quailed when he faced the blue eyes opposite him. They were cold and blazing in the dark and sullen face. They reminded him of something that made him quiver with sudden shame. He questioned wordlessly the overwhelming feeling. Was it fear? Was it love? Or was it—at last, was it—passion? The jazz sadness shattered.
Still not knowing, Jester went into the room and shut the door.
3
T HE SAME midsummer evening while the scent of honeysuckle lingered in the air, J. T. Malone made an unexpected visit to the old Judge's house. The Judge went early to bed and was an early riser; at nine in the evening he sloshed mightily in his evening bath and the same procedure happened at four in the morning. Not that he liked it. He would have liked to be safe in the arms of Morpheus until six o'clock or even seven like other people. But the habit of being an early riser had got into him and he couldn't break it. The Judge held that a person as corpulent and free-sweating as he was needed two baths a day, and those who were around him would agree with this. So at those crepuscular hours the old Judge would be splashing, snorting and singing ... his favorite bathtub songs were "On the Trail of the Lonesome Pine" and "I'm a Rambling Wreck from Georgia Tech." That evening he did not sing with the usual gusto, as his talk with his grandson had troubled him, nor did he put toilet water behind each ear as he might have done. He had gone to Jester's room before his bath but the boy was not there, nor did he answer from the yard. The Judge was wearing a white dimity nightshirt and clutching a dressing gown when the doorbell rang. Expecting his grandson, he went downstairs and crossed the hall barefooted and with his robe slung negligently on his arm. Both friends were surprised to see each other. Malone tried to avoid looking at the too-small bare feet of the very fat Judge, as the Judge struggled into his robe.
"What brings you here this time of the night?" the Judge said in a tone as though midnight had long since passed.
Malone said, "I was just out walking and thought I might step in for a moment." Malone looked frightened and desperate and the Judge was not deceived by his words.
"As you see I've just finished with my bath. Come up and we can have a little nightcap. I'm always more comfortable in my own room after eight o'clock. I'll pile in my bed and you can lie in the long French chair ... or vice versa. What's bothering you? You look like you've been chased by a banshee, J.T."
"I feel like it," Malone said. Unable to bear the truth alone, that evening he had told Martha about the leukemia. He had run from his own house in terror and alarm, fleeing for comfort or solace anywhere. He had dreaded in advance the intimacy that tragedy might have restored from the distant casualness of his married life, but the reality of that soft summer evening was worse than any dread. Martha had cried, insisted on bathing his face with cologne and talked of the children's future. In fact, his wife had not questioned the medical report and behaved as though she believed that her husband was incurably sick and was in fact a slowly dying man. This grief and credence exasperated and horrified Malone. As the hours passed the scene grew worse. Martha talked about their honeymoon at Blowing Rock, North Carolina, and the births of the children and the trips they had taken and the unexpected changes in life. She even mentioned, in connection with the children's education, her Coca-Cola stock. Modest, Victorian lady—almost sexless it had seemed to Malone at times. This lack of interest in sex had often made him feel gross, indelicate, almost uncouth. The final horror of the evening was when Martha unexpectedly, so unexpectedly, referred to sex.
Martha was embracing the unnerved Malone when she cried, "What can I do?" And she used the phrase that had not been said for years and years. It used to be the phrase for the act of love. It originated when Ellen
Still not knowing, Jester went into the room and shut the door.
3
T HE SAME midsummer evening while the scent of honeysuckle lingered in the air, J. T. Malone made an unexpected visit to the old Judge's house. The Judge went early to bed and was an early riser; at nine in the evening he sloshed mightily in his evening bath and the same procedure happened at four in the morning. Not that he liked it. He would have liked to be safe in the arms of Morpheus until six o'clock or even seven like other people. But the habit of being an early riser had got into him and he couldn't break it. The Judge held that a person as corpulent and free-sweating as he was needed two baths a day, and those who were around him would agree with this. So at those crepuscular hours the old Judge would be splashing, snorting and singing ... his favorite bathtub songs were "On the Trail of the Lonesome Pine" and "I'm a Rambling Wreck from Georgia Tech." That evening he did not sing with the usual gusto, as his talk with his grandson had troubled him, nor did he put toilet water behind each ear as he might have done. He had gone to Jester's room before his bath but the boy was not there, nor did he answer from the yard. The Judge was wearing a white dimity nightshirt and clutching a dressing gown when the doorbell rang. Expecting his grandson, he went downstairs and crossed the hall barefooted and with his robe slung negligently on his arm. Both friends were surprised to see each other. Malone tried to avoid looking at the too-small bare feet of the very fat Judge, as the Judge struggled into his robe.
"What brings you here this time of the night?" the Judge said in a tone as though midnight had long since passed.
Malone said, "I was just out walking and thought I might step in for a moment." Malone looked frightened and desperate and the Judge was not deceived by his words.
"As you see I've just finished with my bath. Come up and we can have a little nightcap. I'm always more comfortable in my own room after eight o'clock. I'll pile in my bed and you can lie in the long French chair ... or vice versa. What's bothering you? You look like you've been chased by a banshee, J.T."
"I feel like it," Malone said. Unable to bear the truth alone, that evening he had told Martha about the leukemia. He had run from his own house in terror and alarm, fleeing for comfort or solace anywhere. He had dreaded in advance the intimacy that tragedy might have restored from the distant casualness of his married life, but the reality of that soft summer evening was worse than any dread. Martha had cried, insisted on bathing his face with cologne and talked of the children's future. In fact, his wife had not questioned the medical report and behaved as though she believed that her husband was incurably sick and was in fact a slowly dying man. This grief and credence exasperated and horrified Malone. As the hours passed the scene grew worse. Martha talked about their honeymoon at Blowing Rock, North Carolina, and the births of the children and the trips they had taken and the unexpected changes in life. She even mentioned, in connection with the children's education, her Coca-Cola stock. Modest, Victorian lady—almost sexless it had seemed to Malone at times. This lack of interest in sex had often made him feel gross, indelicate, almost uncouth. The final horror of the evening was when Martha unexpectedly, so unexpectedly, referred to sex.
Martha was embracing the unnerved Malone when she cried, "What can I do?" And she used the phrase that had not been said for years and years. It used to be the phrase for the act of love. It originated when Ellen
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