The funeral parlor1 was once a home but now is furnished the way no home ever was. Unworn carpets of a very pale green deaden their footsteps. Little silver half?tubes on the walls shield a weak glow. The colors of the curtains and walls are atonal2 halfcolors, colors no one would live with, salmon3 and aqua and a violet like the violet that kills germs on toilet seats in gas stations. They are ushered4 into a little pink side room. Harry5 can see into the main room; on a few rows of auditorium6 chairs about six people sit, five of them women. The only one he knows is Peggy Gring. Her little boy wriggling7 beside her makes seven. It was meant to be at first nobody but the families, but the Springers then asked a few close friends. His parents are not here. Invisible hands bonelessly trail up and down the keys of an electric organ. The unnatural8 coloring of the interior comes to a violent head in the hothouse flowers arranged around a little white coffin9. The coffin, with handles of painted gold, rests on a platform draped with a deep purple curtain; he thinks the curtain might draw apart and reveal, like a magician's trick, the living baby underneath10. Janice looks in and yields a whimper and an undertaker's man, blond and young with an unnaturally11 red face, conjures12 a bottle of spirits of ammonia out of his side pocket. Her mother holds it under her nose and Janice suppresses a face of disgust; her eyebrows13 stretch up, showing the bumps her eyeballs make under the thin membrane14. Harry takes her arm and turns her so she can't see into the next room.
The side room has a window through which they can look at the street, where children and cars are running. "Hope the minister hasn't forgotten," the young red?faced man says, and to his own embarrassment15 chuckles16. He can't help being at his ease here. His face seems lightly rouged17.
"Does that happen often?" Mr. Springer asks. He is standing18 behind his wife, and his face tips forward with curiosity, his mouth a birdy black gash19 beneath his sandy mustache. Mrs. Springer has sat down on a chair and is pressing her palms against her face through the veil. The purple berries quiver on their stem of wire.
"About twice a year," is the answer.
A familiar old blue Plymouth slows against the curb20 outside. Rabbit's mother gets out and looks up and down the sidewalk angrily. His heart leaps and trips his tongue: "Here come my parents." They all come to attention. Mrs. Springer gets up and Harry places himself between her and Janice. Standing in formation with the Springers like this, he can at least show his mother that he's reformed, that he's accepted and been accepted. The undertaker's man goes out to bring them in; Harry can see them standing on the bright sidewalk, arguing which door to go into, Mim a little to one side. Dressed in a church sort of dress and with no makeup21, she reminds him of the little sister he once had. The sight of his parents makes him wonder why he was afraid of them.
His mother comes through the door first; her eyes sweep the line of them and she steps toward him with reaching curved arms. "Hassy, what have they done to you?" She asks this out loud and wraps him in a hug as if she would carry him back to the sky from which they have fallen.
This quick it opens, and seals shut again. In a boyish reflex of embarrassment he pushes her away and stands to his full height. As if unaware22 of what she has said, his mother turns and embraces Janice. Pop, murmuring, shakes Springer's hand. Mim comes and touches Harry on the shoulder and then squats23 and whispers to Nelson, these two the youngest. All under him Harry feels these humans knit together. His wife and mother cling together. His mother began the embrace automatically but has breathed a great life of grief into it. Her face creases24 in pain; Janice, rumpled25 and smothered26, yet responds; her weak black arms try to encircle the big?boned frame yearning28 against her. Mary Angstrom yields up two words to her. The others are puzzled; only Harry from his tall cool height understands. His mother had been propelled by the instinct that makes us embrace those we wound, and then she had felt this girl in her arms as a woman like her and then had sensed that she too, having restored her son to himself, must be deserted29.
He had felt in himself these stages of grief unfold in her as her amts tightened30. Now she releases Janice, and speaks, sadly and properly, to the Springers. They have let her first outcry pass as madness. They of course have done nothing to Harry, what has been done he has done to them. His liberation is unseen by them. They become remote beside him. The words his mother spoke31 to Janice, "My daughter," recede32. Mim rises from squatting33; his father takes Nelson into his arms. Their motions softly jostle him.
And meanwhile his heart completes its turn and turns again, a wider turn in a thinning medium to which the outer world bears a decreasing relevance34.
Eccles has arrived by some other entrance and from a far doorway35 beckons36 them. The seven of them file with Nelson into the room where the flowers wait, and take their seats on the front row. Black Eccles reads before the white casket. It annoys Rabbit that Eccles should stand between him and his daughter. It occurs to him, what no one has mentioned, the child was never baptized. Eccles reads. "I am the resurrection and the life, with the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die."
