there in the town alone.
"Why are you all bent over like that?" John Henry called.
"I think I have a kind of pain," said Frankie. "I must have ate something."
John Henry was still standing on the banisters, holding to the post.
"Listen," she said finally. "Suppose you come on over and eat supper and spend the night with me."
"I can't," he answered.
"Why?"
John Henry walked across the banisters, holding out his arms for balance, so that he was like a little blackbird against the yellow window light. He did not answer until he safely reached the other post.
"Just because."
"Because why?"
He did not say anything, and so she added: "I thought maybe me and you could put up my Indian tepee and sleep out in the back yard. And have a good time."
Still John Henry did not speak.
"We're blood first cousins. I entertain you all the time. I've given you so many presents."
Quietly, lightly, John Henry walked back across the banisters and then stood looking out at her with his arm around the post again.
"Sure enough," she called. "Why can't you come?"
At last he said. "Because, Frankie, I don't want to."
"Fool jackass!" she screamed. "I only asked you because I thought you looked so ugly and so lonesome."
Lightly John Henry jumped down from the banisters. And his voice as he called back to her was a clear child's voice.
"Why, I'm not a bit lonesome."
Frankie rubbed the wet palms of her hands along the sides of her shorts and said in her mind: Now turn around and take yourself on home. But in spite of this order, she was somehow unable to turn around and go. It was not yet night. Houses along the
street were dark, lights showed in windows. Darkness had gathered in the thick-leaved trees and shapes in the distance were ragged and gray. But the night was not yet in the sky.
"I think something is wrong," she said. "It is too quiet. I have a peculiar warning in my bones. I bet you a hundred dollars it's going to storm."
John Henry watched her from behind the banister.
"A terrible terrible dog day storm. Or maybe even a cyclone."
Frankie stood waiting for the night. And just at that moment a horn began to play. Somewhere in the town, not far away, a horn began a blues tune. The tune was grieving and low. It was the sad horn of some colored boy, but who he was she did not know. Frankie stood stiff, her head bent and her eyes closed, listening. There was something about the tune that brought back to her all of the spring: flowers, the eyes of strangers, rain.
The tune was low and dark and sad. Then all at once, as Frankie listened, the horn danced into a wild jazz spangle that zigzagged upward. At the end of the jazz spangle the music rattled thin and far away. Then the tune returned to the first blues song, and it was like the telling of that long season of trouble. She stood there on the dark sidewalk and the drawn tightness of her heart made her knees lock and her throat feel stiffened. Then, without warning, the thing happened that at first Frankie could not believe. Just at the time when the tune should be laid, the music finished, the horn broke off. All of a sudden the horn stopped playing. For a moment Frankie could not take it in, she felt so lost.
She whispered finally to John Henry West: "He has stopped to bang the spit out of his horn. In a second he will finish"
But the music did not come again. The tune was left broken, unfinished. And the drawn tightness she could no longer stand. She felt she must do something wild and sudden that never had been done before. She hit herself on the head with her fist, but that did not help any at all. And she began to talk aloud, although at first she paid no attention to her own words and did not know in advance what she would say.
"I told Berenice that I was leaving town for good and she did not believe me. Sometimes I honestly think she is the biggest fool that ever drew breath." She complained aloud, and her voice was fringed and sharp like the edge of a saw. She talked
"Why are you all bent over like that?" John Henry called.
"I think I have a kind of pain," said Frankie. "I must have ate something."
John Henry was still standing on the banisters, holding to the post.
"Listen," she said finally. "Suppose you come on over and eat supper and spend the night with me."
"I can't," he answered.
"Why?"
John Henry walked across the banisters, holding out his arms for balance, so that he was like a little blackbird against the yellow window light. He did not answer until he safely reached the other post.
"Just because."
"Because why?"
He did not say anything, and so she added: "I thought maybe me and you could put up my Indian tepee and sleep out in the back yard. And have a good time."
Still John Henry did not speak.
"We're blood first cousins. I entertain you all the time. I've given you so many presents."
Quietly, lightly, John Henry walked back across the banisters and then stood looking out at her with his arm around the post again.
"Sure enough," she called. "Why can't you come?"
At last he said. "Because, Frankie, I don't want to."
"Fool jackass!" she screamed. "I only asked you because I thought you looked so ugly and so lonesome."
Lightly John Henry jumped down from the banisters. And his voice as he called back to her was a clear child's voice.
"Why, I'm not a bit lonesome."
Frankie rubbed the wet palms of her hands along the sides of her shorts and said in her mind: Now turn around and take yourself on home. But in spite of this order, she was somehow unable to turn around and go. It was not yet night. Houses along the
street were dark, lights showed in windows. Darkness had gathered in the thick-leaved trees and shapes in the distance were ragged and gray. But the night was not yet in the sky.
"I think something is wrong," she said. "It is too quiet. I have a peculiar warning in my bones. I bet you a hundred dollars it's going to storm."
John Henry watched her from behind the banister.
"A terrible terrible dog day storm. Or maybe even a cyclone."
Frankie stood waiting for the night. And just at that moment a horn began to play. Somewhere in the town, not far away, a horn began a blues tune. The tune was grieving and low. It was the sad horn of some colored boy, but who he was she did not know. Frankie stood stiff, her head bent and her eyes closed, listening. There was something about the tune that brought back to her all of the spring: flowers, the eyes of strangers, rain.
The tune was low and dark and sad. Then all at once, as Frankie listened, the horn danced into a wild jazz spangle that zigzagged upward. At the end of the jazz spangle the music rattled thin and far away. Then the tune returned to the first blues song, and it was like the telling of that long season of trouble. She stood there on the dark sidewalk and the drawn tightness of her heart made her knees lock and her throat feel stiffened. Then, without warning, the thing happened that at first Frankie could not believe. Just at the time when the tune should be laid, the music finished, the horn broke off. All of a sudden the horn stopped playing. For a moment Frankie could not take it in, she felt so lost.
She whispered finally to John Henry West: "He has stopped to bang the spit out of his horn. In a second he will finish"
But the music did not come again. The tune was left broken, unfinished. And the drawn tightness she could no longer stand. She felt she must do something wild and sudden that never had been done before. She hit herself on the head with her fist, but that did not help any at all. And she began to talk aloud, although at first she paid no attention to her own words and did not know in advance what she would say.
"I told Berenice that I was leaving town for good and she did not believe me. Sometimes I honestly think she is the biggest fool that ever drew breath." She complained aloud, and her voice was fringed and sharp like the edge of a saw. She talked
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