Jonathan Troy

O N E

FEATHERSMITH SAID: I think they mean to kill your father.

Who’s got a match?

Feathersmith said—

Anybody? said Pitch, looking at the ceiling. His eyes were sharp and nearly colorless, and his ears were slightly pointed. He seemed to have no eyebrows.

Feathersmith said: I really do. Perhaps I melodramatize but I think that’s what they mean to do. Even though they don’t know it yet themselves. He poked one of his long-fingered translucent hands into a pocket and found a match-book; he gave it to Pitch. What they think they want to do is frighten him, silence him. But actually (perhaps unconsciously, as I suggested) they want to kill him. One way or another. He’s a menace to unanimity.

Thank you, said Pitch.

He heard them both but his thought was incoherent, wandering. What of it? the old man wants to die anyway. He watched the flaming match approach Pitch’s mouth and then the intervention of the cigarette between the yellow flame and the gray almost-lipless mouth; Pitch has a gray face shading into blue along the jaw—a hard tight-muscled face as gaunt and clean as a dry skull—and black hair cut short and brushed forward, laying flat and vee-pointed on the forehead. Pitch doesn’t care either, he thought, and I like him; he doesn’t care about anything and I like him. He turned his head a little, observed for a moment, on the periphery of consciousness, the dimness and silence in the barroom, and then looked at Feathersmith.

Feathersmith said: "It’s true also, as you’ve complained, that he has a martyr-complex, that in a way he wants trouble, ugliness, death, disorder, and that he’s going out of his way to find or create it. He is certainly anachronistic, obsolete, dangerously outmoded, but he’s an old man; and look at his history. He was a Wobblie when he was sixteen; he was a member of that little band which invaded Mexican territory—Baja California—around the time of the first World War. Nobody lives there so they thought—"

Haven’t I heard all this before? Pitch said, smiling thinly, winking one bleak eye at the boy.

The little man with the big blue eyes and the fairy-flower hands—Feathersmith. Face like a pink doily. Smirking inwardly, he watched the blue intensity of the teacher’s—Feathersmith’s—eyes, the wet blinking eyes behind their misted lenses, and the fragile head as it swung back and forth like a fan swiveling on its mount, aiming rosy radiations of thought and human feeling first at him and then at Pitch. A small delicate face, pink-flushed, baby-skinned, with ears like petals, and almost no chin, and a wispy failing growth of almond hair veiling the pink scalp. Fairysmith, he said silently; The Feather—Fairysmith.

Haven’t I? said Pitch.

Feathersmith said: What? He took a quick swallow from his drink. Anyway, once there, they tried to set up an independent Socialist state, a workers’ republic, but the Dictator—Diaz, I mean—sent in troops and had most of them shot, with the tacit approval of the United States Government. The young teacher picked daintily at his long and sensitive nose. (This exaggerated nose, and his receding chin, gave him a general resemblance to the anteater.) Nat Troy, he said, was one of the few who escaped. So naturally. . .

Yes, he thought, so naturally. He groped for his beer can, found it, found it empty. And what am I supposed to do? Cry for him? Am I my father’s keeper? With one hand, deliberately but without thought, he bent the can, folded it double.

Pitch anticipated the limping conclusion. So naturally he’s bitter, he said, a little crazed, in fact. But that was nearly forty years ago; it doesn’t give him the privilege of making a fool of himself now.

Perhaps it does, the teacher said. He looked at the boy. When you think of the things that have happened to him since. Isn’t that so, Jonathan? The watery eyes, blue and sternly sentimental, fastened upon him damply. Don’t you think so, Jonathan? The wistful eyes.

He didn’t answer; he had no intention of answering. Instead, in sullen anger, he listened to an internal muttering: You little pink fairy, I ought to twist your head off. Why can’t you shut up about this sometime? He stared at the crumpled beer can in his hand. What is all this to me?

Our protégé is preoccupied, said Pitch. He is not emotionally moved by your story.

Feathersmith folded his fine hands and gazed at them sadly, saying nothing. His glass was nearly empty. Something moved in the background. The others were silent too and in the dark heavy-aired bar only the jukebox sang:

All alone, a thousan’ miles from ho-ome,

An’ I’m feelin’ mighty sorry for mahsef. . .

