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supper。
Singer handed the nurse a note explaining about the movie。
She called an interne and then they brought in a doctor。 As the
three of them consulted they looked curiously at Singer。 The
news reached the patients and they propped up on their elbows
excitedly。 Only Antonapoulos was not disturbed。
Singer had practiced with the movie beforehand。 He set Dp
the screen so that it could be watched by all the patients。 Then
he worked with the projector and the film。 The nurse took out
the supper trays and the lights in the ward were turned off。 A
Mickey Mouse comedy flashed on the screen。
Singer watched his friend。 At first Antonapoulos was startled。
He heaved himself up for a better view and would have risen
from the bed if the nurse had not restrained him。 Then he
watched with a beaming smile。 Singer could see the other
patients calling out to each other and laughing。 Nurses and
orderlies came in from the hall and the whole ward was in
commotion。 When the Mickey Mouse was finished Singer put
on a Popeye film。 Then at the conclusion of this film he felt
that the entertainment had lasted long enough for the first
time。 He switched on the light and the ward settled down
again。 As the interne put the machine under his friend's bed he
saw Antonapoulos slyly cut his eyes across the ward to be
certain that each person realized that the machine was his。
Singer began to talk with his hands again。 He knew that he
would soon be asked to leave； but the thoughts he had stored
in his mind were too big to be said in a short time。 He talked
with frantic haste。 In the ward there was an old man whose
head shook with palsy and who picked feebly190
t
at his eyebrows。 He envied the old man because he lived with
Antonapoulos day after day。 Singer would have exchanged
places with him joyfully。
His friend fumbled for something in his bosom。 It was the
little brass cross that he had always worn。 The dirty string had
been replaced by a red ribbon。 Singer thought of the dream
and he told that； also； to his friend。 In his haste the signs
sometimes became blurred and he had to shake his hands and
begin all over。 Antonapoulos watched him with his dark；
drowsy eyes。 Sitting motionless in his bright； rich garments he
seemed like some wise king from a legend。
The interne in charge of the ward allowed Singer to stay for an
hour past the visiting time。 Then at last he held out his thin；
hairy wrist and showed him his watch。 The patients were
settled for sleep。 Singer's hand faltered。 He grasped his friend
by the arm and looked intently into his eyes as he used to do
each morning when they parted for work。 Finally Singer
backed himself out of the room。 At the doorway his hands
signed a broken farewell and then clenched into fists。
During the moonlit January nights Singer continued to walk
about the streets of the town each evening when he was not
engaged。 The rumors about him grew bolder。 An old Negro
woman told hundreds of people that he knew the ways of
spirits come back from the dead。 A certain piece…worker
claimed that he had worked with the mute at another mill
somewhere else in the state—and the tales he told were
unique。 The rich thought that he was rich and the poor
considered him a poor man like themselves。 And as there was
no way to disprove these rumors they grew marvelous and
very real。 Each man described the mute as he wished him to
be。
8
HY？
The question flowed through Biff always； unnoticed； like the
blood in his veins。 He thought of people and of objects and of
ideas and the question was in him。 Midnight； the dark
morning； noon。 Hitler and the rumors of
191
war。 The price of loin of pork and the tax on。 beer。 Especially
he meditated on the puzzle of the mute。 Why； for instance； did
Singer go away on the train and； when he was asked where he
had been； pretend that he did not understand the question？
And why did everyone persist in thinking the mute was
exactly as they wanted him to be —when most likely it was all
a very queer mistake？ Singer sat at the middle table three
times a day。 He ate what was put before him—except cabbage
and oysters。 In the battling tumult of voices he alone was
silent。 He liked best little green soft butter beans and he
stacked them in a neat pile on the prongs of his fork。 And
sopped their gravy with his biscuits。
Biff thought also of death。 A curious incident occurred。 One
day while rummaging through the bathroom closet he found a
