I said I'd do my best. There was nothing else I could say. She gave me a quick hard kiss. Then she wiped my mouth with her handkerchief and started down the steps.
"Remember, Carl. Just don't pay attention to him."
"I'll remember," I said.
Mr. Kendall was waiting, worriedly, afraid that my coffee would be cold. I said it was fine, just the way I liked it, and he leaned back and relaxed, He started talking about finding a job for me-he'd taken it for granted that I'd need one. He moved from the subject of a job for me to that of his own job. As! got it, he was the manager of the place, the kind of manager who doesn't have the title and who works all hours for a few bucks more than the regular hired hands get.
I believe he was all set to take the night off by way of giving me a full and complete history of the baking industry. As it worked out, though, he hadn't been spouting for more than ten or fifteen minutes when Jake Winroy arrived.
You've seen pictures ofJake, of course; anyone who reads the newspapers has. But the pictures you've seen were probably taken when he was still in there punching. For theJake you've seen and the one I saw were two different people.
He was a tall guy, around six feet, I guess, and his normal weight was around two hundred pounds. But he couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and forty now. The skin on his face hung in folds. It seemed to tug at his mouth, drawing it downward; it tugged down at the pouches of his eyes. Even his nose dropped. It sagged out of his face like a melting candle in a pan of dirty tallow. He was stooped, curve-shouldered. His chin almost touched his neck, and his neck seemed to bend and wobble from the weight of his head.
He was very drunk, of course. He had every right to be. Because he was dead, the same as; and I guess he knew it.
He got snagged coming through the gate-I'd known damned well that gate would snag someone-and when he yanked himself free he went sprawling and stumbling almost to the porch. He got up the steps, falling back two for every one he took, it sounded like. He came across the porch in a kind of staggering rush. He staggered into the hall. He stood weaving and swaying there a moment, blinking his eyes and trying to get his bearings.
"Mr. Winroy!" Mr. Kendall edged toward him nervously. "Would you-uh-may I help you to bed, Mr. Winroy?"
"B-bed?" Jake hiccuped. "W-hhh-hoo y-you?"
"Now, you know very well who I am, sir!"
"S-sure. I k-now, but duh-duh duh d-you? Betcha c-can' tell me, can you?"
Mr. Kendall's mouth tightened. "Would you like to come over to the bakery with me for a while, Mr. Bigelow?"
"I think I'll go up to my room," I said. "I-"
And Jake jumped like he'd been shot.
He jumped and whirled at the sound of my voice. He looked at me, wild-eyed, and one of his long, veined hands came up, pointing. "W-who y-you?"
"This is Mr. Bigelow," said Mr. Kendall. "Your new boarder."
"Oh, yeah? Yeah!" He took a step backward, keeping his eyes fixed on me. "B-boarder, huh? So h-he-s the new b-boarder, huh? Oh, y-yeah?"
"Of course, he's the new boarder!" Kendall snapped. "A very fine young man, and you're certainly doing your best to make him uncomfortable! Now, why-"
"Oh, yuh-yeah? Yeah!" He kept on edging toward the door, edging backward in a sort of half crouch. His eyes peered out at me wildly through the tumbled strands of his greasy black hair. "N-new b-boarder. Makin' h-huh-him uncomfortable, Huh-him uncomfortable! Oh, y-yeah?"
It was like a broken record-a broken record with a rasping, worn-out needle. He made me think of some wild sick animal, trapped in a corner.
"Oh, y-yeah? Yeah!" He didn't seem to be able to stop it. All he could do was back up, back, back, back..
"This is disgusting, sir! You know quite well you've been expecting Mr. Bigelow. I was present when you talked about it with Mrs. Winroy."
"Oh, y-yeah? Yeah! 'S-spectin' Mr. Bigelow, yeah? 'S-spectin' Mr. B-Bigger-low…"
His back touched against the screen door.
And he tripped on the lintel, plunged stumbling across the porch and went crashing down the steps. He turned a complete somersault on the way down.
"Oh, my goodness!" Mr. Kendall snapped on the porch light. "Oh, my goodness!" He's probably killed himself!"
Wringing his hands, he scuttled across the porch and started down the steps. And I sauntered after him. But Jake Winroy wasn't dead, and he didn't want any help from me.
"Nnnnuh-NO!" he yelled. "N-NUHNUH-NO..!"
He rolled to his feet. He sprang awkwardly toward the gate, and he tripped and went down again. He picked himself up and shot staggering into the road,
He took off right down the middle of it toward town. Arms flapping, legs weaving and wobbling crazily. Running, because there was nothing to do but run.
I felt pretty sorry for him. He didn't need to let his house look like it did, and I couldn't excuse him for it. But I still felt sorry.
"Please don't let this upset you, Mr. Bigelow." Kendall touched my arm. "He simply goes a little crazy when he gets too much liquor in him,"
"Sure," I said. "I understand. My father was a pretty heavy drinker… Let's get the light off, huh?"
I jerked my head over my shoulder. A bunch a yokels had come out of the bar and were staring across the street at us.
I turned the light off, and we stood on the porch talking a few minutes. He said he hoped Ruthie hadn't been alarmed, He invited me to the bakery again, and I turned him down.
He stuffed tobacco into his pipe, puffed at it nervously. "I can't tell you how much I admired your self-possession, Mr. Bigelow. I'm afraid I-I've always thought I was pretty cool and collected, but-"
"You are," I said. "You were swell, It's just that you're not used to drunks."
"You say your-uh-your father-?"
It was strange that I'd mentioned it. I mean, there wasn't any harm in mentioning it; but it had been so long ago, more than thirty years ago.
"Of course, I don't remember anything about it," I said. "That was back in 1930 and I was only a baby at the time; but my mother-" That was one lie I had to pound home. My age.
"Tsk, tsk! Poor woman. How terrible for her!"
"He was a coal miner," I said. "Over around McAlester, Oklahoma, The union didn't amount to much in those days, and I don't need to tell you there was a depression. About the only work a man could get was in the wildcats, working without inspection. Stripping pillars-"
I paused a moment, remembering. Remembering the stooped back, and the glaring fear-maddened eyes. Remembering the choked sounds at night, the sobbing screams.
"He got the idea that we were trying to kill him," I said. "If we spilled a little meal, or tore our clothes or something like that, he'd beat the tar out of us… Out of the others, I mean, I was only a baby."
"Yes? But I don't understand why-"
"It's simple," I said. "Anyway, it was simple enough to him, It seemed to him that we were trying to keep him in the mines. Keeping him from getting away. Using up stuff as fast as we could so that he'd have to stay down there under the ground… until he was buried under it."