The magnificent machine, golden and glowing, massive, marvelous as Heaven with its soft colored lights in oily motion, firm and powerful and rich, singing:

Nevah settled, always on thuh ro-oam,

Always feelin’ mighty sorry for mahsef. . . .

His heart quivered, shook with jellied emotion. I know just how you feel, old dawg, old hound, he said in silence. Me too. I’m home sick too. Sick for the home I’ve never seen. Beyond the farthest hills, towards the evening sun, under a magic moon, away out West where the coyote howls. He remembered the postcards in his father’s trunk, the lush-colored scenes of desert sunsets, silhouetted cactus and joshua trees, red cliffs, sandy old roads winding under cottonwoods. Good God but I’m homesick.

The glasses clashed and tinkled behind the bar. Vincent, round and dark, a small amiable bear, smiled at them, his white teeth cutting the gloom. His black eyes: My mother came from Sicily. Another round? he asked.

Feathersmith, looking at Jonathan, said: What your father needs, more than anything else—

No, said Pitch firmly, pushing back his chair and expelling two jets of smoke from his nostrils. I’ve had enough. I’m going home.

—more than anything else, Feathersmith insisted, is a son. He blinked and cleared his throat. Pardon my intrusion.

He hardly heard what the teacher said. What did you say? he thought. The great empty spaces, grand and desolate—I could have been a cowboy now if the old man had only had enough guts to stay there. Sandy desert roads twisting under dusty cottonwoods; beyond, a purple range. What did you say? he thought.

Basta. I’m going home. Pitch stood up, pulling on his dirty rain coat. In my humble opinion, he said, addressing Feathersmith, old man Troy is a pathetic public nuisance, and if he wants— He looked at Jonathan, smiled dryly; Forgive my frankness—and if he wants to be a martyr he should go somewhere else to do it. He squinted his eyes, searching for something. Not make a mess in a pretty little town like this, he said vaguely. And then: Where’s my book? He stooped and looked under the table. Huh?

A few more months and I’ll be through with this muck. His mind drifted on in aimless reverie. I’ll join the Air Force and go to Korea. Or go West, find my home, get a good job on a ranch.

Feathersmith picked up the book—Problems in Advanced Electrodynamics—from a nearby chair; holding it gingerly, like something unclean, and keeping his face partially averted, he offered it to Pitch.

Thanks, said Pitch. He tucked the book under one arm, shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and turned towards the door. Before going out he stopped and faced the teacher. I’ll be over tonight, after supper. Okay? Have a little game of chess. He grinned like a sly cat. Give you a chance to get even.

No, Feathersmith said. No; I don’t want to have to see your wicked crafty heathen face tonight. Go away; go back to your stinking underworld.

Pitch smiled cheerfully, exposing somewhat ochroid teeth. All right, he said; some other night. He opened the door, letting in a cool draft of October air, and hesitated, apparently about to say something more. But instead he grinned again, shrugged his shoulders, and stepped outside. They had a glimpse of him lunging forward past a window and then he was gone.

Feathersmith sighed and crossed himself.

Cold out there, someone mumbled; Vincent, half-lost in the room’s twilight, seemed to be watching them. But nobody heard him.

I wish I had a nickel, he thought; I’d like to hear that song over again. From the corners of his eyes he watched Feathersmith. The little pink probably—he saw the little mouth begin to stir; look out, here it comes again.

Feathersmith said: Jonathan?

Ignore him. He’ll go away after a while. Or I will. I was born for better things than this. Then he felt, for a moment, a twinge of shame and doubt. But only for a moment. I can always leave, he thought.

Jonathan? There was no answer. As if he had not actually expected one, the teacher began putting his thought into speech without relying on certain audience. Although Vincent was listening. Jonathan, he said, maybe this is after all none of my business—

The chair screeched against the floor as he shoved it back. He stood up, leaning high and silent over the table and the small edentate schoolteacher. He reached down and helped himself to one of Feathersmith’s cigarettes.

You’re welcome, Feathersmith said; after a moment he scratched a match on the tabletop and lifted the small brush of fire up toward the boy’s face. Jonathan took the match from his hand. Maybe it’s none of my business, Feathersmith started again, but I’d like to help you both. He paused. You and your father, I mean. Help you get together.

This time he was answered; Jonathan blew smoke in his face.

Feathersmith said: Because I realize how much love there is in each of you. And how you really need each other.

