“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “That’s got nothing to do with it.”
“No, no. That’s it. That’s the whole matter.”
“It’s stupider than the anvil business.”
“Maybe.” He considered. Just from his face John could tell that the man before him was no fool and had every ounce of reasoning ability that John did. “Maybe. OK, forget it. That’s not it.”
“Oh no,” said John. “I know what you’re thinking,” and in one tremendous rush of willpower he took out his own penknife (a smaller, less decorative knife with a rounded end and a screwdriver), exposed himself upon the workbench, pushed in the knife and recomposed himself.
Prentiss Hilton Brown quickly pulled the knife out of the table, shut it and put it into his pocket, even though it had stood farther from the edge by almost three quarters of an inch . . . longer, but definitely lacking in breadth. “You’re right. That ain’t quite the right thing.”
These first two stages of their encounter happened very slowly. Mostly they looked at each other in deadly seriousness. At this point they both still believed, as surely as they had the day before, in the undeniable truth of their own convictions: John, that no one could ever be more alive than himself, and Prentiss, that he was. John was attracted by his belligerence. He feared and pitied it. What would it be like, he wondered, to be able to assume that the world at large was hostile to you and would wish for your personal demise as a simple matter of course? And to assume that not out of naive egotism (like someone who believes he is of a different kind) but out of an accumulation of experienced facts. It would be like an animal, he thought for one terrible minute, hiding and smelling for wolves. It would be tragic, because the whole purpose of the developed intellect, so far as he could see, was in allowing one to be free from that criminal hypothesis—in being able to say, “Nothing out there wishes me harm intentionally, and when I think it does, the very thought betrays my own shallowness and malfunction.” But him. What does fairness mean to him? When happiness for me seems to bea feeling of harmony with the world, what is his happiness? Is it protected isolation? But that would lead to introversion. No, it would be either complete neglect of the other side or the pride of being a noble, even superior adversary. Then a tin bell rang in his head and he realized, in depth, something he had known before in a trite way: So long as any one person is oppressed, he will bind me to his outlook; he will declare himself an adversary, and in so doing the line will be drawn and I will find myself on one side or another. So goes the harmony. So goes any chance of prolonged happiness. His mind reeled. He rejected ideas as fast as he thought them.
They stood looking at each other in absolute silence. Then a knock came from the side door, followed by one from the front, both quick, sharp raps. Then another from the front, at a different place. A long silence. Two more knocks from the side, accompanied by the hesitant voice of one of the blacks: “Hey, Prentiss, let’s get going.” Then Marvin’s voice from the front: “Hey, John ... John, hey, open up.”
Prentiss and John took a step closer together, as though they were both about to say something and wanted to be heard over the noise outside, coming to within ten feet of each other.
Outside, one of the blacks rattled the door handle impatiently and spoke again, somewhat pointedly now. “Prentiss, let’s go. We don’t want to stand around out here in this cruddy little town all day.” At the same time Sy called from the front, “John, open here. I’ve got some work that needs to be done. Open up.” And Clara Hocksteader shouted then, “John, say something. Are you all right?” and they started trying to raise the heavy overhead door which was swung down barring their entrance. Someone had got a board and was prying with it.
The side door opened six inches, one of the blacks pushed his head in and reissued the earlier request to leave, hesitated, nearly reclosed it as they finally got the door started up in front, opened it wide and presented his physical self as an urgent demand to get moving. The overhead door was swung halfwayup and John’s neighbors were coming in like a drove of sheep through a narrow opening. He looked at Prentiss again and together they started forward once more, just ready to say something. But in the same instant, as though at an agreed signal, they gave up and joined ranks. John watched as the half-sneer crept again into Prentiss’ face, and felt himself bristle at it. Prentiss Hilton Brown turned and walked out the door, got into the car and was driven back to Burlington.
John resumed welding.
FOUR
“OK, bring it along, but hurry up,” said John through the screen door. Then he returned to walking impatiently up and down in the yard. This grass needs to be cut again, he thought. I’ve never seen such a summer, an inch a day. An inch a day! A person ought to be able to watch it move.
“Should we bring some paper for starting a fire?” sang out Sarah from inside.
“No . . . yes . . . I don’t care. Hurry up.”
“Don’t shout,” said Sarah, bumping the door open with the picnic basket. “Oh, I forgot the blanket.”
“We don’t need a blanket.”
“Yes we do. Here, hold this.” She hung the basket on his arm and ran back inside. He began pacing again. Sarah returned with a heavy wool blanket, dropped it on the ground and went back for the small canister of cream. John began counting to himself, but at twenty-seven