The angular words walk in Harry's head like clumsy blackbirds; he feels their possibility. Eccles doesn't; his face is humorless and tired. His voice is false. All these people are false: except his dead daughter, the white box with gold trim.
"He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he shall gather the lambs with his arms, and carry them in his bosom38."
Shepherd, lamb, amts: Harry's eyes fill with tears. It is as if at first the tears are everywhere about him, a sea, and that at last the saltwater gets into his eyes. His daughter is dead: June gone from him; his heart swims in loss, that had skimmed over it before, dives deeper and deeper into the limitless volume of loss. Never hear her cry again, never see her marbled skin again, never cup her faint weight in his arms again and watch the blue of her eyes wander in search of the source of his voice. Never, the word never stops, there is never a gap in its thickness.
They go to the cemetery39. He and his father and Janice's father and the undertaker's man carry the white box to the hearse. There is weight to it but the weight is all wood. They get into their cars and drive through the streets uphill. The town hushes40 around them; a woman comes out on her porch with a basket of wash and waits there, a small boy stops himself in the middle of throwing a ball to watch them pass. They pass between two granite41 pillars linked by an arch of wrought42 iron. The cemetery is beautiful at four o'clock. Its nurtured43 green nap slopes down somewhat parallel to the rays of the sun. Tombstones cast long slate44 shadows. Up a crunching45 blue gravel46 lane the procession moves in second gear, its destination a meek47 green canopy48 smelling of earth and ferns. The cars stop; they get out. Beyond them at a distance stands a crescent sweep of black woods; the cemetery is high on the mountains, between the town and the forest. Below their feet chimneys smoke. A man on a power lawnmower rides between the worn teeth of tombstones near the far hedge. Swallows in a wide ball dip and toss themselves above a stone cottage, a crypt. The white coffin is artfully rolled on casters from the hearse's resonant50 body onto crimson51 straps52 that hold it above the small nearly square but deep?dug grave. The small creaks and breaths of effort scratch on a pane53 of silence. Silence. A cough. The flowers have followed them; here they are, densely55 banked within the tent. Behind Harry's feet a neat mound56 of dirt topped with squares of sod waits to be replaced and meanwhile breathes a deep word of earth. The undertaking57 men look pleased, their job near done, and fold their gloved hands in front of their flies. Silence.
"The Lord is my shepherd: therefore can I lack nothing."
Eccles' voice is fragile outdoors. The distant buzz of the power mower49 halts respectfully. Rabbit's chest vibrates with excitement and strength; he is sure his girl has ascended59 to Heaven. This feeling fills Eccles' recited words like a living body a skin. "O God, whose most dear Son did take little children into his arms and bless them; Give us Grace, we beseech60 thee, to entrust61 the soul of this child to thy never?failing care and love, and bring us all to the heavenly kingdom; through the same thy Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen."
"Amen," Mrs. Springer whispers.
Yes. That is how it is. He feels them all, the heads as still around him as tombstones, he feels them all one, all one with the grass, with the hothouse flowers, all, the undertaker's men, the unseen caretaker who has halted his mower, all gathered into one here to give his unbaptized baby force to leap to Heaven.
An electric switch is turned, the straps begin to lower the casket into the grave and stop. Eccles makes a cross of sand on the lid. Stray grains roll one by one down the curved lid into the hole. An ungloved hand throws crumpled62 petals63. "Deal graciously, we pray thee, with all those who mourn, that, casting every care on thee . . ." The straps whine64 again. Janice at his side staggers. He holds her arm and even through the cloth it feels hot. A small breath of wind makes the canopy fill and tuff. The smell of flowers rises toward them. ". . . and the Holy Ghost, bless you and keep you, now and for evermore. Amen."
Eccles closes his book. Harry's father and Janice's, standing side by side, look up and blink. The undertaker's men begin to be busy with their equipment, retrieving65 the straps from the hole. Mourners move into the sunshine. Casting every care on thee . . . The sky greets him. A strange strength sinks down into him. It is as if he has been crawling in a cave and now at last beyond the dark recession of crowding rocks he has seen a patch of light; he turns, and Janice's face, dumb with grief, blocks the light. "Don't look at me," he says. "I didn't kill her."