Slowly he turned his back and surveyed the dim loneliness of the bar. Is this my home? He stared up at the ceiling. Is this where I belong? Through a foot-thickness of plaster, air, lathing, steel beams, flooring, and dirt, he could see his father, the old man, the old pirate, sprawled in his big chair before the flaming gas; asleep, with his corncob pipe slipping from his fingers. Old One-Eye.

And because you may be the only one who can save him. Because he’ll listen to you or because they are afraid of you. Either way. Feathersmith was not pleading; there was no urgency in his tone, little emotion, no sign of dramatics. He spoke quietly and in prose, concerned with fact. I know you don’t believe this, he said, but you’ll soon learn to. I only hope that you learn in time.

I wish I had a nickel for the jukebox. He could feel the dollar bill in his pocket but he would need that for later; Etheline. Tonight, he thought, I’ll go see Etheline; take her roller-skating or something. Then he remembered that he had not made a date.

Feathersmith said: Where’re you going? His voice, thin, high, effeminate, now revealed a graceless tremor—a compound of emotion, anxiety, and two jiggers of early-evening scotch. Rehearsal tonight, he said to the boy’s retreating back. Don’t forget, he said.

Jonathan made for the door, not the one in front, the main door opening onto the street, but that in the rear of the barroom. Crouching a little as he went under the lintel he entered the back room, a lounge or salon reserved for women patrons and occasional card players. He was greeted at once by the bulging eyes and black leering mouth

Hey Jonny!

of an old woman seated at one of the tables. Hey Jonny, she said, sit down and lap up a saucer of beer with me. She raised her stein with a fat dappled fist and made him a gallant flourish. Come on Jonny. . . she coaxed, but he ignored her. Stuck-up! she said; with rigidly extended fore-finger and bent arm she offered him the Neapolitan thrust.

I’m home again, he thought, and stepped into the telephone booth and slammed the door shut. Home again. He searched his pockets for a nickel, found two pennies and the dollar bill. Damn, he muttered, and poked an exploring finger into the coin-return slot. Nothing there. He decided to try one of the pennies. First he lifted the receiver from its hook and let it hang; then, using both hands for the operation he was about to perform, he held the penny pressed in the opening of the nickel slot, opened his penknife and with the point of the blade gave the penny a downward and diagonal thrust. It didn’t work; the penny rattled through the machine without a stop and dropped with the clink of small change into the coin return. He tried again, and again; on the third attempt he was successful; contact was made, the circuit closed. He dialed the number: four-three three-eight-seven, holding the receiver to his ear, listening to the hum, then the double ringing, waiting for the still small voice.

Hello.

Etheline? he asked, though he knew.

She speaking. A small voice, faint and feminine and coy.

This is Jonathan. I’m coming over to see you tonight. I’ll be there in half an hour.

But Jonathan. . .

What? He added a shade of masculine authority to his tone. We’re going roller-skating.

Yes Jonathan. She hiccupped.

G’bye now.

Goodbye.

He beat her to the hangup, grinning. Goodbye little sex-box. Moderately elated, as he always was by an appointment with temptation, he rushed from the phone booth, strode past the fat old lady dipping her chins in her beer mug, and

Hey Jonny!

left the room, not as he had entered it, but through a side-door which opened into a small chamber of gloom at the foot of a long narrow stairway. A round window, like a porthole, set in a second, outer door which gave access to the alley outside, admitted the only light—a brown diffusion of evening, street light, neon. He stopped, snapping his fingers: Forgot to tell her to get the car. He hesitated, then—oh well, doesn’t matter—scrambled, stumbled, clambered up the old wooden steps to home, silently cursing the darkness. An old impulse commanded him, when he reached the landing at the top, to stealth; very quietly he opened the door of the apartment.

By the glowing gas fire sat Nathaniel Troy, his head slumped forward, mouth ajar and the good eye closed, his brown hands reposing limply on his thighs. Despite the black patch of suède concealing the left eye-socket, the old man, with his thick gray hair, his bushy night watchman’s mustache, his thin leathery face relaxed, looked as harmless and gentle as a country priest. Resting rather precariously on his lap, about to slide off, was a fat red-bound book: Looking Backward. And on the floor beside his chair, shining with gun-oil, was a large forty-five caliber revolver, broken open, the cylinder empty; nearby, a short brass cleaning-rod with a white patch in the slot. The village priest.

