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as supper was over she went upstairs。 But when she reached
the third floor she saw that his door was open and his room
dark。 This gave her an empty feeling。
Downstairs she couldn't sit still and study for the English test。
It was like she was so strong she couldn't sit on a chair in a
room the same as other people。 It was like she could knock
down all the walls of the house and then march through the
streets big as a giant。
Finally she got out her private box from under the bed。 She lay
on her stomach and looked over the notebook。 There were
about twenty songs now； but she didn't feel satisfied with
them。 If she could write a symphony！ For a whole orchestra—
how did you write that？ Sometimes several instruments played
one note； so the staff would have to be very large。 She drew
five lines across a big sheet of test paper—the lines about an
inch apart。 When a note was for violin or 'cello or flute she
would write the name of the instrument to show。 And when
they all played the same note together she would draw a circle
around them。 At the top of the page she wrote SYMPHONY in
large letters。 And under that MICK KELLY。 Then she couldn't go
any further。
If she could only have music lessons！
If only she could have a real piano！
A long time passed before she could get started。 The tunes
were in her mind but she couldn't figure how to write them。 It
looked like this was the hardest play in the world。 But she
kept on figuring until Etta and Hazel came into the room and
got into bed and said she had to turn the light off because it
was eleven o'clock。
10
…T OR six weeks Portia had waited to hear from William。 Every
evening she would come to the house and ask Doctor
Copeland the same question： 'You seen anybody who
215
gotten a letter from Willie yet？' And every night he was
obliged to tell her that he had heard nothing。
At last she asked the question no more。 She would come into
the hall and look at him without a word。 She drank。 Her
blouse was often half unbuttoned and her shoestrings loose。
February came。 The weather turned milder； then hot。 The sun
glared down with hard brilliance。 Birds sang in the bare trees
and children played out of doors barefoot and naked to the
waist。 The nights were torrid as in midsummer。 Then after a
few days winter was upon the town again。 The mild skies
darkened。 A chill rain fell and the air turned dank and bitterly
cold。 In the town the Negroes suffered badly。 Supplies of fuel
had been exhausted and there was a struggle everywhere for
warmth。 An epidemic of pneumonia raged through the wet；
narrow streets； and for a week Doctor Copeland slept at odd
hours； fully clothed。 Still no word came from William。 Portia
had written four times and Doctor Copeland twice。
During most of the day and night he had no time to think。 But
occasionally he found a chance to rest for a moment at home。
He would drink a pot of coffee by the kitchen stove and a deep
uneasiness would come in him。 Five of his patients had died。
And one of these was Augustus Benedict Mady Lewis； the
little deaf…mute。 He had been asked to speak at the burial
service； but as it was his rule not to attend funerals he was
unable to accept this invitation。 The five patients had not been
lost because of any negligence on his part。 The blame was in
the long years of want which lay behind。 The diets of
cornbread and sowbelly and syrup； the crowding of four and
five persons to a single room。 The death of poverty。 He
brooded on this and drank coffee to stay awake。 Often he held
his hand to his chin； for recently a slight tremor in the nerves
of his neck made his head nod unsteadily when he was tired。
Then during the fourth week of February Portia came to the
house。 It was only six o'clock in the morning and he was
sitting by the fire in the kitchen； warming a pan of milk for
breakfast。 She was badly intoxicated。 He smelled the keen；
sweetish odor of gin and his nostrils widened with disgust。 He
did not look at her but busied him…216
self with his breakfast。 He crumpled some bread in a bowl and
poured over it hot milk。 He prepared coffee and laid the table。
Then when he was seated before his breakfast he looked at
Portia sternly。 'Have you had your morning meal？'
'I not going to eat breakfast；' she said。
'You will need it。 If you intend to get to work today；'
'I not going to work。'
A dread came in him。 He did not wish to question her further。
He kept his eyes on his bowl of milk and drank from a spoon