This comes out of his mouth clearly, in tune66 with the simplicity67 he feels now in everything. Heads talking softly snap around at a voice so sudden and cruel.
They misunderstand. He just wants this straight. He explains to the heads, "You all keep acting68 as if 1 did it. I wasn't anywhere near. She's the one." He turns to her, and her face, slack as if slapped, seems hopelessly removed from him. "Hey it's O.K.," he tells her. "You didn't mean to." He tries to take her hand but she snatches it back like from a trap and looks toward her parents, who step toward her.
His face burns. His embarrassment is savage69. Forgiveness had been big in his heart and now it's hate. He hates his wife's face. She doesn't see. She had a chance to join him in truth, just the simplest factual truth, and she turned away. He sees that among the heads even his own mother's is horrified70, blank with shock, a wall against him; she asks him what have they done to him and then she does it too. A suffocating71 sense of injustice72 blinds him. He turns and runs.
Uphill exultantly73. He dodges74 among gravestones. Dandelions grow bright as butter among the graves. Behind him his name is called in Eccles' voice: "Harry! Harry!" He feels Eccles chasing him but does not turn to look. He cuts diagonally through the stones across the grass toward the woods. The distance to the dark crescent of trees is greater than it seemed from beside the grave. The romping76 of his body turns heavy; the slope of land grows steeper. Yet there is a resilience in the burial ground that sustains his flight, a gentle settled bumpiness77 that buoys78 him up with its memory of the dodging79 spurting80 runs down a crowded court. He arrives between the amts of the woods and aims for the center of the crescent. Once inside, he is less sheltered than he expected; turning, he can see through the leaves back down the graveyard81 to where, beside the small green tent, the human beings he had left cluster. Eccles is halfway82 between them and him. He has stopped running. His black chest heaves. His wide?set eyes concentrate into the woods. The others, thick stalks in dark clothes, jiggle: maneuvering83, planning, testing each other's strengths, holding each other up. Their pale faces flash mute signals toward the woods and turn away, in disgust or despair, and then flash again full in the declining sun, fascinated. Only Eccles' gaze is steady. He may be gathering84 energy to renew the chase.
Rabbit crouches85 and runs raggedly86. His hands and face are scratched from plowing87 through the bushes and saplings that rim37 the woods. Deeper inside there is more space. The pine trees smother27 all other growth. Their brown needles muffle88 the rough earth with a slippery blanket; sunshine falls in narrow slots on this dead floor. It is dim but hot in here, like an attic89; the unseen afternoon sun bakes the dark shingles90 of green above his head. Dead lower branches thrust at the level of his eyes. His hands and face feel hot where they were scratched. He turns to see if he has left the people behind. No one is following. Far off, down at the end of the aisle91 of pines he is in, a green glows which is perhaps the green of the cemetery; but it seems as far off as the patches of sky that flicker92 through the treetops. In fuming93 he loses some sense of direction. But the tree?trunks are at first in neat rows that carry him along between them, and he walks always against the slope of the land. If he walks far enough uphill he will in time reach the scenic94 drive that runs along the ridge95. Only by going downhill can he be returned to the others.
The trees cease to march in rows and grow together more thickly. These are older trees. The darkness under them is denser96 and the ground is steeper. Rocks jut97 up through the blanket of needles, scabby with lichen98; collapsed99 trunks hold intricate claws across the path. At places where a hole has been opened up in a roof of evergreen100, prickly bushes and yellow grasses grow in a hasty sweet?smelling tumble, and midges swarm101. These patches, some of them broad enough to catch a bit of the sun slanting102 down the mountainside, make the surrounding darkness darker, and in pausing in them Rabbit becomes conscious, by its cessation, of a whisper that fills the brown tunnels all around him. The surrounding trees are too tall for him to see any sign, even a remote cleared landscape, of civilization. Islanded in light, he becomes frightened. He is conspicuous103; the bears and nameless menaces that whisper through the forest can see him clearly. Rather than hang vulnerable in these wells of visibility he rushes toward the menace, across the rocks and rotting trunks and slithering needles. Insects follow him out of the sun; his sweat is a strong perfume. His chest binds104 and his shins hurt from jarring uphill into pits and flat rocks that the needles conceal105. He takes off his binding106 hot blue coat and carries it in a twisted bundle. He struggles against his impulse to keep fuming his head, to see what is behind him; there is never anything, just the hushed, deathly life of the woods, but his fear fills the winding107 space between the tree?trunks with agile58 threats that just dodge75 out of the corner of his eye each time he whips his head around. He must hold his head rigid108. He's terrorizing himself. As a kid he often went up through the woods. But maybe as a kid he walked under a protection that has now been lifted; he can't believe the woods were this dark then. They too have grown. Such an unnatural darkness, clogged109 with spider?fine twigs110 that finger his face incessantly111, a darkness in defiance112 of the broad daylight whose sky leaps in jagged patches from treetop to treetop above him like a silent monkey.