He’s dead, thought Jonathan, pausing by the door, he’s dead and I’ve killed him. He found it a stirring idea, dark with drama, rich with tragedy and pathos. Pleased, he stepped forward and shut the door.

The solitary eye was opened; the head rose an inch or two, slowly, and slowly turned. Oh. . . it said quietly. You’re back. Nat licked his mustache, blinked the naked eye, moved his body a little in the chair. Your supper’s waitin. He gestured with his thumb toward the kitchen-corner of the room. Probably pretty cold now.

That’s all right, Jonathan said, breaking his brief reverie, already irritated, and moving swiftly toward the bathroom, shedding his leather jacket on the way and dropping it on the floor. I did eat. He stuffed the rag in the washbasin drain and turned on the hot water.

I got pork chops this evenin, Nat said. Good ones. And a can of peaches for dessert.

That’s all right, he said, unbuttoning his shirt. I’m not hungry. What’s he want now? Well, I can’t worry about that. I have something better to worry about. Something a lot better and juicier than pork chops and peaches. Humming, whistling through closed teeth, suppressed singing:

Sometimes. . . I feel. . . like a motherless child. . .

You oughta eat somethin solid, Nat said, sitting in his chair and staring at the gassy fire. His hands fingered the book but he did not look at it.

Sometimes. . . I feel. . . like a motherless child. . .

He dropped his shirt on the floor and gazed with satisfaction into the mirror, contemplating the reflected image of his naked chest and arms. I’m growing, he said, I’m filling out. Look at that chest—like Tarzan. And those bulging biceps. He raised his arms and flexed the display muscles. Shoulders seem to be getting wider, too—should of gone out for football this year. Too bad Etheline can’t see me now; how she’d love to. . . He leaned closer to the mirror. By God there’s a pimple. First time I ever had one there. He gave it a tentative squeeze, but his attention was diverted by the pleasing prospect of his own face moving toward him, the high cheekbones, the firm jaw, the green eyes and yellow hair.

Jonathan, said Nat.

There’s a kind of nobleness there. Something god-like. The face of tragedy. . . and of mystery. He stood close to the mirror, studying his face. Steam rose around him from the hot water; he was drifting downward through a cloud. Yet. . . a hint of mockery. In the eyes. Those hard cold green eyes. Gray-green, like the sea, like smoked steel, like the eyes of a hawk. I am a hawk. Damned steam. He wiped the damp mirror with his palm, looked at himself through a smeared window. But more. There’s something else there, something important. The face of the future. In my stern eyes the shadow of the new world to come. Of a new race. The eyes of the rocketship pilot. The eyes of a man who has walked upon the moon. Me, Jonathan Troy. Christ, that water’s hot.

Sometimes. . . I feel. . . like a motherless child. . .

Jonathan. . .

Jonathan, said a weary voice.

Where’s the goddamned soap? Ah. . . Need a little cold water now. He added cold water to the basin already overflowing with hot water. Enough. Wet floor now. Can’t be helped. Air’s cold in here. Steam must be on the blink again. The hawk-man. The moon-man with the future eyes.

A long. . . way—ay. . . from home. . .

Feeling melancholy, he lathered his face, his chest, and the armpits, and thought about sex. The onward march of nature cannot be stopped by woman. Not even by a virgin. She’s coming around. Tonight maybe. A counter image crossed his mind. I wish it was her. The most beautiful laugh I ever heard. The only beautiful laugh I ever heard. Like a small tree laughing. A leafy laugh. His simile made him smile. Now Etheline is as solid as they come. Solid meat, prime quality, government stamped and approved. You can see the trade mark on her thigh. Where the doctor bit her. Maybe I should go in for medicine. But Hollywood needs me more. Hollywood. . . that’s on the other side of the desert. A long long way from Pennsylvania. And then, quite suddenly, like a pang of heartache, sharp with longing, he had a vision of that home which he had never seen:

A dim road. . . an old wagon trail curving, winding slowly, dust colored, among giant boulders shaded purple in the shade, golden in the light; twin paths parallel by strange and solitary trees with fluted trunks and thorny unleaved limbs, dry-green, pale-green tinged with yellow from the sun, leading into distance under a tremendous sky washed with violet and turquoise-blue toward a mountain red as iron with cliff-sides and level top, toward the mass of clouds shot through with fire-orange, amber, bordered with gold and banked before the sinking western sun. . .

