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

His mind was bound in the sad lulling magic of the car wheels. Clackety-clack. Clackety-clack. Clackety-clack. Clackety-clack. He thought of his life as something that had happened long ago. He had found, at last, his gateway to the lost world. But did it lie before or behind him? Was he leaving or entering it? Above the rhythm of the wheels he thought of Eliza’s laughter over ancient things. He saw a brief forgotten gesture, her white broad forehead, a ghost of old grief in her eyes. Ben, Gant — their strange lost voices. Their sad laughter. They swam toward him through green walls of fantasy. They caught and twisted at his heart. The green ghost-glimmer of their faces coiled away. Lost. Lost.

“Let’s go for a smoke,” said Max Isaacs.

They went back and stood wedged for stability on the closed platform of the car. They lighted cigarettes.

Light broke against the east, in a murky rim. The far dark was eaten cleanly away. The horizon sky was barred with hard fierce strips of light. Still buried in night, they looked across at the unimpinging sheet of day. They looked under the lifted curtain at brightness. They were knifed sharply away from it. Then, gently, light melted across the land like dew. The world was gray.

The east broke out in ragged flame. In the car, the little waitress breathed deeply, sighed, and opened her clear eyes.

Max Isaacs fumbled his cigarette awkwardly, looked at Eugene, and grinned sheepishly with delight, craning his neck along his collar, and making a nervous grimace of his white fuzz-haired face. His hair was thick, straight, the color of taffy. He had blond eyebrows. There was much kindness in him. They looked at each other with clumsy tenderness. They thought of the lost years at Woodson Street. They saw with decent wonder their awkward bulk of puberty. The proud gate of the years swung open for them. They felt a lonely glory. They said farewell.

Charleston, fat weed that roots itself on Lethe wharf, lived in another time. The hours were days, the days weeks.

They arrived in the morning. By noon, several weeks had passed, and he longed for the day’s ending. They were quartered in a small hotel on King Street — an old place above stores, with big rooms. After lunch, they went out to see the town. Max Isaacs and Malvin Bowden turned at once toward the Navy Yard. Mrs. Bowden went with them. Eugene was weary for sleep. He promised to meet them later.

When they had gone, he pulled off his shoes and took off his coat and shirt, and lay down to sleep in a big dark room, into which the warm sun fell in shuttered bars. Time droned like a sleepy October fly.

At five o’clock, Louise, the little waitress, came to wake him. She, too, had wanted to sleep. She knocked gently at the door. When he did not answer, she opened it quietly and came in, closing it behind her. She came to the side of the bed and looked at him for a moment.

“Eugene!” she whispered. “Eugene.”

He murmured drowsily, and stirred. The little waitress smiled and sat down on the bed. She bent over him and tickled him gently in the ribs, chuckling to see him squirm. Then she tickled the soles of his feet. He wakened slowly, yawning, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“What is it?” he said.

“It’s time to go out there,” she said.

“Out where?”

“To the Navy Yard. We promised to meet them.”

“Oh, damn the Navy Yard!” he groaned. “I’d rather sleep.”

“So would I!” she agreed. She yawned luxuriously, stretching her plump arms above her head. “I’m so sleepy. I could stretch out anywhere.” She looked meaningly at the bed.

He wakened at once, sensuously alert. He lifted himself upon one elbow: a hot torrent of blood swarmed through his cheeks. His pulses beat thickly.

“We’re all alone up here,” said Louise smiling. “We’ve got the whole floor to ourselves.”

“Why don’t you lie down and take a nap, if you’re still sleepy?” he asked. “I’ll wake you up,” he added, with gentle chivalry.

“I’ve got such a little room. It’s hot and stuffy. That’s why I got up,” said Louise. “What a nice big room you’ve got!”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s a nice big bed, too.” They were silent a waiting moment.

“Why don’t you lie down here, Louise?” he said, in a low unsteady voice. “I’ll get up,” he added hastily, sitting up. “I’ll wake you.”

“Oh, no,” she said, “I wouldn’t feel right.”

They were again silent. She looked admiringly at his thin young arms.

“My!” she said. “I bet you’re strong.”

He flexed his long stringy muscles manfully, and expanded his chest.

“My!” she said. “How old are you, ‘Gene?”

He was just at his fifteenth year.

“I’m going on sixteen,” he said. “How old are you, Louise?”

“I’m eighteen,” she said. “I bet you’re a regular heart-breaker, ‘Gene. How many girls have you got?”

“Oh — I don’t know. Not many,” he said truthfully enough. He wanted to talk — he wanted to talk madly, seductively, wickedly. He would excite her by uttering, in grave respectful tones, honestly, matter-of-factly, the most erotic suggestions.

“I guess you like the tall ones, don’t you?” said Louise. “A tall fellow wouldn’t want a little thing like me, would he? Although,” she said quickly, “you never know. They say opposites attract each other.”

“I don’t like tall girls,” said Eugene. “They’re too skinny. I like them about your size, when they’ve got a good build.”

“Have I got a good build, ‘Gene?” said Louise, holding her arms up and smiling.

“Yes, you have a pretty build, Louise — a fine build,” said Eugene earnestly. “The kind I like.”

“I haven’t got a pretty face. I’ve got an ugly face,” she said invitingly.

“You haven’t got an ugly face. You have a pretty face,” said Eugene firmly. “Anyway, the face doesn’t matter much with me,” he added, subtly.

“What do you like best, ‘Gene?” Louise asked.

He thought carefully and gravely.

“Why,” he said, “a woman ought to have pretty legs. Sometimes a woman has an ugly face, but a pretty leg. The prettiest legs I ever saw were on a High Yellow.”

“Were they prettier than mine?” said the waitress, with an easy laugh.

She crossed her legs slowly and displayed her silk-shod ankle.

“I don’t know, Louise,” he said, staring critically. “I can’t see enough.”

“Is that enough?” she said, pulling her tight skirt above her calves.

“No,” said Eugene.

“Is that?” she pulled her skirt back over her knees, and displayed her plump thighs, gartered with a ruffled band of silk and red rosettes. She thrust her small feet out, coyly turning the toes in.

“Lord!” said Eugene, staring with keen interest at the garter. “I never saw any like that before. That’s pretty.” He gulped noisily. “Don’t those things hurt you, Louise?”

“Uh-uh,” she said, as if puzzled, “why?”

“I should think they’d cut into your skin,” he said. “I know mine do if I wear them too tight. See.”

He pulled up his trousers’ leg and showed his young gartered shank, lightly spired with hair.

Louise looked, and felt the garter gravely with a plump hand.

“Mine don’t hurt me,” she said. She snapped the elastic with a ripe smack. “See!”

“Let me see,” he said. He placed his trembling fingers lightly upon her garter.

“Yes,” he said unsteadily. “I see.”

Her round young weight lay heavy against him, her warm young face turned blindly up to his own. His brain reeled as if drunken, he dropped his mouth awkwardly upon her parted lips. She sank back heavily on the pillows. He planted dry and clumsy kisses upon her mouth, her eyes, in little circles round her throat and face. He fumbled at the throat-hook of her waist, but his fingers shook so violently that he could not unfasten it. She lifted her smooth hands with a comatose gesture, and unfastened it for him.