The small of his back aches from crouching113. He begins to doubt his method. As a kid he never entered from the cemetery. Perhaps walking against the steepest slope is stupid, carrying him along below the ridge of the mountain when a few yards to his left the road is running. He bears to his left, trying to keep himself in a straight path; the whisper of woods seems to swell114 louder and his heart lifts with hope: he was right, he is near a road. He hurries on, scrambling115 wildly, expecting the road to appear with every step, its white posts and speeding metal to gleam. The slope of the ground dies unnoticed under his feet. He stops, stunned116, on the edge of a precipitate117 hollow whose near bank is strewn with the hairy bodies of dead trees locked against trunks that have managed to cling erect118 to the steep soil and that cast into the hollow a shadow as deep as the last stage of twilight119. Something rectangular troubles this gloom; it dawns on him that on the floor of the hollow lie the cellarhole and the crumbled120 sandstone walls of a forgotten house. To his shrill121 annoyance122 at having lost his way and headed himself downhill again is added a clangorous fear, as if this ruined evidence of a human intrusion into a world of blind life tolls123 bells that ring to the edges of the universe. The thought that this place was once self?conscious, that its land was tramped and cleared and known, blackens the air with ghosts that climb the ferry bank toward him like children clambering up from a grave. Perhaps there were children, fat girls in calico fetching water from a spring, boys scarring the trees with marks of play, growing old on boards stretched above the cellarhole, dying with a last look out the window at the bank where Rabbit stands. He feels more conspicuous and vulnerable than in the little clearings of sunshine; he obscurely feels lit by a great spark, the spark whereby the blind tumble of matter recognized itself, a spark struck in an encounter a terrible God willed. His stomach slides; his ears seem suddenly open to the sound of a voice. He scrambles124 back uphill, thrashing noisily in the deepening darkness to drown out the voice that wants to cry out to him from a source that flits from tree to tree in the shadows. In the treacherous125 light the slope of land is like some fleeing, dodging creature.
The light widens enough for him to spy off to his right a nest of old tin cans and bottles sunken into the needles. He is safe. He strikes the road. He jacks126 his long legs over the guard fence and straightens up. Gold spots are switching on and off in the comets of his eyes. The asphalt scrapes under his shoes and he seems entered, panting, on a new life. Chilly128 air strokes his shoulder blades; somewhere in there he split old man Springer's shirt right down the back. He has come out of the woods about a half?mile below the Pinnacle129 Hotel. As he swings along, jauntily130 hanging his blue coat over his shoulder on the hook of one finger, Janice and Eccles and his mother and his sins seem a thousand miles behind. He decides to call Eccles, like you'd send somebody a postcard. Eccles had liked him and put a lot of trust in him and deserves at least a phone call. Rabbit rehearses what he'll say. It's O.K., he'll tell him, I'm on the way. I mean, I think there are several ways; don't worry. Thanks for everything. What he wants to get across is that Eccles shouldn't be discouraged.
On the top of the mountain it is still broad day. Up in the sea of sky a lake of fragmented mackerel clouds drifts in one piece like a school of fish. There are only a couple cars parked around the hotel, jalopies, 'S2 Pontiacs and 'S1 Mercs like Springer Motors sells to these blotchy131 kids that come in with a stripper in their wallets and a hundred dollars in the bank. Inside the cafeteria a few of them are playing a pinball machine called BOUNCING BETSY. They look at him and make wise faces and one of the boys even calls, "Did she rip your shirt?" But, it's strange, they don't really know anything about him except he looks mussed. You do things and do things and nobody really has a clue. The clock says twenty of six. He goes to the pay?phone on the mustard?colored wall and looks up Eccles' number in the book.
His wife answers dryly, "Hello?" Rabbit shuts his eyes and her freckles132 dance in the red of his lids.
"Hi. Could I speak to Reverend Eccles please?"
"Who is this?" Her voice has gotten up on a hard little high horse; she knows who.
