Stephen Crane - The Complete Works of Stephen Crane

A knowledge of the thing came gradually into Kelcey’s eyes. He looked about him with an expression of utter woe, regret, and loathing. He was compelled to lie down again. A pain above his eyebrows was like that from an iron clamp.

As he lay pondering, his bodily condition created for him a bitter philosophy, and he perceived all the futility of a red existence. He saw his life-problems confronting him like granite giants, and he was no longer erect to meet them. He had made a calamitous retrogression in his war. Spectres were to him now as large as clouds.

Inspired by the pitiless ache in his head, he was prepared to reform and live a white life. His stomach informed him that a good man was the only being who was wise. But his perception of his future was hopeless. He was aghast at the prospect of the old routine. It was impossible. He trembled before its exactions.

Turning toward the other way, he saw that the gold portals of vice no longer enticed him. He could not hear the strains of alluring music. The beckoning sirens of drink had been killed by this pain in his head. The desires of his life suddenly lay dead, like mullein stalks. Upon reflection, he saw, therefore, that he was perfectly willing to be virtuous if somebody would come and make it easy for him.

When he stared over at old Bleecker, he felt a sudden contempt and dislike for him. He considered him to be a tottering old beast. It was disgusting to perceive aged men so weak in sin. He dreaded to see him awaken, lest he should be required to be somewhat civil to him.

Kelcey wished for a drink of water. For some time he had dreamed of the liquid, deliciously cool. It was an abstract, uncontained thing that poured upon him and tumbled him, taking away his pain like a kind of surgery. He arose and staggered slowly toward a little sink in a corner of the room. He understood that any rapid movement might cause his head to split.

The little sink was filled with a chaos of broken glass and spilled liquids. A sight of it filled him with horror, but he rinsed a glass with scrupulous care, and, filling it, took an enormous drink. The water was an intolerable disappointment. It was insipid and weak to his scorched throat, and not at all cool. He put down the glass with a gesture of despair. His face became fixed in the stony and sullen expression of a man who waits for the recuperative power of morrows.

Old Bleecker awakened. He rolled over and groaned loudly. For awhile he thrashed about in a fury of displeasure at his bodily stiffness and pain. Kelcey watched him as he would have watched a death agony.

‘Good Gawd!’ said the old man, ‘beer an’ whisky make th’ devil of a mix! Did yeh see th’ fight?’

‘No,’ said Kelcey stolidly.

‘Why, Zeusentell an’ O’Connor had a great old mill. They were scrappin’ all over th’ place. I thought we were all goin’ t’ get pulled. Thompson, that fellah over in th’ corner, though, he sat down on th’ whole business. He was a dandy! He had t’ poke Zeusentell! He was a bird! Lord, I wish I had a Manhattan!’

Kelcey remained in bitter silence while old Bleecker dressed. ‘Come an’ get a cocktail,’ said the latter briskly. This was part of his aristocracy. He was the only man of them who knew much about cocktails. He perpetually referred to them. ‘It’ll brace yeh right up! Come along! Say, you get full too soon. You oughter wait until later, me boy! You’re too speedy!’ Kelcey wondered vaguely where his companion had lost his zeal for polished sentences, his iridescent mannerisms.

‘Come along,’ said Bleecker.

Kelcey made a movement of disdain for cocktails, but he followed the other to the street. At the corner they separated. Kelcey attempted a friendly parting smile and then went on up the street. He had to reflect to know that he was erect and using his own muscles in walking. He felt like a man of paper, blown by the winds. Withal, the dust of the avenue was galling to his throat, eyes and nostrils, and the roar of traffic cracked his head. He was glad, however, to be alone, to be rid of old Bleecker. The sight of him had been as the contemplation of a disease.

His mother was not at home. In his little room he mechanically undressed and bathed his head, arms and shoulders. When he crawled between the two white sheets he felt a first lifting of his misery. His pillow was soothingly soft. There was an effect that was like the music of tender voices.

When he awoke again his mother was bending over him giving vent to alternate cries of grief and joy. Her hands trembled so that they were useless to her. ‘Oh, George, George, where have yeh been? What has happened t’ yeh? Oh, George, I’ve been so worried! I didn’t sleep a wink all night!’

Kelcey was instantly wide awake. With a moan of suffering he turned his face to the wall before he spoke. ‘Never mind, mother, I’m all right. Don’t fret now! I was knocked down by a truck last night in th’ street, an’ they took me t’ th’ hospital; but it’s all right now. I got out jest a little while ago. They told me I’d better go home an’ rest up.’

His mother screamed in pity, horror, joy and self-reproach for something unknown. She frenziedly demanded the details. He sighed with unutterable weariness. ‘Oh—wait—wait—wait!’ he said, shutting his eyes as from the merciless monotony of a pain. ‘Wait—wait—please wait! I can’t talk now. I want t’ rest.’

His mother condemned herself with a little cry. She adjusted his pillow, her hands shaking with love and tenderness.

‘There, there, don’t mind, dearie! But yeh can’t think how worried I was—an’ crazy. I was near frantic. I went down t’ th’ shop, an’ they said they hadn’t seen anything ‘a yeh there. The foreman was awful good t’ me. He said he’d come up this atternoon t’ see if yeh had come home yet. He tol’ me not t’ worry. Are yeh sure yer all right? Ain’t there anythin’ I kin git fer yeh? What did th’ doctor say?’

Kelcey’s patience was worn. He gestured, and then spoke querulously. ‘Now—now—mother, it’s all right, I tell yeh! All I need is a little rest, an’ I’ll be as well as ever. But it makes it all th’ worse if yeh stand there an’ ask me questions an’ make me think. Jest leave me alone fer a little while, an’ I’ll be as well as ever. Can’t yeh do that?’

The little old woman puckered her lips funnily. ‘My, what an old bear th’ boy is!’ She kissed him blithely. Presently she went out, upon her face a bright and glad smile that must have been a reminiscence of some arming girlhood.

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At one time Kelcey had a friend who was struck in the head by the pole of a truck and knocked senseless. He was taken to the hospital, from which he emerged in the morning an astonished man, with rather a dim recollection of the accident. He used to hold an old brierwood pipe in his teeth in a manner peculiar to himself, and, with a brown derby hat tilted back on his head, recount his strange sensations. Kelcey had always remembered it as a bit of curious history. When his mother cross-examined him in regard to the accident, he told this story with barely a variation. Its truthfulness was incontestable.

At the shop he was welcomed on the following day with considerable enthusiasm. The foreman had told the story, and there were already jokes created concerning it. Mike O’Donnell, whose wit was famous, had planned a humorous campaign, in which he made charges against Kelcey which were, as a matter of fact, almost the exact truth. Upon hearing it, Kelcey looked at him suddenly from the corners of his eyes, but otherwise remained imperturbable. O’Donnell eventually despaired. ‘Yez can’t goiy that kid! He tekes ut all loike mate an’ dhrink.’ Kelcey often told the story, his pipe held in his teeth peculiarly, and his derby tilted back on his head.