He shivered. He found himself standing motionless, almost rigid, one hand at his throat, one under an arm, and the soap beginning to dry and cake on his skin.

Jonathan. . .

He began to rinse himself, splashing water on his arms and on the floor. Whaddeya want? Old man’s coming to life. There’s a hair under his skin, I can tell just by the sound of his voice. But I can’t fool around. Etheline will be waiting. He bent over and splashed water onto his face and on the floor.

I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, Nat said, sitting in his chair and gazing at the incandescent grill of burning gas. He caressed the book on his lap.

Oh my God, thought Jonathan. Another sermon. My duty to humanity. The struggle of the working class. The brotherhood of man. The coöperative commonwealth. The classless society. The inevitable triumph of the proletarians. If it’s inevitable what’s he worried about? Where’s the goddamned towel?

There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, said Nat. Something very—

Where’s the goddamned towel?

Have you thought about what you’re gonna do when you get out of high school? Nat began. He blinked his eye, staring at the fire. This is your last year; you’re nineteen years old. Do you know what you wanta do?

He opened his eyes and looked for the towel. It wasn’t in the bathroom. He went into the main room and looked around for it, water streaming down his face, down his sides and into his trousers. Damn! Where—there it is, on the radiator. What the devil is it doing there? He lunged across the room and jerked the towel off the steam heater.

Jonathan, Nat said, not moving or turning his face away from the gas fire, Jonathan. . .

I’m in a hurry, he said, trying to dry himself with a damp towel. We’ll have to talk about it some other time. Now for a shirt; do I have a clean shirt? Towel’s damp for chrissake. I must have a clean shirt somewhere. Well if I don’t I’ll go without a shirt. Just wear my old horsehide jacket. Save time later on when the action begins; the struggle. No foolishness—find a shirt. Any shirt. Gotta have a clean shirt. Wonder what happened to the green one? Damned damp towel. He whirled it once around and slung it, now wet and heavy, through the air; it smacked against the wall and slid to the floor.

Jonathan, Nat said, I think you could do great things if you set your mind to it. He chewed on his mustache and raised one hand to his chin. The fire illuminated his lean face, shone glancing in his eye. Great things for the workingman.

For the workingman? he thought. How about a shirt for me? Smooth-muscled, smooth-skinned, his blond mane glowing softly in the dull light, he stood by the cold radiator with his hands on his waist, looking theatrical and waiting for his back to dry. He peered down at his damp navel. Maybe I look more like Flash Gordon than Tarzan.

America’s workingmen need a new set of leaders, said Nat gravely. Not just to fight for the final goal of socialism but to fight now against the crooks and racketeers who run the unions.

Jonathan scowled, shivering. Mumble on, old Wobblehead. Mumble your gums and limber up your tongue and see where it gets you. See where it’s got you now. A worn-out old radical trying to organize a revolutionary union in a little old family-type home-owned galoshes factory. Damned old fool. They’ll wake up to your messing around someday and run you right out of town on a rail. He shivered again. What am I doing here? It’s getting late. I gotta find a shirt. Etheline, I’m coming. He sprang over the bed and pulled a drawer out of the battered dresser. There was nothing in it but an old copy of the Powhatan Evening Gazette. Where’re my shirts? yelled Jonathan.

Listen to me, Nat said, staring at the fire, his face dedicated to solemnity, his voice to a purpose of high seriousness. Stop throwing yourself around and listen to me for a few minutes. There are some things you got to think about.

He kicked back the dresser drawer and hurried to the closet. When he opened the door he saw himself again, immured in glass, and hesitated, admiring the long slim lines of his body. If I just had a pair of those tight pants, he thought, I’d look pretty much like young Wild Bill Hickock. . . only more intelligent

I’ve spent most of my life, said Nat, thinking about what a man has to do if he wants to be able to live with himself. And I’ve been mad most of my life. Fighting mad. Because whenever I look around in this world I see things that make me too damned angry to stay quiet.

Wake up, wake up, he said to himself. Why doesn’t the old goat shut up? I can’t hear myself think. Gotta find a shirt. Now where. . . He fumbled around in the semi-darkness of the closet, among old coats and overalls smelling of raw rubber, stepping on boots and shoes, feeling for the shelves on one wall and finding them—bare. God damn!