bottle of Agua Florida that he had overlooked when taking
Lucile the rest of Alice's cosmetics。 Meditatively he held the
bottle of perfume in his hands。 It was four months now since
her death—and each month seemed as long and full of leisure
as a year。 He seldom thought of her。
Biff uncorked the bottle。 He stood shirtless before the mirror
and dabbled some of the perfume on his dark； hairy armpits。
The scent made him stiffen。 He exchanged a deadly secret
glance with himself in the mirror and stood motionless。 He
was stunned by the memories brought to him with the
perfume； not because of their clarity； but because they
gathered together the whole long span of years and were
complete。 Biff rubbed his nose and looked sideways at
himself。 The boundary of death。 He felt in him each minute
that he had lived with her。 And now their life together was
whole as only the past can be whole。 Abruptly Biff turned
away。
The bedroom was done over。 His entirely now。 Before it had
been tacky and flossy and drab。 There were always stockings
and pink rayon knickers with holes in them hung on a string
across the room to dry。 The iron bed had been flaked and
rusty； decked with soiled lace boudoir pillows。 A bony mouser
from downstairs would arch its back and rub mournfully
against the slop jar。
All of this he had changed。 He traded the iron bed for a studio
couch。 There was a thick red rug on the floor； and192
he had bought a beautiful cloth of Chinese blue to hang on the
side of the wall where the cracks were worst。 He had unsealed
the fireplace and kept it laid with pine logs。 Over the mantel
was a small photograph of Baby and a colored picture of a
little boy in velvet holding a ball in his hands。 A glassed case
in the corner held the curios he had collected—specimens of
butterflies； a rare arrowhead； a curious rock shaped like a
human profile。 Blue…silk cushions were on the studio couch；
and he had borrowed Lucile's sewing…machine to make deep
red curtains for the windows。 He loved the room。 It was both
luxurious and sedate。 On the table there was a little Japanese
pagoda with glass pendants that tinkled with strange musical
tones in a draught。
In this room nothing reminded him of her。 But often he would
uncork the bottle of Agua Florida and touch the stopper to the
lobes of his ears or to his wrists。 The smell mingled with his
slow ruminations。 The sense of the past grew in him。
Memories built themselves with almost architectural order。 In
a box where he stored souvenirs he came across old pictures
taken before their marriage。 Alice sitting in a field of daisies。
Alice with him in a canoe on the river。 Also among the
souvenirs there was a large bone hairpin that had belonged to
his mother。 As a little boy he had loved to watch her comb and
knot her long black hair。 He had thought that hairpins were
curved as they were to copy the shape of a lady and he would
sometimes play with them like dolls。 At that time he had a
cigar box full of scraps。 He loved the feel and colors of
beautiful cloth and he would sit with his scraps for hours
under the kitchen table。 But when he was six his mother took
the scraps away from him。 She was a tall； strong woman with
a sense of duty like a man。 She had loved him best。 Even now
he sometimes dreamed of her。 And her worn gold wedding
ring stayed on his finger always。
Along with the Agua Florida he found in the closet a bottle of
lemon rinse Alice had always used for her hair。 One day he
tried it on himself。 The lemon made his dark； white…streaked
hair seem fluffy and thick。 He liked it。 He discarded the oil he
had used to guard against baldness and rinsed with the lemon
preparation regularly。 Certain
193
whims that he had ridiculed in Alice were now his own。 Why？
Every morning Louis； the colored boy downstairs； brought
him a cup of coffee to drink in bed。 Often he sat propped on
the pillows for an hour before he got up and dressed。 He
smoked a cigar and watched the patterns the sunlight made on
the wall。 Deep hi meditation he ran his forefinger between his
long； crooked toes。 He remembered。
Then from noon until five in the morning he worked
downstairs。 And all day Sunday。 The business was losing
money。 There were many slack hours。 Still at meal…times the
place was usually full and he saw hundreds of acquaintances
every day as he stood guard behind the cash register。
'What do you stand and think about all the time？' Jake Blount
asked him。 'You look like a Jew in Germany。'
'I am an eighth part Jew；' Biff said。 'My Mother's grandfa