Rock Island Line. David Rhodes

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СКАЧАТЬ think you’d be working today, Marion,” said Henry Yoder, walking in and over to the machine. “ ’Lo, John.”

      All of this as if there were no one else for ten miles. Across the street was a group of men and women trying to look natural standing at the very edge of Mrs. Miller’s lawn, next to the corner, nearest the garage door without being on the same side of the street.

      Ernie came in the side door without knowing, and had to walk in among the black men to get over to the others. “Excuse me,” he said. “Excuse me,” and passed through them looking at his hands, as though he were walking around four rain barrels which, after he got out of their area, were rolled away by four invisible barrel-rollers.

      “Afternoon, Ernie,” said Marion.

      “Afternoon,” said Ernie. “I see you’re not working today. That makes me feel better, because when a hard worker like you—”

      “Listen to that! Listen to that!” said Marion.

      John stuffed the advertisement into his back pocket, and blushed.

      Somehow he managed to get rid of his neighbors and close his garage door, sealing the building in a cloak of mystery. The champion sent his friends out to the car to wait for him, as a returned courtesy. They closed the side door and faced each other.

      “How you want to begin this here thing?”

      “I can lift that anvil,” said John. “I can pick it up by the horn.”

      “Come on, man, that kind of thing ain’t it.” Pause. “Sure, OK. I’ll pick it up.”

      “Forget it,” said John. “You’re right. It doesn’t have much to do with that.”

      “No you don’t. You think I can’t. You saying in your mind, ‘He can’t . . . he ain’t the real thing.’ “ The black muscles tightened. The jaw fixed. The anvil came off the ground. He dropped it.

      Then John picked it up.

      “We’ve got some in the city,” the black man said, “who could pick that up with their teeth.”

      “We got them too,” said John. “What’s your name?”

      “Prentiss Hilton Brown,” he said, with great dignity. “I already know yours, so let’s get down to what’s this all about.” He took his pocket knife out of his pocket, opened it and went over to the workbench. He cleaned the tools away from an area so that only the dark grease- and oil-stained wood was exposed. Then he opened the front of his pants, took out his penis and laid it out on the table, standing up close to do it. He pushed the knife into the wood as a marker for the length of his soft organ, resealed it back inside his pants and looked at John. The polished knife blade stood poised straight down into the wood, a respectable length from the edge.

      My God, thought John, and was so embarrassed and shocked it took him a minute to move or speak—staring as though hypnotized at the knife, wondering if it had really happened.

      “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “That’s got nothing to do with it.”

      “No, no. That’s it. That’s the whole matter.”

      “It’s stupider than the anvil business.”

      “Maybe.” He considered. Just from his face John could tell that the man before him was no fool and had every ounce of reasoning ability that John did. “Maybe. OK, forget it. That’s not it.”

      “Oh no,” said John. “I know what you’re thinking,” and in one tremendous rush of willpower he took out his own penknife (a smaller, less decorative knife with a rounded end and a screwdriver), exposed himself upon the workbench, pushed in the knife and recomposed himself.

      Prentiss Hilton Brown quickly pulled the knife out of the table, shut it and put it into his pocket, even though it had stood farther from the edge by almost three quarters of an inch . . . longer, but definitely lacking in breadth. “You’re right. That ain’t quite the right thing.”

      These first two stages of their encounter happened very slowly. Mostly they looked at each other in deadly seriousness. At this point they both still believed, as surely as they had the day before, in the undeniable truth of their own convictions: John, that no one could ever be more alive than himself, and Prentiss, that he was. John was attracted by his belligerence. He feared and pitied it. What would it be like, he wondered, to be able to assume that the world at large was hostile to you and would wish for your personal demise as a simple matter of course? And to assume that not out of naive egotism (like someone who believes he is of a different kind) but out of an accumulation of experienced facts. It would be like an animal, he thought for one terrible minute, hiding and smelling for wolves. It would be tragic, because the whole purpose of the developed intellect, so far as he could see, was in allowing one to be free from that criminal hypothesis—in being able to say, “Nothing out there wishes me harm intentionally, and when I think it does, the very thought betrays my own shallowness and malfunction.” But him. What does fairness mean to him? When happiness for me seems to be a feeling of harmony with the world, what is his happiness? Is it protected isolation? But that would lead to introversion. No, it would be either complete neglect of the other side or the pride of being a noble, even superior adversary. Then a tin bell rang in his head and he realized, in depth, something he had known before in a trite way: So long as any one person is oppressed, he will bind me to his outlook; he will declare himself an adversary, and in so doing the line will be drawn and I will find myself on one side or another. So goes the harmony. So goes any chance of prolonged happiness. His mind reeled. He rejected ideas as fast as he thought them.

      They stood looking at each other in absolute silence. Then a knock came from the side door, followed by one from the front, both quick, sharp raps. Then another from the front, at a different place. A long silence. Two more knocks from the side, accompanied by the hesitant voice of one of the blacks: “Hey, Prentiss, let’s get going.” Then Marvin’s voice from the front: “Hey, John ... John, hey, open up.”

      Prentiss and John took a step closer together, as though they were both about to say something and wanted to be heard over the noise outside, coming to within ten feet of each other.

      Outside, one of the blacks rattled the door handle impatiently and spoke again, somewhat pointedly now. “Prentiss, let’s go. We don’t want to stand around out here in this cruddy little town all day.” At the same time Sy called from the front, “John, open here. I’ve got some work that needs to be done. Open up.” And Clara Hocksteader shouted then, “John, say something. Are you all right?” and they started trying to raise the heavy overhead door which was swung down barring their entrance. Someone had got a board and was prying with it.

      The side door opened six inches, one of the blacks pushed his head in and reissued the earlier request to leave, hesitated, nearly reclosed it as they finally got the door started up in front, opened it wide and presented his physical self as an urgent demand to get moving. The overhead door was swung halfway up and John’s neighbors were coming in like a drove of sheep through a narrow opening. He looked at Prentiss again and together they started forward once more, just ready to say something. But in the same instant, as though at an agreed signal, they gave up and joined ranks. John watched as the half-sneer crept again into Prentiss’ face, and felt himself bristle at it. Prentiss Hilton Brown turned and walked out the door, got into the car and was driven back to Burlington.

      John resumed welding.

      FOUR

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