Leona. Neither am I dumb.”
“I guess I just didn’t think—”
“What?”
“That anyone would care.”
In the silence that hung in the room then, Vivaldo rose and went to his phonograph. “You didn’t think Ida would care? You didn’t think I would care?”
He felt as though he were smothering. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought.”
Vivaldo said nothing. His face was pale and angry and he concentrated on looking through his records. Finally he put one on the machine; it was James Pete Johnson and Bessie Smith batting out Backwater Blues .
“Well,” said Vivaldo, helplessly, and sat down again.
Besides Vivaldo’s phonograph, there wasn’t much else in his apartment. There was a homemade lamp, brick-supported bookshelves, records, a sagging bed, the sprung easy chair, and the straight-backed chair. There was a high stool before Vivaldo’s worktable on which Vivaldo teetered now, his coarse, curly black hair hanging forward, his eyes somber, and his mouth turned down. The table held his pencils, papers, his typewriter, and the telephone. In a small alcove was the kitchen in which the overhead light was burning. The sink was full of dirty dishes, topped by a jaggedly empty and open tin can. A paper sack of garbage leaned against one of the kitchen table’s uncertain legs.
There’s thousands of people, Bessie now sang, ain’t got no place to go, and for the first time Rufus began to hear, in the severely understated monotony of this blues, something which spoke to his troubled mind. The piano bore the singer witness, stoic and ironic. Now that Rufus himself had no place to go— ’cause my house fell down and I can’t live there no mo’, sang Bessie— he heard the line and the tone of the singer, and he wondered how others had moved beyond the emptiness and horror which faced him now.
Vivaldo was watching him. Now he cleared his throat and said, “Maybe it would be a good idea for you to make a change of scene, Rufus. Everything around here will just keep reminding you— sometimes it’s better just to wipe the slate clean and take off. Maybe you should go to the Coast.”
“There’s nothing happening on the Coast.”
“A lot of musicians have gone out there.”
“They’re on their ass out there, too. It’s no different from New York.”
“No, they’re working. You might feel differently out there, with all the sunshine and oranges and all.” He smiled. “Make a new man of you, baby.”
“I guess you think,” said Rufus, malevolently, “that it’s time I started trying to be a new man.”
There was a silence. Then Vivaldo said, “It’s not so much what I think. It’s what you think.”
Rufus watched the tall, lean, clumsy white boy who was his best friend, and felt himself nearly strangling with the desire to hurt him.
“Rufus,” said Vivaldo, suddenly, “believe me, I know, I know— a lot of things hurt you that I can’t really understand.” He played with the keys of his typewriter. “A lot of things hurt me that I can’t really understand.”
Rufus sat on the edge of the sprung easy chair, watching Vivaldo gravely.
“Do you blame me for what happened to Leona?”
“Rufus, what good would it do if I did blame you? You blame yourself enough already, that’s what’s wrong with you, what’s the good of my blaming you?”
He could see, though, that Vivaldo had also hoped to be able to avoid this question.
“Do you blame me or don’t you? Tell the truth.”
“Rufus, if I wasn’t your friend, I think I’d blame you, sure. You acted like a bastard. But I understand that, I think I do, I’m trying to. But, anyway, since you are my friend, and, after all, let’s face it, you mean much more to me than Leona ever did, well, I don’t think I should put you down just because you acted like a bastard. We’re all bastards. That’s why we need our friends.”
“I wish I could tell you what it was like,” Rufus said, after a long silence. “I
“I guess I just didn’t think—”
“What?”
“That anyone would care.”
In the silence that hung in the room then, Vivaldo rose and went to his phonograph. “You didn’t think Ida would care? You didn’t think I would care?”
He felt as though he were smothering. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought.”
Vivaldo said nothing. His face was pale and angry and he concentrated on looking through his records. Finally he put one on the machine; it was James Pete Johnson and Bessie Smith batting out Backwater Blues .
“Well,” said Vivaldo, helplessly, and sat down again.
Besides Vivaldo’s phonograph, there wasn’t much else in his apartment. There was a homemade lamp, brick-supported bookshelves, records, a sagging bed, the sprung easy chair, and the straight-backed chair. There was a high stool before Vivaldo’s worktable on which Vivaldo teetered now, his coarse, curly black hair hanging forward, his eyes somber, and his mouth turned down. The table held his pencils, papers, his typewriter, and the telephone. In a small alcove was the kitchen in which the overhead light was burning. The sink was full of dirty dishes, topped by a jaggedly empty and open tin can. A paper sack of garbage leaned against one of the kitchen table’s uncertain legs.
There’s thousands of people, Bessie now sang, ain’t got no place to go, and for the first time Rufus began to hear, in the severely understated monotony of this blues, something which spoke to his troubled mind. The piano bore the singer witness, stoic and ironic. Now that Rufus himself had no place to go— ’cause my house fell down and I can’t live there no mo’, sang Bessie— he heard the line and the tone of the singer, and he wondered how others had moved beyond the emptiness and horror which faced him now.
Vivaldo was watching him. Now he cleared his throat and said, “Maybe it would be a good idea for you to make a change of scene, Rufus. Everything around here will just keep reminding you— sometimes it’s better just to wipe the slate clean and take off. Maybe you should go to the Coast.”
“There’s nothing happening on the Coast.”
“A lot of musicians have gone out there.”
“They’re on their ass out there, too. It’s no different from New York.”
“No, they’re working. You might feel differently out there, with all the sunshine and oranges and all.” He smiled. “Make a new man of you, baby.”
“I guess you think,” said Rufus, malevolently, “that it’s time I started trying to be a new man.”
There was a silence. Then Vivaldo said, “It’s not so much what I think. It’s what you think.”
Rufus watched the tall, lean, clumsy white boy who was his best friend, and felt himself nearly strangling with the desire to hurt him.
“Rufus,” said Vivaldo, suddenly, “believe me, I know, I know— a lot of things hurt you that I can’t really understand.” He played with the keys of his typewriter. “A lot of things hurt me that I can’t really understand.”
Rufus sat on the edge of the sprung easy chair, watching Vivaldo gravely.
“Do you blame me for what happened to Leona?”
“Rufus, what good would it do if I did blame you? You blame yourself enough already, that’s what’s wrong with you, what’s the good of my blaming you?”
He could see, though, that Vivaldo had also hoped to be able to avoid this question.
“Do you blame me or don’t you? Tell the truth.”
“Rufus, if I wasn’t your friend, I think I’d blame you, sure. You acted like a bastard. But I understand that, I think I do, I’m trying to. But, anyway, since you are my friend, and, after all, let’s face it, you mean much more to me than Leona ever did, well, I don’t think I should put you down just because you acted like a bastard. We’re all bastards. That’s why we need our friends.”
“I wish I could tell you what it was like,” Rufus said, after a long silence. “I
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