JOHN THOMPSON
233
Beside
him
bounced Nat Williams, of brown round cheerful face,
undisturbed even in sleep or as our clairvoyance can reveal on inevitable
occurrences in the yards or truck lots around town. There some fools
might offer after the custom of the day humorous remarks on his ancestry
to Naperalski's darky. Within Naperalski's earshot none did it twice.
When time came for coffee during their long day on the streets, at
some stops both men went in to sit up at the counter. More often, Joe
would take Nat's coins and fetch out the coffee and pie. At counter or from
fender both ate the pie as we eat pizza.
Should some Mick turn up as guest at the Social Club,Joe might burst
into cheerful song,
DOES your Mither comefrom Poland, Has she eyes ofPolish
blue-hoo.
Never would it have crossed his mind that he was other than a big
Polack born and bred
in
America. Under the sunny sky at Dick's corner
where flourished the giant fountain-top elm, the truck turns, halts, revers–
es over the fallen leaves into the driveway alongside the coal bin. The long
steel chute is unlimbered by Nat, one end extended into window, the other
made fast at tail gate. Naperalski idles up the engine, Nat engages the lift–
ing gear.
What if, why is nobody here to help, he will soil himself, soil the seat,
his underwear too as once he did, everybody will see. But I can do it! Eyes
clamped tight, rage squeezes his undressed body like a jungle boa con–
strictor. Then thunder of Heaven and Hell. The whole house shakes and
rumbles, the toilet seat trembles and his bewildered loins. Boom boom
boom-he has done it at last. Timbers and planks of the house tumble
around his ears, roof and all, the flesh of the walls rips away, there lie
Father, Sister, Dottie and yes Mother her bones the unjointed and half–
bared framework. An instant's bomb-burst of nightmare and he has done
it all. Oh poor spooky Poe,
The mighty walls rush asunder-a long tumultuous
shouting sound-the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over
the fragments
of
the HOUSE
OF
USHER.
And then there is only a last rat–
tle rattle from the cellar. Silence sullenly closes, his eyes open. So that is
all it was. He has not then in the immeasurable force of his evil murdered
and demolished. Trembling, he does rather well at last what is necessary
thank you.
Nat the helper tackles back the chute as the truck bed cranks itself
down to rest. One long sudden avalanche has put the three tons away. He
tosses in the empty gunny sacks. Turning, he spies on the front porch,just
tall enough to peer over the railing, a pale-faced wide-eyed little boy, hair
athatch, staring at the truck's nose.
"Lo theah Sonny."