Right here in this town—in this little hick town—I know personally of about fifty families, fifty families, hear? you hear? who can’t even send their kids to grade school. To grade school! And why? I’ll tell you why. Because the kids—

A shirt! cried Jonathan. A shirt! a shirt!

—Because the kids got nothing decent to wear, that’s why. Little devils refuse to go to school. First day of school they put on their ragsacks and mothers herd them off to school. But they come back bawling and carrying-on and next day they won’t budge. And why? I’ll tell you why. Because they want clothes just like the other kids got. Just like the other kids—did you ever hear of such a thing? No originality at all, no imagination. Why the little bastards want shoes with soles, and socks to go inside the shoes. Socks! That’s what they’re teaching kids at school nowadays. To wear socks inside their shoes. It’s un-American.

Jonathan fought his way out of the closet and stopped with his finger on his nose, thinking: I know I have some shirts somewhere. Good clean shirts. But for the love of Christ Jesus, where are they? He looked over the room again, at his father sitting in front of the gas fire, at the stove and sink and cupboard in one corner, at a wet smear on the wall, at the floor gray with dust, at the old dresser, at Nat’s sagging bed, at his own bed. Enlightenment came. The bed!

It’s subversive. And it costs money. Where do you suppose a family like those bohunker Gresaki’s are gonna find money to buy clothes for one kid, let alone six? The old man hasn’t had a steady job for seven years. Seven years. And he’s a good experienced railroader brakeman, fireman. He’s busted more thumbs than a nigger has toes. What does it get him? It gets him laid-off, that’s what. Him with fourteen years on the railroad, ten of em in the yards right here in Powhatan. What happens to a family when the head man loses his job? Did you ever think about that? I mean the little details. First thing, right off, they stop going to the movies every Saturday. They don’t buy the washing machine that the Missus needs. They don’t get new tires for the old Chevvy. They forget about buying new clothes for a while. The little bohunks get lollipops instead of ice cream on Sunday afternoon. How do you suppose they like that? Not much, let me tell you.

He lifted the mattress of his bed and peeled a green flannel shirt from the springs. Pooltable green, with genuine imitation pearl buttons and a two-way loop-fastened collar. A real shirt, he said silently, a shirt that feels like a shirt. He pulled it on over his naked chest and arms.

Maybe the old man gets a job with the Highway Department for a few days now and then, white-washing guardrails or spearing doughnut boxes along the road with a stick. How do you think he likes that? Him, a veteran railroader, forty-five years old, with one wife and thirteen kids. He doesn’t like it at all, no sir. It’s hard on his self-respect. Only he can’t afford self-respect any more. What business has an ignorant bohunk like him got with self-respect anyway?

Oh shut up for a while, he thought. Sure, it’s a sad life. He buttoned his shirt, thinking of Etheline, of her eyes, her knees, her breasts, the midlands; he grinned in his entrails, feeling suddenly bright all over.

So they scrape and scrimp and still slide backwards down the hill. They move into one of those tarpaper shacks out by the glass works. There isn’t any grass there, or trees. . .

Trees, said Jonathan, green leafy trees. He stuffed his shirt-tail into his pants. Laughing in the wind’s face. The most beautiful laugh I have ever heard. He looked for his coat, found it on the floor and put it on. Surrounded by horsehide. The old man’s really fired-up tonight; listen to him whistle.

. . . or sidewalk or sewage system or water line, and the well’s full of dead rats and the roof leaks roaches when it rains—you can’t even have a nice clean leak when you’re poor—and. . . and the. . . where’re you goin?

I should brush my teeth, he thought, moving toward the door, but I can’t stand any more of this. He buckled his heavy jacket. I’ll comb my hair on the way.

Jonathan? Jonathan, wait a minute. Nat turned, his monologue breaking, his one good eye following his son. Say. . . listen to me. He stood up, running his hand through his stately gray hair, squinting and blinking his eye. The book slipped to the floor and shone rosily before the fiery gas. My God, Jonathan, can’t you. . .

Sure. What’s he want now? Well? he said. Well? He reached for the doorknob. What do you want? He opened the door and stopped, not looking at his father. I’m in a hurry so you’ll have to make it quick.

