— They go way and away … Way, way, way.… Could follow.
He patted the stout wooden pillar near his hand, examined the knots, darker than the grey, thrust at its patient bulk and laughed again.
— Next one.… Race him!.. Hello Mr. High Wood.… Good-bye, Mr. High Wood. I can go faster.… Hello, Second Mr. High Wood.… Good-bye Second Mr. High Wood … Can beat you …
They dropped behind him. Three.… Four.… Five … Six.… drew near, floated by in silence like tall masts. Seven.… Eight.… Nine … Ten.… He stopped counting them. And with them, dwindling in the past, all he feared, all he loathed and fled from: Luter, Annie, the cellar, the boy on the ground. He remembered them still, yes, but they were tiny now, little pictures in his head that no longer writhed into his thoughts and stung him, but stood remote and harmless — something heard about someone else. He felt as if they would vanish from his mind altogether, could he only reach the top of that hill up which all the poles were striding. He hurried on, skipping sometimes out of sheer deliverance, sometimes waving at a laggard pole, gurgling to himself, giggling at himself, absurdly weary.
And now the houses straggled, giving way to long stretches of empty lots. On either side of the street, splotches of yeasty snow still plastered the matted fields. On ledges above the rocks, the black talons of crooked trees clawed at the slippery ground. At the doorway of a chicken coop, behind a weathered, ramshackle house, a rooster clucked and gawked and strutted in. The level sidewalks had ended long ago; the grey slabs underfoot were cracked and rugged, and even these were petering out. A sharp wind was rising across the open lots, catching up cloaks of dust, golden in the slanting sun. It was growing colder and lonelier, the wintry bleakness of the hour before sunset, the earth contracting, waiting for night—
— Time to look back.
— No.
— Time to look back.
— Only to the end of that hill. There where the clouds fell.
— Time to look back.
He glanced over his shoulder and suddenly halted in surprise. Behind him as well as before, the tall spars were climbing into the sky.
— Funny. Both ways.
He turned about, gazing now behind him, now before.
— Like it was a swing. Didn’t know.
His mood was buckling.
— Same. Didn’t know.
His legs were growing tired.
— It’s far away on the other side.
Between coat-pocket and sleeve one wrist was cold, the other was throbbing.
— And it’s far away on the other side.
The tubers of pain under the skin of his shoulders were groping into consciousness now.
— And it’s just the same.
Slowly, he began retracing his steps.
— Can go back.
Despite growing weariness, he quickened his pace.
They were all gone now, Luter was gone; they had finished that game. He and his mother. Could go back now. And the policeman was gone, couldn’t find him. Could go back. And his mother would be there, yes, waiting for him. Didn’t hate her now. Where were you? she would ask. No place. You frightened me; I couldn’t find you. Wouldn’t say. Why don’t you tell me where you were? Because. Why? Because — But must get back before his father came. Better hurry.
Houses were gathering together again.
And I looked out of the window, and I called, David, David, and I couldn’t find you. Wouldn’t tell her. Maybe she even went down stairs into the street. But if the policeman told her. She wouldn’t tell his father. No. When he got into his street, he’d call her. She’d look out of the window. What? Wait in the hall, I’m coming upstairs. She’d wait and he’d run past the cellar. Hate it! Wish there were houses without cellars.
The sky was narrowing; houses had closed their ranks. Overhead, a small flock of sparrows, beading the wires between two telegraph poles, tweaked the single dry string of their voices. On the railing of a porch, a grey cat stopped licking a paw and studied them gravely, then eyed David as he passed.
Milk-supper, maybe, when he came upstairs. Sour cream, yum! Break pieces of bread into it. Sour cream with farmer-cheese. Mmm! Sour cream with eggs. Sour cream with what else? Borscht … Strawberries.… Radishes … Bananas … Borscht, strawberries, radishes, bananas. Borscht, strawberries, apples and strudel. No. They didn’t eat with sour cream. Sour. Cream. Sour. Cream. Like it, like it, like it. I — like — it. I like cake but I don’t like herring. I like cake, but I don’t like what? I like cake, but I don’t like, like, like, herring. I don’t don’t — How far was it still?
The sidewalks were level again.
Luter liked herring, don’t like Luter. Luter likes herring, don’t like Luter. Luter likes — would he be there to-night? He said maybe. Maybe he wasn’t coming. Wish he never comes. Never comes, never comes. Wishee, wishee, never comes, all on a Monday morning — How far was it still?
Eagerly, he scanned the streets ahead of him. Which one was it. Which? Which one was — Long street. Long street, lot of wooden houses. On this side. Yes. Go through the other side. Then other corner … Right away, right away. Be home right away … This one?… Didn’t look like … Next one bet … Giddyap, giddyap, giddyap.… One little house … two little house … three little house … Corner coming, corner coming, corner — Here?
— Here? This one? Yes. Looked different. No. Same one. Wooden houses. Yes.
He turned the corner, hastened toward the opposite one.
— Same one. But looked a little teenchy weenchy bit different. Same one though.
But at the end of the block, uncertainty would not be dispelled. Though he conned every house on either side of the crossing, no single landmark stirred his memory. They were all alike — wooden houses and narrow sidewalks to his right and left. A shiver of dismay ran through him.
— Thought this—? No. Maybe went two. Then, when he ran. Wasn’t looking and went two. Next one. That would be it. Find it now. Mama is waiting. Next one. Quick. And then turn. That was. He’d see. Has to be.
He broke into a tired jog.
— Yes, the next one. That big yellow house on the corner. He’d see it. He’d see it. Yea! How he’d holler when he saw it. There it is! There’s my street! But if — if it wasn’t there. Must be! Must be!
He ran faster, sensing beside him the soft pad of easy-loping fear. That next corner would be haven or bay, and as he neared it, he burst into the anguished spring of a flagging quarry—
— Where? Where was it?
His eyes, veering in every direction, implored the stubborn street for an answer it would not yield. And suddenly terror pounced.
“Mama!” The desolate wail split from his lips. “Mama!” The aloof houses rebuffed his woe. “Mama!” his voice trailed off in anguished abandonment. And as if they had been waiting for a signal, the streets through his tear-blurred sight began stealthily to wheel. He could feel them turning under his feet, though never a house changed place — backward to forward, side to side — a sly, inexorable carousel.
“Mama! Mama!” he whimpered, running blindly through a street now bleak and vast as nightmare.
A man turned the corner ahead of him and walked briskly away on clicking heels. For a tense, delirious instant, he seemed no other than his own father; he was as tall. But then the film snapped open. It was someone else. His coat was greyer, he swung his arms and he walked erect. His father always hunched forward, arms bound to his side.
But with the last of his waning strength, he spurted after him. Maybe he would know. Maybe he could tell him.
“Mister!” he gasped for breath, “Mister!”
The man slackened his pace and glanced over his shoulder. At the sight of the pursuing David, he stopped and turned about in quizzical surprise. Under a long, heavy nose, he had a pointed mustache, the waxed blonde of horn.