open, and the room was cool and sweet with lilac. Downstairs the radio was singing, and in my ears there
was the roar a seashell makes. The door opened; I fired once, and again, and Jesus dissolved, became
nothing but Ed in a dirty linen suit; doubled over, he stumbled toward the stairs, and rolled down the
steps loose like a ragdoll.
«For two days he lay crumpled on the couch, bleeding all over himself, moaning and shouting and
running a rosary through his fingers. He called for you, and his mother, and the Lord. There was nothing I
could do. And then Amy came from the Landing. She was very good. She found a doctor, a little Negro
dwarf not too particular. Abruptly the weather was like July, but those weeks were the winter of our
lives; the veins froze and cracked with coldness, and in the sky the sun was like a lump of ice. That little
doctor, waddling around on his six-inch legs, laughed and laughed and kept the radio playing comedy
programs. Every day I woke up saying, ‘If I die. . .’, not realizing how dead I was already, and only a
memory tagging along with Dolores and Pepe. . . wherever they were: I grieved for Pepe, not because
I’d lost him (yes, that a little), but because in the end I knew Dolores would find him, too: it is easy to
escape daylight, but night is inevitable, and dreams are the giant cage.
«To be brief: Ed and Amy were married in New Orleans. It was, you see, her fantasy come true;
she was at last what she’d always wanted to be, a nurse. . . with a more or less permanent position. Then
we all came back to the Landing; Amy’s idea, and the only solution, for he would never be well again. I
suppose we shall go on together until the house sinks, until the garden grows up and weeds hide us in
their depth.»
Randolph, pushing aside his drawing board, slumped over on the desk; dusk had come while he
talked, and swept the room bluely; outside, sparrows were calling to roost, their nightfall chatter
punctuated by a solemn frog. Pretty soon Zoo would be ringing the supper bell. None of this was
apparent to Joel; he was not even aware of any stiffness from having sat so long in one position: it was as
though Randolph’s voice continued saying in his head things that were real enough, but not necessary to
believe. He was confused because the story had been like a movie with neither plot nor motive: had
Randolph really shot his father? And, most important of all, where was the ending? What had happened
to Dolores and old awful Pepe Alvarez? That is what he wanted to know, and that is what he asked.
«If I knew. . .» said Randolph, pausing, holding a match to a candle; the sudden light flattered his
face, made the pink hairless skin more impeccably young. «But, my dear, so few things are fulfilled: what
are most lives but a series of incompleted episodes?’We work in the dark, we do what we can, we
give what we have. Our doubt is our passion, and our passion is our task . . .’ It is wanting to know
the end that makes us believe in God, or witchcraft, believe, at least, in something.»
Joel still wanted to know: «Didn’t you ever even try to find out where they got off to?»
«Over there,» said Randolph with a tired smile, «is a five-pound volume listing every town and
hamlet on the globe; it is what I believe in, this almanac: day by day I’ve gone through it writing Pepe
always in care of the postmaster; just notes, nothing but my name and what we will for convenience call
address. Oh, I know that I shall never have an answer. But it gives me something to believe in. And that
is peace.»
Downstairs the supper bell sounded. Randolph did not move. His face seemed to contract with a
look of sad guilt. «I’ve been very weak this afternoon, very wicked,» he said, rising for Joel to accept an
invitation of open arms. «Do forgive me, darling Joel.» Then, in a voice as urgent as the bell, he added:
«And please, tell me what I want to hear.»
Joel remembered. «Everything,» he said gently, «everything is going to be all right.»
9
Jesus Fever was a sick man. For over a week he’d been unable to hold anything on his stomach.
His skin was parched like an old leaf, and his eyes, milky with film, saw strange things: Randolph’s father,
he swore, was lurking in a corner of the cabin; all the funny papers and Coca-Cola pictures plastering the
walls were, he complained, crooked and aggravating; a noise like the crack of a whip snapped in his
head; a bouquet of sunflowers Joel had brought became suddenly a flock of canaries crazily singing and
circling the room; he was worried to frenzy by a stranger staring at him from a gloomy little mirror hung
above the mantel. Little Sunshine, arriving to give what aid he could, covered the mirror with a flour sack
in order that, as he explained, Jesus Fever’s soul could not be trapped there; he hung a charm around the
old man’s neck, sprinkled magic ginger powder in the air, and disappeared before moonrise. «Zoo, child,»
said Jesus, «how come you let me freeze thisaway? Fix the fire, child, it’s colder ‘n a well-bottom.»