Nat Troy could say nothing for a moment. He licked his upper lip, chewed on his thick gray mustache, scratched behind one ear. Jonathan. . . he said. Jonathan. . . All of his slow-mounting indignation, the heavy sarcasm, the wave of words, had abruptly vanished, evaporated like a cloudy mirage, like pale smoke rising, and left in its place a hollow of silence, stammering silence, broken bewildered silence. Jonathan. . . he said.

Well?

Why can’t. . . Nat stopped again; he looked at the floor. If only you could. . .

Well? said Jonathan. Speak up, old man, or forever hold your peace. Come on, I’m in a hurry. Well? he said again. His father could not reply. He waited for another moment, then stepped backward through the open door.

Jonathan. . .

He slammed the door shut. Go to hell, he said quietly, painfully suppressing the first bitter taste of shame, the faint remembrance of an old and obscure dishonor. He faced the dark stairway falling down before him and reached out blindly for exultation, for triumph:

I am a hawk, a steel-eyed hawk; I am the golden eagle. I am Jonathan Troy, the first man on the moon.

He swooped down the rickety stairs, his feathers shaking, kicked over an empty scrub-bucket, crashed into the door at the bottom, flung it open and sailed out into the night.

T W O

8:54 ARISE TRIUMPHANT

8:55 Nose itching he rolled over with a groan in his guts and peered with wavering eyes through the window and down at the street. A gleaming new Pontiac slithered past on the dewy pavement, Miss Leafy Hollister at the wheel. As the car bumped over a manhole cover her pointed young breasts jiggled slightly.

8:56 The old man was gone. Undoubtedly he was gone—his old Army blankets trailed on and over the floor from bed to coffee. He bleared at the clock: School commences in four more minutes: He elbowed upward into the day.

8:57 From below came the blather of schoolboys. Went by Pinhead Lutts and Carfish and Pissant McNoodle. Said Pinhead Lutts: God bless us all for we shall be late. Trotting Carfish farted. Said Pissant McNoodle: Bless you sir.

8:58 He hurled himself from the bed and sprang without underwear into his trousers and trampled sockless into his shoes and wriggled upward into his shirt—the buttons flashing fluttered into place.

8:59 Clattered by on the concrete under the window hobnailed Curtiss singing. Singing:

When the man in the moon comes down

And the hearts of young lovers fly up

9:00 Face stiff and crusted yet with sleep he grabbed his purple comb and filed one look toward the blazing mirror—nothing there. He splashed cold water on his face and turned to the door; it opened and slammed behind him and the wooden steps rolled up and under and away beneath his wooden feet. The second door and daylight.

9:01 Smash into light: The immensity of cement and the moving air and the morning music flowering from trees and painted leaves and sprouting under dew in the green power that parted slabs of concrete one from another. He ran, running easily, carelessly, smoothly, steadily, rapidly.

9:02 Running casually, swiftly, beautifully, naturally, musically. The air flowed past him and masses of color and light in shuttling columns and planes. Trees shivered over, the houses moved by. Rusty iron fences.

9:03 A pile of geometered brick approached and the glittering windows row on row and the doors with brass push-handles and the smell of disinfectant: The Democracy Factory. Without greatly slowing his pace

9:04 he cantered up to and into and through the door on the side and into the hallway darkened by time and on to the old gymnasium.

9:05 Crash into sweat: He stopped, sniffing unwillingly the fragrance of one generation of sweat and dirty socks and old athletic supporters. Unlocking his locker he scrambled with his hands through a pile of the same in search of his own.

9:06 He found them, and letting his clothes drop to the floor, he jerked on the jock and the trunks, he flipped on his gym socks, gym shoes, gym shirt.

9:07 He jammed his clothes into the locker and—What a goddamn way to begin the day—scowled. He wheeled and through the air heavy with armpit-aroma moved out of the shower-room

9:08 onto the gym floor. Toward a block of regimented comrades he sauntered, preparing a sneer for The Butcher.

9:09 Mister Troy, said The Butcher, you’re nine minutes five seconds late (matching his watch with the clock on the wall.) What of it? said Jonathan. Get into formation, The Butcher said.

9:10 He moved painfully slowly, expecting the lash. Pinhead! snapped The Butcher, keep your beady little eyes straight ahead. God bless us all, answered Pinhead Lutts. Shut up! said The Butcher. Carfish spoke. Bless you, Pinhead said.

