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glad to leave the kitchen and take his stand by the cash
register again。
Lucile and Baby came for Sunday dinner。 The little Md was
not so good now。 The bandage was still on her head and the
doctor said it could not come off until next month。 The
binding of gauze in place of the yellow curls made her head
look naked。
'Say hello to Uncle Biff； Hon；' Lucile prompted。
Baby bridled fretfully。 'Hello to Unca Biff Hon；' she gassed。
She put up a struggle when Lucile tried to take off her Sunday
coat。 'Now you just behave yourself；' Lucile kept saying。 〃You
got to take it off or you'll catch pneumonia when we go out
again。。 Now you just behave yourself。
'
Biff took the situation in charge。 He soothed Baby with a ball
of candy gum and eased the coat from her shoulders。 Her
dress had lost its set in the struggle with Lucile。 He
straightened it so that the yoke was in line across her chest He
retied her sash and crushed the bow to just the right shape
with his fingers。 Then he patted Baby on her little behind。 'We
got some strawberry ice cream today；' he said。
'Bartholomew； you'd make a mighty good mother。
'
Thanks；' Biff said。 That's a compliment'
We just been to Sunday School and church。 Baby； say the
verse from the Bible you learned for your Uncle Biff。
'
The kid hung back and pouted。 'Jesus wept；' she said finally。
The scorn that she put in the two words made it sound like
a
terrible thing。
'Want to see Louis？' Biff asked。 'He's back in the kitchen。
'
'I wanna see Willie。 I wanna hear WMe play the harp。
'
〃Now； Baby； you're just trying yourself；' Lucile said im
patiently。 'You know good and well that Willie's not here。
Willie was sent off to the penitentiary。
'
'But Louis；' Biff said。 'He can play the harp； too。 Go tell him to
get the ice cream ready and play you a tune。
'
Baby went toward the kitchen； dragging one heel on the floor。
Lucile laid her hat on the counter。 There were tears in her
eyes。 'You know I always said this： If a child is kept clean and
well cared for and pretty then that child will usually be sweet
and smart。 But if a child's dirty and ugly then you can't expect
anything much。 What I'm trying to get at is that Baby is so
shamed over losing her hair and that bandage on her head that
it just seems like it makes her cut the buck all the time。 She
won't practice her elocution—she won't do a thing。 She feels
so bad I just can't manage her。'
'If you'd quit picking with her so much she'd be all right。'
At last he settled them in a booth by the window。 Lucile had a
special and there was a breast of chicken cut up fine； cream of
wheat； and carrots for Baby。 She played with her food and
spilled milk on her little frock。 He sat with them until the rush
started。 Then he had to be on his feet to keep things going
smoothly。
People eating。 The wide…open mouths with the food pushed in。
What was it？ The line he had read not long ago。 Life was only
a matter of intake and alimentation and reproduction。 The
place was crowded。 There was a swing band on the radio。
Then the two he was waiting for came in。 Singer entered the
door first； very straight and swank in his tailored Sunday suit。
Blount followed along just behind his elbow。 There was
something about the way they walked that struck him。 They
sat at their table； and Blount talked and ate with gusto while
Singer watched politely。 When the meal was finished they
stopped by the cash register for a few minutes。 Then as they
went out he noticed again there was something about their
walking together that made him pause and question himself。
What could it be？ The suddenness with which the memory
opened up deep down in his mind was a shock。 The big deafmute moron whom Singer used to walk with sometimes on the
way to work。 The sloppy Greek who made candy for Charles
Parker。198
The Greek always walked ahead and Singer followed。 He had
never noticed them much because they never came into the
place。 But why had he not remembered this？ Of all times he
had wondered about the mute to neglect such an angle。 See
everything in the landscape except the three waltzing
elephants。 But did it matter after all？
Biff narrowed his eyes。 How Singer had been before was not
important。 The thing that mattered was the way Blount and
Mick made of him a sort of home…made God。 Owing to the
fact he was a mute they were able to give him all the qualities
they wanted him to have。 Yes。 But how could such a strange
thing come about？ And why？
A one…armed man came hi and Biff treated him to a whiskey
on the house。 But he did not feel like talking to anyone。
Sunday dinner was a family meal。 Men who drank beer by
themselves on weeknights brought their wives and little kids
with them on Sunday。 The highchair they kept in the back was
often needed。 It was two…thirty and though many tables were
occupied the meal was almost over。 Biff had been on his feet
for the past four hours and was tired。 He used to stand for
fourteen or sixteen hours and not notice any effects at all。 But
now he had aged。 Considerably。 There was no doubt about it。
Or maybe matured was the word。 Not aged—certainly not—
yet。 The waves of sound in the room swelled and subsided
against his ears。 Matured。 His eyes smarted and it was as
though some fever in him made everything too bright and
sharp。
He called to one of the waitresses： 'Take over for me will you；
please？ I'm going out。'
The street was empty because of Sunday。 The sun shone
bright and clear； without warmth。 Biff held the collar of his
coat close to his neck。 Alone in the street he felt out of pocket。
The wind blew cold from the river。 He should turn back and
stay in the restaurant where he belonged。 He had no business
going to the place where he was headed。 For the past four
Sundays he had done this。 He had walked in the neighborhood
where he might see Mick。 And there was something about it
that was—not quite right。 Yes。 Wrong。 He walked slowly
down the sidewalk opposite the house
where she lived。 Last Sunday she had been reading the funny
papers on the front steps。 But this time as he glanced swiftly
toward the house he saw she was not there。 But tilted the brim
of his felt hat down over his eyes。 Perhaps she would come
into the place later。 Often on Sunday after supper she came for
a hot cocoa and stopped for a while at the table where Singer
was sitting。 On Sunday she wore a different outfit from the
blue skirt and sweater she wore on other days。 Her Sunday
dress was wine…colored silk with a dingy lace collar。 Once she
had had on stockings—with runs in them。 Always he wanted
to set her up to something； to give to her。 And not only
a
sundae or some sweet to eat—but something real。 That was all
he wanted for himself—to give to her。 Biff's mouth hardened。
He had done nothing wrong but in him he felt a strange guilt。
Why？ The dark guilt in all men； unreck…oned and without
a
name。
On the way home Biff found a penny lying half concealed by
rubbish in the gutter。 Thriftily he picked it up； cleaned the
coin with his handkerchief； and dropped it into the black
pocke