At night he would lie in bed beside her, sleepless, beginning to breathe deep and hard.
He would do it deliberately, feeling, even watching, his white chest arch deeper and deeper within his ribcage, trying to breathe into himself the dark odor, the dark and inscrutable thinking and being of negroes, with each suspiration trying to expel from himself the white blood and the white thinking and being.
And all the while his nostrils at the odor which he was trying to make his own would whiten and tauten, his whole being writhe and strain with physical outrage and spiritual denial.
He thought that it was loneliness which he was trying to escape and not himself.
But the street ran on: catlike, one place was the same as another to him.
But in none of them could he be quiet.
But the street ran on in its moods and phases, always empty: he might have seen himself as in numberless avatars, in silence, doomed with motion, driven by the courage of flagged and spurred despair; by the despair of courage whose opportunities had to be flagged and spurred.
He was thirty-three years old.
One afternoon the street had become a Mississippi country road.
He had been put off a southbound freight train near a small town.
He did not know the name of the town; he didn’t care what word it used for name.
He didn’t even see it, anyway.
He skirted it, following the woods, and came to the road and looked in both directions.
It was not a gravelled road, though it looked to be fairly well used.
He saw several negro cabins scattered here and there along it; then he saw, about a half mile away, a larger house.
It was a big house set in a grove of trees; obviously a place of some pretensions at one time.
But now the trees needed pruning and the house had not been painted in years.
But he could tell that it was inhabited, and he had not eaten in twenty-four hours.
‘That one might do,’ he thought.
But he did not approach it at once, though the afternoon was drawing on.
Instead he turned his back upon it and went on in the other direction, in his soiled white shirt and worn serge trousers and his cracked, dusty, townshaped shoes, his cloth cap set at an arrogant angle above a three-day’s stubble.
Yet even then he did not look like a tramp; at least apparently not to the negro boy whom he met presently coming up the road and swinging a tin bucket.
He stopped the boy.
“Who lives in the big house back there?” he said.
“That where Miz Burden stay at.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Burden?”
“No, sir.
Ain’t no Mr. Burden.
Ain’t nobody live there but her.”
“Oh.
An old woman, I guess.”
“No, sir. Miz Burden ain’t old.
Ain’t young neither.”
“And she lives there by herself.
Don’t she get scared?”
“Who going to harm her, right here at town?
Colored folks around here looks after her.”
“Colored folks look after her?”
At once it was as if the boy had closed a door between himself and the man who questioned him.
“I reckon ain’t nobody round here going to do her no harm.
She ain’t harmed nobody.”
“I guess not,” Christmas said. “How far is it to the next town over this way?”
“ ’Bout thirty miles, they say.
You ain’t fixing to walk it, is you?”
“No,” Christmas said.
He turned then, going on.
The boy looked after him.
Then he too turned, walking again, the tin bucket swinging against his faded flank.
A few steps later he looked back.
The man who had questioned him was walking on, steadily though not fast.