"Hey, this is Harry Angstrom. Is Jack127 there?"
The receiver at the other end of the line is replaced. That bitch. Poor Eccles probably sitting there his heart bleeding to hear the word from me and she going back and telling him wrong number, that poor bastard133 being married to that bitch. He hangs up himself, hears the dime134 rattle135 down, and feels simplified by this failure. He goes out across the parking lot.
He seems to leave behind him in the cafeteria all the poison she must be dripping into the poor tired guy's ears. He imagines her telling Eccles about how he slapped her fanny and thinks he hears Eccles laughing and himself smiles. He'll remember Eccles as laughing; there was that in him that held you off, that you couldn't reach, the nasal official business, but through the laughter you could get to him. Sort of sneaking136 in behind him, past the depressing damp clinging front. What made it depressing was that he wasn't sure, but couldn't tell you, and worried his eyebrows instead, and spoke every word in a different voice. All in all, a relief to be free of him.
From the edge of the parking lot, Brewer137 is spread out like a carpet, its flowerpot red going dusty. Some lights are already turned on. The great neon sunflower at the center of the city looks small as a daisy. Now the low clouds are pink but up above, high in the dome138, tails of cirrus still hang pale and pure. As he starts down the steps he wonders, Would she have? Lucy. Are ministers' wives frigid139? Like du Ponts.
He goes down the mountainside on the flight of log stairs and through the park, where some people are still playing tennis, and down Weiser Street. He puts his coat back on and walks up Summer. His heart is murmuring in suspense140 but it is in the center of his chest. That lopsided kink about Becky is gone, he has put her in Heaven, he felt her go. If Janice had felt it he would have stayed. Or would he? The outer door is open and an old lady in a Polish sort of kerchief is coming mumbling141 out of F. X. Pelligrini's door. He rings Ruth's bell.
The buzzer142 answers and he quickly snaps open the inner door and starts up the steps. Ruth comes to the banister and looks down and says, "Go away."
"Huh? How'd you know it was me?"
"Go back to your wife."
"I can't. I just left her."
He has climbed to the step next to the top one, and their faces are on a level. "You're always leaving her," she says.
"No, this time it's different. It's really bad."
"You're bad all around. You're bad with me, too."
"Why?" He has come up the last step and stands there a yard away from her, excited and helpless. He thought when he saw her, instnct would tell him what to do but in a way it's all new, though it's only been a few weeks. She is changed, graver in her motions and thicker in the waist. The blue of her eyes is no longer blank.
She looks at him with a contempt that is totally new. "Why?" she repeats in an incredulous hard voice.
"Let me guess," he says. "You're pregnant."
Surprise softens143 the hardness a moment.
"That's great," he says, and takes advantage of her softness to push her ahead of him into the room. Just from the touches of pushing he remembers what Ruth feels like in his arms. "Great," he repeats, closing the door. He tries to embrace her and she fights him successfully and backs away behind a chair. She had meant that fight; his neck is scraped.
"Go away," she says. "Go away."
"Don't you need me?"
"Need you," she cries, and he squints144 in pain at the straining note of hysteria; he feels she has imagined this encounter so often she is determined145 to say everything, which will be too much. He sits down in an easy chair. His legs ache. She says, "I needed you that night you walked out. Remember how much I needed you? Remember what you made me do?"
"She was in the hospital," he says. "I had to go."
"God, you're cute. God, you're so holy. You had to go. You had to stay, too, didn't you? You know, I was stupid enough to think you'd at least call."
"I wanted to but I was trying to start clean. I didn't know you were pregnant."
"You didn't, why not? Anybody else would have. I was sick enough."
"When, with me?"
"God, yes. Why don't you look outside your own pretty skin once in a while?"
"Well why didn't you tell me?"
"Why should I? What would that have done? You're no help. You're nothing. You know why I didn't? You'll laugh, but I didn't because I thought you'd leave me if you knew. You wouldn't ever let me do anything to prevent it but I figured once it happened you'd leave me. You left me anyway so there you are. Why don't you get out? Please get out. I begged you to get out the first time. The damn first time I begged you. Why are you here?"
"I want to be here. It's right. Look. I'm happy you're pregnant."
"It's too fucking late to be happy."
"Why? Why is it too late?" He's frightened, remembering how she wasn't here when he came before. She's here now, she had been away then. Women went away to have it done, he knew. There was a place in Philadelphia even the kids in high school had known about.