Zoo took a reasoning tone. «Papadaddy, now honey, we all us gonna melt. . . so hot Mister
Randolph done change clothes three times today.» But Jesus would not listen, and asked for a quilt to
wrap around his legs, a wool sock to stretch over his head: the whole house, he argued, was rattling with
wind: why, look, there was old Mr. Skully, his fine red beard turned white with frost. So Zoo went out in
the dark of the yard to find an armful of kindling.
Joel, left in charge, started when Jesus beckoned to him secretively. The old man was sitting in a
rattan rocker, a worn scrapquilt of velvet flowers covering his knees. He could not stay in bed: a
horizontal position interfered with his breathing. «Rock my rocker, son,» he said in a reedy voice, «it’s
kinda restful like. . . makes me feel I’m ridin in a wagon an got a long way to go.» A kerosene lamp
burned in the room. The chair, shadowed on the wall, swished a gentle drowsy sound. «Can’t you feel the
cold, son?»
«Mama was always cold, too,» said Joel, prickly chill tingling his spine. Don’t die, he thought, and
as he pushed the chair back and forth the runners whispered, don’t die, don’t die. For if Jesus Fever died,
then Zoo would go away, and there would be no one but Amy, Randolph, his father. It was not so much
these three, however, but the Landing, and the fragile hush of living under a glass bell. Maybe Randolph
would take him away: there had been some mention of a trip. And he’d written Ellen again, surely
something would come of that.
«Papadaddy,» said Zoo, lugging in a bundle of wood, «you is mighty thoughtless makin me hunt
round out there in the dark where theys all kinda wild creatures crawlin just hungry for a nip outa tasty
me. They is a wildcat smell on the air, they is, I declare. And who knows but what Keg’s done runaway
from the cabin gang? Joel, honey, latch the door.»
When the fire commenced to burn Jesus asked that his chair be brought nearer the hearth. «I
used to could play the fiddle,» he said, wistfully watching the flames slide upward «. . . rheumatism stole
all the music outa my fingers.» He shook his head, and sucked his gums, and spit into the fire. «Don’t fuss
with me, child,» he complained as Zoo tried to adjust the quilt. «Tell you now, bring me my sword.» She
returned from the other room bearing a beautiful sword with a silver handle: across the blade there was
inscribed, Unsheath Me Not Without Reason — Sheath Me Not Without Honor. «Mister Randolph’s
granddaddy gimme this, that be more ‘n sixty year ago.» In the past days he’d one by one called forth all
his treasures: a dusty cracked violin, his derby with the feather, a Mickey Mouse watch, his high-button
orange shoes, three little monkeys who neither saw, heard nor spoke evil, these and other precious things
lay strewn around the cabin, for he would not allow them to be put again out of sight.
Zoo presented Joel with a handful of pecans and gave him a pair of pliers to crack them with.
«I’m not hungry,» he said and rested his head in her lap. It was not a comfortable lap like Ellen’s. You
could feel too precisely tensed muscle and sharp bone. But she played her fingers through his hair, and
that was sweet. «Zoo,» he said softly, not wanting the old man to hear, «Zoo, he’s going to die, isn’t he?»
«I spec so,» she said, and there was little feeling in her voice.
«And then will you go away?»
«I reckon.»
At this Joel straightened and looked at her angrily. «But why, Zoo?» he demanded. ‘Tell me why!»
«Hush, child, speak quiet.» A slow moment followed in which she twisted her neckerchief, felt for
and found the charm Little Sunshine had given her. «Ain’t gonna hold good forever,» she said, tapping the
charm. «Someday he gonna come back here looking for to slice me up. I knows it good as anythin. I
seen it in my dreams, and the floor don’t creak, but what my heart stops. Every time a dog howls I think,
that’s him, that’s him on his way, on accounta dogs just naturally hate that Keg and start to holler time
they smell him.»
«I’d protect you, Zoo,» he pleaded. «Honest, I’d never let nobody hurt you.»
Zoo laughed, and her laugh seemed
