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darkness。 Death。 Sometimes he could almost feel it in the
room with him。 He rocked to and fro in the chair。 What did he
understand？ Nothing。 Where was he headed？ Nowhere。 What
did he want？ To know。 What？ A mean…ing。 Why？ A riddle。
Broken pictures lay like a scattered jigsaw puzzle in his head。
Alice soaping in the bathtub。 Mussolini's mug。 Mick pulling
the baby in a wagon。 A roast turkey on display。 Blount's
mouth。 The face of Singer。 He felt himself wait
f
ing。 The room was completely dark。 From the kitchen he
could hear Louis singing。
Biff stood up and touched the arm of his chair to still its
rocking。 When he opened the door the hall outside was very
warm and bright。 He remembered that perhaps Mick would
come。 He straightened his clothes and smoothed back his hair。
A warmth and liveliness returned to him。 The restaurant was
in a hubbub。 Beer rounds and Sunday supper had begun。 He
smiled genially to young Harry and settled himself behind the
cash register。 He took in the room with a glance like a lasso。
The place was crowded and humming with noise。 The bowl of
fruit in the window was a genteel； artistic display。 He watched
the door and continued to examine the room with a practiced
eye。 He was alert and intently waiting。 Singer came finally
and wrote with his silver pencil that he wanted only soup and
whiskey as he had a cold。 But Mick did not come。
9
i5 HE never even had a nickel to herself any more。 They were
that poor。 Money was the main thing。 All the time it was
money； money； money。 They had to pay through the nose for
Baby Wilson's private room and private nurse。 But even that
was just one bill。 By the time one thing was paid for
something else always would crop up。 They owed around two
hundred dollars that had to be paid right away。 They lost the
house。 Their Dad got a hundred dollars out of the deal and let
the bank take over the mortgage。 Then he borrowed another
fifty dollars and Mister Singer went on the note with him。
Afterward they had to worry about rent every month instead
of taxes。 They were mighty near as poor as factory folks。 Only
nobody could look down on them。
Bill had a job in a bottling plant and made ten dollars a week。
Hazel worked as a helper in a beauty parlor for eight dollars。
Etta sold tickets at a movie for five dollars。 Each of them paid
half of what they earned for their keep。 Then the house had six
boarders at five dollars a head。 And Mister Singer； who paid
his rent very prompt。 With what their Dad picked up it all
came to about two hundred204
dollars a month—and out of that they had to feed the six
boarders pretty good and feed the family and pay rent for the
whole house and keep up the payments on the furniture。
George and her didn't get any lunch money now。 She had to
stop the music lessons。 Portia saved the leftovers from the
dinner for her and George to eat after school。 All the time they
had their meals in the kitchen。 Whether Bill and Hazel and
Etta sat with the boarders or ate in the kitchen depended on
how much food there was。 In the kitchen they had grits and
grease and side meat and coffee for breakfast。 For supper they
had the same thing along with whatever could be spared from
the dining…room。 The big kids griped whenever they had to eat
in the kitchen。 And sometimes she and George were
downright hungry for two or three days。
But this was in the outside room。 It had nothing to do with
music and foreign countries and the plans she made。 The
winter was cold。 Frost was on the windowpanes。 At night the
fire in the living…room crackled very warm。 All the family sat
by the fire with the boarders； so she had the middle bedroom
to herself。 She wore two sweaters and a pair of Bill's outgrown
corduroy pants。 Excitement kept her warm。 She would bring
out her private box from under the bed and sit on the floor to
work。
In the big box there were the pictures she had painted at the
government free art class。 She had taken them out of Bill's
room。 Also in the box she kept three mystery books her Dad
had given her； a compact； a box of watch parts； a rhinestone
necklace； a hammer； and some notebooks。 One notebook was
marked on the top with red crayon— PRIVATE。 KEEP OUT。
PRIVATE—and tied with a string。
She had worked on music in this notebook all the winter。 She
quit studying school lessons at night so she could have more
time to spend on music。 Mostly she had written just little
tunes—songs without any words and without even any bass
notes to them。 They were very short。 But even if the tunes
were only half a page long she gave them names and drew her
initials underneath them。 Nothing in this book was a real piece
or a composition。 They were just songs in her mind she
wanted to remember。 She named
them how they reminded her—'Africa' and 'A Big Fighf and
The Snowstorm。'
She couldn't write the music just like it sounded in her mind。
She had to thin it down to only a few notes； otherwise she got
too mixed up to go further。 There was so much she didn't
know about how to write music。 But maybe after she learned
how to write these simple tunes fairly quick she could begin to
put down the whole music in her mind。
In January she began a certain very wonderful piece called
'This Thing I Want； I Know Not What' It was a beautiful and
marvelous song—very slow and soft。 At first she had started
to write a poem along with it； but she couldn't think of ideas to
fit the music。 Also it was hard to get a word for the third line
to rhyme with what。 This new song made her feel sad and
excited and happy all at once。 Music beautiful as this was hard
to work on。 Any song was hard to write。 Something she could
hum in two minutes meant a whole week's work before it was
down in the notebook—after she had figured up the scale and
the time and every note。
She had to concentrate hard and sing it many times。 Her voice
was always hoarse。 Her Dad said this was because she had
bawled so much when she was a baby。 Her Dad would have to
get up and walk with her every night when she was Ralph's
age。 The only thing would hush her； he always said； was for
him to beat the coal scuttle with a poker and sing 'Dixie。'
She lay on her stomach on the cold floor and thought。 Later on
—when she was twenty—she would be a great world…famous
composer。 She would have a whole symphony orchestra and
conduct all of her music herself。 She would stand up on the
platform in front of the big crowds of people。 To conduct the
orchestra she would wear either a real man's evening suit or
else a red dress spangled with rhine…stones。 The curtains of the
stage would be red velvet and M。K。 would be printed on them
in gold。 Mister Singer would be there； and afterward they
would go out and eat fried chicken。 He would admire her and
count her as his very best friend。 George would bring up big
wreaths of flowers to the stage。 It would be in New York City
or else in a foreign country。 Famous people would point at her
—206
CARSON McCULLBRS
Carole Lombard and Arturo Toscanini and Admiral Byrd