"How can you sit there?" she asks him. "I can't understand it, how you can sit there; you just killed your baby and there you sit."
"Who told you that?"
"Your ministerial friend. Your fellow saint. He called about a half?hour ago."
"God. He's still trying."
"I said you weren't here. I said you'd never be here."
"I didn't kill the poor kid. Janice did. I got mad at her one night and came looking for you and she got drunk and drowned the poor kid in the bathtub. Don't make me talk about it. Where were you, anyway."
She looks at him with dull wonder and says softly, "Boy, you really have the touch of death, don't you?"
"Hey; have you done something?"
"Hold still. Just sit there. I see you very clear all of a sudden. You're Mr. Death himself: You're not just nothing, you're worse than nothing. You're not a rat, you don't stink146, you're not enough to stink."
"Look, I didn't do anything. I was coming to see you when it happened."
"No, you don't do anything. You just wander around with the kiss of death. Get out. Honest to God, Rabbit, just looking at you makes me sick. Her sincerity147 in saying this leaves her so limp that for support she grips the top slat of the back of a straight chair one of the chairs they used to sit in to eat ?and leans forward over it, open?mouthed and staring.
He, who always took a pride in dressing148 neatly149, who had always been led to think he was all right to look at, blushes to feel this sincerity. The sensation he had counted on, of being by nature her mate, of getting on top of her, hasn't come. He looks at his fingernails, with their big cuticle150 moons. His hands and legs are suffused151 with a paralyzing sensation of reality; his child is really dead, his day is really done, this woman is really sickened by him. Realizing this much makes him anxious to have all of it, to go as far in this direction as he can. He asks her flat, "Did you get an abortion152?"
She smirks153 and says hoarsely154, "What do you think?"
He closes his eyes and while the gritty grained fur of the chair arms rushes up against his fingertips he prays, God, dear God, no, not another, you have one, let this one go. A dirty knife turns in his intricate inner darkness. When he opens his eyes he sees, from the tentative hovering155 way she is standing there, trying to bring off a hard swagger in her stance, that she means to torment156 him. His voice goes sharp with hope: "Have you?"
A crumbling157 film comes over her face. "No," she says, "no. I should but I keep not doing it. I don't want to do it."
Up he gets and his amts go around her, without squeezing, like a magic ring, and though she stiffens158 at his touch and twists her head sideways on her muscled white throat, he has regained159 that feeling, of being on top. "Oh," he says, "good. That's so good."
"It was too ugly," she says. "Margaret had it all rigged up but I kept ?thinking about ="
"Yes," he says. "Yes. You're so good. I'm so glad," and tries to nuzzle the side of her face. His nose touches wet. "You have it," he coaxes160. "Have it." She is still a moment, staring at her thoughts, and then jerks out of his arms and says, "Don't touch me!" Her face flares161; her body is bent162 forward like a threatened animal's. As if his touch is death.
"I love you," he says.
"That means nothing from you. Have it, have it, you say: how? Will you marry me?"
"I'd love to."
"You'd love to. You'd love to be the man in the moon, too. What about your wife? What about the boy you already have?"
"I don't know."
"Will you divorce her? No. You love being married to her too. You love being married to everybody. Why can't you make up your mind what you want to do?"
"Can't I? I don't know."
"How would you support me? How many wives can you support? Your jobs are a joke. You aren't worth hiring. Maybe once you could play basketball but you can't do anything now. What the hell do you think the world is?"
"Please have the baby," he says. "You got to have it."
"Why? Why do you care?"
"I don't know. I don't know any of these answers. All I know is what feels right. You feel right to me. Sometimes Janice used to. Sometimes nothing does."
"Who cares? That's the thing. Who cares what you feel?"
"I don't know," he says again.
She groans163 ? from her face he feared she would spit ? and turns and looks at the wall that is all in bumps from being painted over peeling previous coats so often.
He says, "I'm hungry. Why don't I go out to the delicatessen and get us something. Then we can think."
She turns, steadier. "I've been thinking," she says. "You know where I was when you came here the other day? I was with my parents. You know I have parents. They're pretty poor parents but that's what they are. They live in West Brewer. They know. I mean they know some things. They know I'm pregnant. Pregnant's a nice word, it happens to everybody, you don't have to think too much what you must do to get that way. Now I'd like to marry you. I would. I mean whatever I said but if we're married it'll be all right. Now you work it out. You divorce that wife you feel so sorry for about once a month, you divorce her or forget me. If you can't work it out, I'm dead to you; I'm dead to you and this baby of yours is dead too. Now: get out if you want to." Saying all this unsteadies her and makes her cry, but she pretends she's not. She grips the back of the chair, the sides of her nose shining, and looks at him to say something. The way she ís fighting for control of herself repels164 him; he doesn't like people who manage things. He likes things to happen of themselves.