9:11 Silence in the ranks! You’re supposed to be at attention. The Butcher inflated: Dress right. . . dresch! Damn it, Kurgatz, said Biggs, get your fuckin finger outa my ear. No talking in ranks! said The Butcher. Keep that arm up, Steiner. Hold it. . . The Butcher viewed the formation from the side, then returned to the front.

9:12 Ready. . . fronhh! Everybody obeyed but McNoodle, Carfish and Lutts. All right boys, said The Butcher, you can stop clowning now; get them down. It’s frozen, said Pinhead Lutts, I can’t move it.

9:13 Okay, said The Butcher, don’t worry—I’ll put it down for you. The arms came down. It’s all right now, Lutts said. Quiet in the ranks! said The Butcher. A fine bunch of soldiers you are—just wait’ll the Army gets you.

9:14 Is the Army worse than this? asked Belsen. Shut up! The Butcher said; you’re damned right it is. Steiner, stop that fidgeting. There’s a cockroach in my jockstrap, sir. Swallow it, said Pinhead Lutts. No talking in ranks!

9:15 said The Butcher. You boys are very bright this morning aren’t you; now shut up for a while. He backed a step, a short tan sausage-shaped man with bloodshot eyes and a bald head, the hair long ago showered away. He opened his mouth and tried to bark: Platoon!

9:16 Right. . . fasch! Almost everyone did a right face. All right, Lutts, The Butcher said patiently, you may turn around now too.

9:17 Give me my orders sir, said Pinhead Lutts. Carfish spoke out sharply. Lutts did a smart right face. Bless you, said Pissant McNoodle. Are you boys finished? asked The Butcher. No answer. Okay, he said: Platoon! Forward. . . hurch!

9:18 The formation surged raggedly forward. The brick wall approached them. To the rear, said The Butcher. . . hurch!

9:19 The formation sagged and straggled, coming apart. Column right, said The Butcher. . . hurch!—and fragments collided and sprawled on the floor.

9:20 Column left, said The Butcher hopefully. . . hurch! The formation no longer existed. Irregular groups marched on in diverse directions. Jonathan sat down and watched without interest.

9:21 Right oblique, said The Butcher sadly. . . hurch! The Butcher was now almost alone. The boys sat around and grinned at him.

9:22 Platoon, said The Butcher wearily halhh! He halted. He did a left face. Pinhead Lutts stood before him, braced rigidly at attention. Platoon. . . schmisst! Pinhead relaxed. Okay, said The Butcher with his human voice, go get the balls.

9:23 Two boys scurried like rabbits toward a closed door. While Jonathan sat on the floor, thinking of last night, Etheline, skin. Quite a night, he thought—yeah. . .

9:24 Three dirty basketballs bounced across the floor: A vortex of activity. Jonathan waited, ruefully remembering.

9:25 The Butcher blew on his little brass whistle and a basketball bounded off his hairless dome. All right, he said, unblinking, let’s get started. Skins and shirts!

9:26 Jonathan stood up and without haste removed his T-shirt; skins were permanent. He looked down at himself, at his chest. Not so tan now, in October, but look at all that muscle.

9:27 Come on Troy let’s go. He walked slowly to the center circle while impatient others waited. Come on golden boy. Over here McNoodle. The Butcher held the ball. Jonathan and Pissant McNoodle faced each other over the whistle in The Butcher’s mouth.

9:28 He looked at McNoodle—at the projecting ears, the football-shaped head, the big-eyed hair-fuzzed lemur-like face. God but you’re ugly, Jonathan thought, man but you’re—

9:29 The Butcher tossed the ball up between them, at the same time squealing on his whistle—knees bent tensely, fingers tightened. The fat brown ball drifted up through the air. Pissant McNoodle scrambled up after it, grunting, his arm scrabbling in space. Man but you’re ugly, Jonathan thought, as he followed the ball, floating up from the floor without effort, his face expressionless, his right arm sweeping up and over and driving with measured force the palm of his hand against leather while Pissant was still clawing at the air, his eyes bulging with strain, and his sudden wild swipe at the ball missing by ten inches. At the inert summit of his levitation Jonathan paused reflectively, hovering some two feet above the floor, and watched with meditative eyes the crashing descent of miserable Pissant McNoodle. He sighed without reason and returned to the earth, alighting as