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

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      It was early in May; examinations came in another two weeks. He thought of them with excitement and pleasure — he liked the period of hard cramming, the long reviews, the delight of emptying out abundantly on paper his stored knowledge. The big assembly room had about it the odor of completion, of sharp nervous ecstasy. All through the summer it would be drowsy-warm; if only here, alone, with the big plaster cast of Minerva, himself and Bessie Barnes, or Miss — Miss —

      “We want this boy,” said Margaret Leonard. She handed Eugene’s paper over to her husband. They were starting a private school for boys. That was what the paper had been for.

      Leonard took the paper, pretended to read half a page, looked off absently into eternity, and began to rub his chin reflectively, leaving a slight coating of chalk-dust on his face. Then, catching her eye, he laughed idiotically, and said: “Why, that little rascal! Huh? Do you suppose —?”

      Feeling delightfully scattered, he bent over with a long suction of whining laughter, slapping his knee and leaving a chalk print, making a slobbering noise in his mouth.

      “The Lord have mercy!” he gasped.

      “Here! Never you mind about that,” she said, laughing with tender sharp amusement. “Pull yourself together and see this boy’s people.” She loved the man dearly, and he loved her.

      A few days later Leonard assembled the children a second time. He made a rambling speech, the purport of which was to inform them that one of them had won the prize, but to conceal the winner’s name. Then, after several divagations, which he thoroughly enjoyed, he read Eugene’s paper, announced his name, and called him forward.

      Chalkface took chalkhand. The boy’s heart thundered against his ribs. The proud horns blared, he tasted glory.

      Patiently, all through the summer, Leonard laid siege to Gant and Eliza. Gant fidgeted, spoke shiftily, finally said:

      “You’ll have to see his mother.” Privately he was bitterly scornful, roared the merits of the public school as an incubator of citizenship. The family was contemptuous. Private school! Mr. Vanderbilt! Ruin him for good!

      Which made Eliza reflective. She had a good streak of snobbism. Mr. Vanderbilt? She was as good as any of them. They’d just see.

      “Who are you going to have?” she asked. “Have you drummed any one up yet?”

      Leonard mentioned the sons of several fashionable and wealthy people — of Dr. Kitchen, the eye, ear, nose and throat man, Mr. Arthur, the corporation lawyer, and Bishop Raper, of the Episcopal diocese.

      Eliza grew more reflective. She thought of Pett. She needn’t give herself airs.

      “How much are you asking?” she said.

      He told her the tuition was one hundred dollars a year. She pursed her lips lingeringly before she answered.

      “Hm-m!” she began, with a bantering smile, as she looked at Eugene. “That’s a whole lot of money. You know,” she continued with her tremulous smile, “as the darkey says, we’re pore-folks.”

      Eugene squirmed.

      “Well what about it, boy?” said Eliza banteringly. “Do you think you’re worth that much money?”

      Mr. Leonard placed his white dry hand upon Eugene’s shoulders, affectionately sliding it down his back and across his kidneys, leaving white chalk prints everywhere. Then he clamped his meaty palm tightly around the slender bracelet of boy-arm.

      “That boy’s worth it,” he said, shaking him gently to and fro. “Yes, sir!”

      Eugene smiled painfully. Eliza continued to purse her lips. She felt a strong psychic relation to Leonard. They both took time.

      “Say,” she said, rubbing her broad red nose, and smiling slyly, “I used to be a school-teacher. You didn’t know that, did you? But I didn’t get any such prices as you’re asking,” she added. “I thought myself mighty lucky if I got my board and twenty dollars a month.”

      “Is that so, Mrs. Gant?” said Mr. Leonard with great interest. “Well, sir!” He began to laugh in a vague whine, pulling Eugene about more violently and deadening his arm under his crushing grip.

      “Yes,” said Eliza, “I remember my father — it was long before you were born, boy,” she said to Eugene, “for I hadn’t laid eyes on your papa — as the feller says, you were nothing but a dish-rag hanging out in heaven — I’d have laughed at any one who suggested marriage then — Well, I tell you what (she shook her head with a sad pursed deprecating mouth), we were mighty poor at the time, I can tell you. — I was thinking about it the other day — many’s the time we didn’t have food in the house for the next meal. — Well, as I was saying, your grandfather (addressing Eugene) came home one night and said — Look here, what about it? — Who do you suppose I saw today? — I remember him just as plain as if I saw him standing here — I had a feeling —(addressing Leonard with a doubtful smile) I don’t know what you’d call it but it’s pretty strange when you come to think about it, isn’t it? — I had just finished helping Aunt Jane set the table — she had come all the way from Yancey County to visit your grandmother — when all of a sudden it flashed over me — mind you (to Leonard) I never looked out the window or anything but I knew just as well as I knew anything that he was coming — mercy I cried — here comes — why what on earth are you talking about, Eliza? said your grandma — I remember she went to the door and looked out down the path — there’s no one there — He’s acoming, I said — wait and see — Who? said your grandmother — Why, father, I said — he’s carrying something on his shoulder — and sure enough — I had no sooner got the words out of my mouth than there he was just acoming it for all he was worth, up the path, with a tow-sack full of apples on his back — you could tell by the way he walked that he had news of some sort — well — sure enough — without stopping to say howdy-do — I remembered he began to talk almost before he got into the house — O father, I called out — you’ve brought the apples — it was the year after I had almost died of pneumonia — I’d been spitting up blood ever since — and having hemorrhages — and I asked him to bring me some apples — Well sir, mother said to him, and she looked mighty queer, I can tell you — that’s the strangest thing I ever heard of — and she told him what had happened — Well, he looked pretty serious and said — Yes, I’ll never forget the way he said it — I reckon she saw me. I wasn’t there but I was thinking of being there and coming up the path at that very moment — I’ve got news for you he said — who do you suppose I saw today — why, I’ve no idea, I said — why old Professor Truman — he came rushing up to me in town and said, see here: where’s Eliza — I’ve got a job for her if she wants it, teaching school this winter out on Beaverdam — why, pshaw, said your grandfather, she’s never taught school a day in her life — and Professor Truman laughed just as big as you please and said never you mind about that — Eliza can do anything she sets her mind on — well sir, that’s the way it all came about.” High-sorrowful and sad, she paused for a moment, adrift, her white face slanting her life back through the aisled grove of years.

      “Well, sir!” said Mr. Leonard vaguely, rubbing his chin. “You young rascal, you!” he said, giving Eugene another jerk, and beginning to laugh with narcissistic pleasure.

      Eliza pursed her lips slowly.

      “Well,” she said, “I’ll send him to you for a year.” That was the way she did business. Tides run deep in Sargasso.

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