He has nervously165 felt her watching him for some sign of resolution inspired by her speech. In fact he has hardly listened; it is too complicated and, compared to the vision of a sandwich, unreal. He stands up, he hopes with soldierly effect, and says, "That's fair. I'll work it out. What do you want at the store?" A sandwich and a glass of milk, and then undressing her, getting her out of that cotton dress harried167 into wrinkles and seeing that thickened waist calm in its pale cool skin. He loves women when they're first pregnant; a kind of dawn comes over their bodies. If he can just once more bury himself in her he knows he'll come up with his nerves all combed.
"I don't want anything," she says.
"Oh you got to eat," he says.
"I've eaten," she says.
He tries to kiss her but she says "No" and does not look inviting168, fat and flushed and her many?colored hair straggled and damp.
"I'll be right back," he says.
As he goes down the stairs worries come as quick as the click of his footsteps. Janice, money, Eccles' phone call, the look on his mother's face all clatter169 together in sharp dark waves; guilt170 and responsibility slide together like two substantial shadows inside his chest. The mere171 engineering of it ? the conversations, the phone calls, the lawyers, the finances ? seems to complicate166, physically172, in front of his mouth, s., he is conscious of the effort of breathing, and every action, just reaching for the doorknob, feels like a precarious173 extension of along mechanical sequence insecurely linked to his heart. The doorknob's solidity answers his touch, and turns with a silky click.
Outside in the air his fears condense. Globes of ether, pure nervousness, slide down his legs. The sense of outside space scoops174 at his chest. Standing on the step he tries to sort out his worries. Two thoughts comfort him, let a little light through the dense54 pack of impossible alternatives. Ruth has parents, and she will let his baby live; two thoughts that are perhaps the same thought, the vertical175 order of parenthood, a kind of thin tube upright in time in which our solitude176 is somewhat diluted177. Ruth and Janice both have parents: on this excuse he dissolves them both. Nelson remains178: here is a hardness he must carry with him. On this small fulcrum179 he tries to balance the rest, weighing opposites against each other: Janice and Ruth, Eccles and his mother, the right way and the good way, the way to the delicatessen ? gaudy180 with stacked fruit lit by a naked bulb ? and the other way, down Summer Street to where the city ends. He tries to picture how it will end, with an empty baseball field, a dark factory, and then over a brook181 into a dirt road, he doesn't know. He pictures a huge vacant field of cinders182 and his heart goes hollow.
Afraid, really afraid, he remembers what once consoled him by seeming to make a hole where he looked through into under lying brightness, and lifts his eyes to the church window. It is, because of church poverty or the late summer nights or just carelessness, unlit, a dark circle in a limestone183 facade184.
There is light, though, in the streetlights; muffled185 by trees their mingling186 cones187 retreat to the unseen end of Summer Street. Nearby, to his left, directly under one, the rough asphalt looks like dimpled snow. He decides to walk around the block, to clear his head and pick his path. Funny, how what makes you move is so simple and the field you must move in is so crowded. His legs take strength from the distinction, scissor along evenly. Goodness lies inside, there is nothing outside, those things he was trying to balance have no weight. He feels his inside as very real suddenly, a pure blank space in the middle of a dense net. 1 don't know, he kept telling Ruth; he doesn't know, what to do, where to go, what will happen, the thought that he doesn't know seems to make him infinitely188 small and impossible to capture. Its smallness fills him like a vastness. It's like when they heard you were great and put two men on you and no matter which way you turned you bumped into one of them and the only thing to do was pass. So you passed and the ball belonged to the others and your hands were empty and the men on you looked foolish because in effect there was nobody there.
Rabbit comes to the curb but instead of going to his right and around the block he steps down, with as big a feeling as if this little sidestreet is a wide river, and crosses. He wants to travel to the next patch of snow. Although this block of brick three?stories is just like the one he left, something in it makes him happy; the steps and windowsills seem to twitch189 and shift in the corner of his eye, alive. This illusion trips him. His hands lift of their own and he feels the wind on his ears even before, his heels hitting heavily on the pavement at first but with an effortless gathering out of a kind of sweet panic growing lighter190 and quicker and quieter, he runs. Ah: runs. Runs.
