Going to Meet the Man by James Baldwin Page A

father, who was only thirty-two. Eric wondered how it felt to have so many years and was suddenly, secretly glad that he was onlyeight. For today, Jamie
looked
old. It was perhaps the one additional year which had done it, this day, before their very eyes—a metamorphosis which made Eric rather shrink at the prospect of becoming nine. The skin of Jamie’s face, which had never before seemed so, seemed wet today, and that rocky mouth of his was loose; loose was the word for everything about him, the way his arms and shoulders hung, the way he sprawled at the table, rocking slightly back and forth. It was not that he was drunk. Eric had seen him much drunker. Drunk, he became rigid, as though he imagined himself in the army again. No. He was old. It had come upon him all at once, today, on his birthday. He sat there, his hair in his eyes, eating, drinking, laughing now and again, and in a very strange way, and teasing the dog at his feet so that it sleepily growled and snapped all through the birthday dinner.
    “Stop that,” said Eric’s father.
    “Stop what?” asked Jamie.
    “Let that stinking useless dog alone. Let him be quiet.”
    “Leave the beast alone,” said Eric’s mother—very wearily, sounding as she often sounded when talking to Eric.
    “Well, now,” said Jamie, grinning, and looking first at Eric’s father and then at Eric’s mother, “it
is
my beast. And a man’s got a right to do as he likes with whatever’s his.”
    “That dog’s got a right to bite you, too,” said Eric’s mother, shortly.
    “This dog’s not going to bite me,” said Jamie, “he knows I’ll shoot him if he does.”
    “That dog knows you’re not going to shoot him,” said Eric’s father. “Then you
would
be all alone.”
    “All alone,” said Jamie, and looked around the table. “All alone.” He lowered his eyes to his plate. Eric’s father watched him. He said, “It’s pretty serious to be all alone at
your
age.” He smiled. “If I was you, I’d start thinking about it.”
    “I’m thinking about it,” said Jamie. He began to grow red.
    “No, you’re not,” said Eric’s father, “you’re dreaming about it.”
    “Well, goddammit,” said Jamie, even redder now, “it isn’t as though I haven’t tried!”
    “Ah,” said Eric’s father, “that was a
real
dream, that was. I used to pick
that
up on the streets of town every Saturday night.”
    “Yes,” said Jamie, “I bet you did.”
    “I didn’t think she was as bad as all that,” said Eric’s mother, quietly. “
I
liked her. I was surprised when she ran away.”
    “Jamie didn’t know how to keep her,” said Eric’s father. He looked at Eric and chanted: “
Jamie, Jamie, pumkin-eater, had a wife and couldn’t keep her!
” At this, Jamie at last looked up, into the eyes of Eric’s father. Eric laughed again, more shrilly, out of fear. Jamie said:
    “Ah, yes, you can talk, you can.”
    “It’s not my fault,” said Eric’s father, “if you’re getting old—and haven’t got anybody to bring you your slippers when night comes—and no pitter-patter of little feet—”
    “Oh, leave Jamie alone,” said Eric’s mother, “he’s
not
old, leave him alone.”
    Jamie laughed a peculiar, high, clicking laugh which Eric had never heard before, which he did not like, which made him want to look away and, at the same time, want to stare. “Hell, no,” said Jamie, “I’m not old. I can still do all the things we used to do.” He put his elbows on the table, grinning. “I haven’t ever told you, have I, about the things we used to do?”
    “No, you haven’t,” said Eric’s mother, “and I certainly don’t want to hear about them now.”
    “He wouldn’t tell you anyway,” said Eric’s father, “he knows what I’d do to him if he did.”
    “Oh, sure, sure,” said Jamie, and laughed again. He pickedup a bone from his plate. “Here,” he said to Eric, “why don’t you feed my poor mistreated dog?”
    Eric took