.

“Mama—” he began, but she didn’t hear him.

“We—we all made mistakes,” his father was whispering. “Don’t—don’t let them—”

He knew, even before the doctors exchanged glances, that his father had died. His mother leaned down and kissed his father’s lips. She didn’t speak or cry. The nurse covered the body with a sheet and wheeled it into another room. His mother walked along beside the stretcher. He reached down and took her hand but it was cold and did not respond and he felt that she was not aware of his touch.

Suddenly he was too exhausted to stand any longer. “I’m going home and go to bed for a while, Mama,” he said.

She did not reply. He waited a moment and then asked, “Are you coming?”

“Mother will just stay here for a while,” she said without looking at him.

He knew then, in that instant, that she had gone back to his father; that she would belong to his father now forever. He felt as if he had been cut in two; as if a part of himself had been severed from himself forever. But at that moment it did not hurt; the hurt had not come.

He went quietly from the room and left her standing there, her small white hand with its swollen red knuckles resting atop the dark lifeless hand of his father which she had drawn from beneath the sheet. He walked slowly back to Cedar Avenue. When he passed a whiskey joint he felt an impulse to stop and buy a drink. But he knew he didn’t need a drink; he’d never need a drink again.

He turned and went to his room. The picture of his mother standing there, holding his father’s hand, blotted out everything else. It seemed to fit. But he was out of it now. It was his mother and his father in the end. And he was out of all of it. But somehow it seemed wholly right. It seemed the only wholly right thing he’d ever known.

He was blind from exhaustion. He undressed slowly and sat naked on the side of the bed.

Then he looked up and saw the pile of stained butts in the saucer beside the bed. Sudden tears cascaded down his face in a tidal wave. Now the horror came over him like a shroud. He was inside of the horror and it was all about him. But it was different now. It was not like it had been all the other times, such as when he’d been in the automobile accident. His mother was not there now to shield him. She’d never be there again. He was alone within the horror and he knew he’d never get out. He’d always see the world through his veil of horror.

But even that was all right now, he thought sobbingly. Everything was all right now. Even his father was resting.

He slipped beneath the covers, smelling his father’s smell. But that was all right too. It would go, and then there would only be his own smell, for always. He was quiet now, in his complete and sealing horror. He folded his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He wondered if his brother Tom was still alive. His mother would have to tell Will, he thought. He wondered what Will would think of him. He found himself thinking about Will’s accident. That was the beginning, he thought; that was where it started. He thought about it for a long time, from the perspective of his horror; about his mother saying God was going to punish him for acting ugly, and how he’d thought about God afterwards when it had been Will who’d been blinded. Now he knew:
God didn’t make a mistake, after all
.

Finally he thought about himself. He wondered what would become of himself now. Maybe he’d look up Mr. Small and become a waiter. He’d look up Peggy too. She had his child somewhere. He’d find out where she was and write to her. He’d tell her everything. Maybe she’d understand. If she would have him after that he would marry her. If she wouldn’t maybe she’d let him help the child.

His thoughts began to drift away. Just before he went to sleep he said aloud, “Good-bye, Mama.”

Acknowledgments

Four lines of
Memory Lane
, on page 174, Copyright 1924 by Harms, Inc. Reprinted by permission.

Two lines of
Collegiate
, on page 174, Copyright 1925 by Shapiro, Bernstein & Co., Inc. Copyright renewed. Assigned to Shapiro, Bernstein & Co., Inc.

Two lines of
Chloe
, on page 174, lyrics by Gus Kahn, music by Neil Moret, Copyright 1927 Villa Moret, Inc. Rights controlled by Robbins Music Corporation. Used by Special Permission.

Four lines of
Where’d You Get Those Eyes
, on page 189, Copyright 1926 by Leo Feist Inc. Words and music by Walter Donaldson. Used by Special Permission of Copyright Proprietor.

Two lines from
Me and My Shadow
, on page 190. Copyright 1927 by Bourne, Inc. Used by Permission of the Copyright owners.

Two lines from
Gimme a Little Kiss
, on page 195. Copyright 1926 by ABC Music Corp. Used by Permission of the Copyright owners.

Two lines of
Three O’clock in the Morning
, on page 198. words by Dorothy Terriss, music by Julian Robledo. Copyright 1921/22 West’s Ltd., London, England. Copyright Renewal 1949/50 West’s Ltd., London, England. Leo Feist Inc. Sole and Exclusive Agents for United States and Canada. Used by Special Permission.

Three lines of
When Day Is Done
, on page 230, Copyright 1926 by Harms, Inc. Reprinted by Permission.

Two lines of
Among My Souvenirs
on page 260. Copyright 1927 by DeSylva, Brown & Henderson, Inc. Reprinted by Permission.