收听单词发音 |
1
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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atonal
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| adj.无调的 | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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conjures
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的第三人称单数 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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membrane
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| n.薄膜，膜皮，羊皮纸 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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rouged
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| 胭脂，口红( rouge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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squats
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| n.蹲坐，蹲姿( squat的名词复数 )；被擅自占用的建筑物v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的第三人称单数 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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relevance
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| n.中肯，适当，关联，相关性 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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beckons
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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hushes
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| n.安静，寂静( hush的名词复数 ) | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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44
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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45
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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47
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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48
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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49
mower
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| n.割草机 | |
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50
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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51
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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52
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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53
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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54
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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55
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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56
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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57
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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58
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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59
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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61
entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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62
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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63
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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64
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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65
retrieving
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| n.检索（过程），取还v.取回( retrieve的现在分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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66
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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67
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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68
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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69
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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70
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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71
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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72
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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73
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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74
dodges
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| n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 )；躲避；伎俩；妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 )；回避 | |
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75
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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76
romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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77
bumpiness
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| n.崎岖不平 | |
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78
buoys
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| n.浮标( buoy的名词复数 )；航标；救生圈；救生衣v.使浮起( buoy的第三人称单数 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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79
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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80
spurting
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的现在分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺； 溅射 | |
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81
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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82
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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83
maneuvering
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| v.移动，用策略( maneuver的现在分词 )；操纵 | |
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84
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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85
crouches
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| n.蹲着的姿势( crouch的名词复数 )v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的第三人称单数 ) | |
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86
raggedly
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| 破烂地，粗糙地 | |
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87
plowing
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| v.耕( plow的现在分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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88
muffle
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| v.围裹；抑制；发低沉的声音 | |
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89
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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90
shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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91
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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92
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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93
fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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94
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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95
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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96
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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97
jut
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| v.突出；n.突出，突出物 | |
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98
lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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99
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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100
evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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101
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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102
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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103
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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104
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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105
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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106
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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107
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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108
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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109
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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110
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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111
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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112
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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113
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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114
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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115
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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116
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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117
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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118
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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119
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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120
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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121
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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122
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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123
tolls
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| （缓慢而有规律的）钟声( toll的名词复数 )； 通行费； 损耗； （战争、灾难等造成的）毁坏 | |
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124
scrambles
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| n.抢夺( scramble的名词复数 )v.快速爬行( scramble的第三人称单数 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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125
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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126
jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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127
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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128
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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129
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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130
jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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131
blotchy
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| adj.有斑点的，有污渍的；斑污 | |
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132
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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133
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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134
dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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135
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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136
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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137
brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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138
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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139
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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140
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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141
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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142
buzzer
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| n.蜂鸣器；汽笛 | |
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143
softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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144
squints
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| 斜视症( squint的名词复数 )； 瞥 | |
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145
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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146
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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147
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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148
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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149
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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150
cuticle
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| n.表皮 | |
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151
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
abortion
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| n.流产，堕胎 | |
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153
smirks
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| n.傻笑，得意的笑( smirk的名词复数 )v.傻笑( smirk的第三人称单数 ) | |
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154
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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155
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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156
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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157
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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158
stiffens
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| （使）变硬，（使）强硬( stiffen的第三人称单数 ) | |
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159
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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160
coaxes
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的第三人称单数 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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161
flares
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| n.喇叭裤v.（使）闪耀( flare的第三人称单数 )；（使）（船舷）外倾；（使）鼻孔张大；（使）（衣裙、酒杯等）呈喇叭形展开 | |
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162
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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163
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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164
repels
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| v.击退( repel的第三人称单数 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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165
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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166
complicate
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| vt.使复杂化，使混乱，使难懂 | |
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167
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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168
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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169
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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170
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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171
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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172
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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173
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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174
scoops
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| n.小铲( scoop的名词复数 )；小勺；一勺[铲]之量；（抢先刊载、播出的）独家新闻v.抢先报道( scoop的第三人称单数 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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175
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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176
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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177
diluted
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| 无力的，冲淡的 | |
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178
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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179
fulcrum
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| n.杠杆支点 | |
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180
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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181
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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182
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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183
limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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184
facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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185
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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186
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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187
cones
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| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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188
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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189
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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190
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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