that was unsteady in his hand。 When he had finished he
looked up at the wall above her head。 'Are you tongue…tied？'
'I going to tell you。 You going to hear about it。 Just as soon as
I able to say it I going to tell you。'
Portia sat motionless in the chair； her eyes moving slowly
from one corner of the wall to the other。 Her arms hung down
limp and her legs were twisted loosely about each other。
When he turned from her he had for a moment a perilous
sense of ease and freedom； which was more acute because he
knew that soon it was to be shattered。 He mended the fire and
warmed his hands。 Then he rolled a cigarette。 The kitchen was
in a state of spotless order and cleanliness。 The saucepans on
the wall glowed with the light of the stove and behind each
one there was a round； black shadow。
'It about Willie。'
'I know。' He rolled the cigarette gingerly between his palms。
His eyes glanced recklessly about him； greedy for the last
sweet pleasures。
'Once I mentioned to you this here Buster Johnson were at the
prison with Willie。 Us knowed him before。 He were sent home
yestiddy。' 'So？'
'Buster been crippled for life。'
His head quavered。 He pressed his hand to his chin to steady
himself； but the obstinate trembling was difficult to control。
'Last night these here friends come round to my house and say
that Buster were home and had something to tell
me about Willie。 I run all the way and this here is what he
said。'
'Yes。'
'There were three of them。 Willie and Buster and this other
boy。 They were friends。 Then this here trouble come up。'
Portia halted。 She wet her finger with her tongue and then
moistened her dry lips with her finger。 'It were something to
do with the way this here white guard picked on them all the
time。 They were out on roadwork one day and Buster he
sassed back and then the other boy he try to run off in the
woods。 They taken all three of them。 They taken all three of
them to the camp and put them in this here ice…cold room。'
He said yes again。 But his head quavered and the word
sounded like a rattle in his throat。
'It were about six weeks ago；' Portia said。 'You remember that
cold spell then。 They put Willie and them boys in this room
like ice。'
Portia spoke in a low voice； and she neither paused between
words nor did the grief in her face soften。 It was like a low
song。 She spoke and he could not understand。 The sounds
were distinct in his ear but they had no shape or meaning。 It
was as though his head were the prow of a boat and the
sounds were water that broke on him and then flowed past。 He
felt he had to look behind to find the words already said。
'。 。 。 and their feets swolled up and they lay there and struggle
on the floor and holler out。 And nobody come。 They hollered
there for three days and three nights and nobody come。'
'I am deaf；' said Doctor Copeland。 'I cannot understand。'
'They put our Willie and them boys in this here ice…cold room。
There were a rope hanging down from the ceiling。 They taken
their shoes off and tied their bare feets to this rope。 Willie and
them boys lay there with their backs on the floor and their
feets in the air。 And their； feets swolled up and they struggle
on the floor and holler out。 It were ice…cold in the room and
their feets froze。 Their feets swolled up and they hollered for
three nights and three days。 And nobody come。'218
Doctor Copeland pressed his head with his hands； but still the
steady trembling would not stop。 'I cannot hear what you say。'
'Then at last they come to get them。 They quickly taken Willie
and them boys to the sick ward and their legs were all swolled
and froze。 Gangrene。 They sawed off both our Willie's feet。
Buster Johnson lost one foot and the other boy got well。 But
our Willie—he crippled for life now。 Both his feet sawed off。'
The words were finished and Portia leaned over and struck her
head upon the table。 She did not cry or moan； but she struck
her head again and again on the hard…scrubbed top of the
table。 The bowl and spoon rattled and he removed them to the
sink。 The words were scattered in his mind； but he did not try
to assemble them。 He scalded the bowl and spoon and washed
out the dish…towel。 He picked up something from the floor and
put it somewhere。
'Crippled？' he asked。 'William？'
Portia knocked her head on the table and the blows had a
rhythm like the slow beat of a drum and his heart took up this
rhythm also。 Quietly the words came alive and fitted to the
meaning and he understood。
'When will they send him home？'
Portia leaned her