Thomas Wolfe - Thomas Wolfe - Of Time and the River, You Can't Go Home Again & Look Homeward, Angel

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 anæmically, 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.