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kitchen。 They both played around on the block； and sometimes
they would wrestle。 When she was a kid she liked to fight with
boys— not real fights but just in play。 She used a combination
jujitsu and boxing。 Sometimes he got her down and sometimes
she got him。 Harry never was very rough with anybody。 When
little kids ever broke any toy they would come to him and he
always took the time to fix it。 He could fix anything。 The
ladies on the block got him to fix their electric lights or
sewing…machines when something i went wrong。 Then when
he was thirteen he started back ｜ at Vocational and began to
study hard。 He threw papers and worked on Saturdays and
read。 For a long time she didn't see much of him—until after
that party she gave。 He was very changed。
'Like this；' Harry said。 'It used to be I had some big 。 ambition
for myself all the time。 A great engineer or a great doctor or
lawyer。 But now I don't have it that way。 。 All I can think
about is what happens in the world now。 i About Fascism and
the terrible things in Europe—and on f the other hand
Democracy。 I mean I can't think and work on what I mean to
be in life because I think too much about this other。 I dream
about killing Hitler every night And I wake up in the dark very
thirsty and scared of some…■ thing—I don't know what'
She looked at Harry's face and a deep； serious feeling made
her sad。 His hair hung over his forehead。 His upper lip was
thin and tight； but the lower one was thick and it
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trembled。 Harry didn't look old enough to be fifteen。 With the
darkness a cold wind came。 The wind sang up in the oak trees
on the block and banged the blinds against the side of the
house。 Down the street Mrs。 Wells was calling Sucker home。
The dark late afternoon made the sadness heavy inside her。 I
want a piano—I want to take music lessons； she said to
herself。 She looked at Harry and he was lacing his thin fingers
together in different shapes。 There was a warm boy smell
about him。
What was it made her act like she suddenly did？ Maybe it was
remembering the times when they were younger。 Maybe it
was because the sadness made her feel queer。 But anyway all
of a sudden she gave Harry a push that nearly knocked him off
the steps。 'S。O。B。 to your Grandmother；' she hollered to him。
Then she ran。 That was what kids used to say in the
neighborhood when they picked a fight Harry stood up and
looked surprised。 He settled his glasses on his nose and
watched her for a second。 Then he ran back to the alley。
The cold air made her strong as Samson。 When she laughed
there was a short； quick echo。 She butted Harry with her
shoulder and he got a holt on her。 They wrestled hard and
laughed。 She was the tallest but his hands were strong。 He
didn't fight good enough and she got him on the ground。 Then
suddenly he stopped moving and she stopped too。 His
breathing was warm on her neck and he was very still。 She felt
his ribs against her knees and his hard breathing as she sat on
him。 They got up together。 They did not laugh any more and
the alley was very quiet。 As they walked across the dark back
yard for some reason she felt funny。 There was nothing to feel
queer about； but suddenly it had just happened。 She gave him
a little push and he pushed her back。 Then she laughed again
and felt all right。
'So long；' Harry said。 He was too old to climb the fence； so he
ran through the side alley to the front of his house。
'Gosh it's hot！' she said。 'I could smother in here。'
Portia was warming her supper in the stove。 Ralph
banged his spoon on his high…chair tray。 George's dirty
little hand pushed up his grits with a piece of bread and
his eyes were squinted in a faraway look。 She helped her…214
self to white meat and gravy and grits and a few raisins and
mixed them up together on her plate。 She ate three bites of
them。 She ate until all the grits were gone but still she wasn't
full。
She had thought about Mister Singer all the day； and as soon
as supper was over she went upstairs。 But when she reached
the third floor she saw that his door was open and his room
dark。 This gave her an empty feeling。
Downstairs she couldn't sit still and study for the English test。
It was like she was so strong she couldn't sit on a chair in a
room the same as other people。 It was like she could knock
down all the walls of the house and then march through the
streets big as a giant。
Finally she got out her private box from under the bed。 She lay
on her stomach and looked over the notebook。 There were
about twenty songs now； but she didn't feel satisfied with
them。 If she could write a symphony！ For a whole orchestra—
how did you write that？ Sometimes several instruments played
one note； so the staff would have to be very large。 She drew
five lines across a big sheet of test paper—the lines about an
inch apart。 When a note was for violin or 'cello or flute she
would write the name of the instrument to show。 And when
they all played the same note together she would draw a circle
around them。 At the top of the page she wrote SYMPHONY in
large letters。 And under that MICK KELLY。 Then she couldn't go
any further。
If she could only have music lessons！
If only she could have a real piano！
A long time passed before she could get started。 The tunes
were in her mind but she couldn't figure how to write them。 It
looked like this was the hardest play in the world。 But she
kept on figuring until Etta and Hazel came into the room and
got into bed and said she had to turn the light off because it
was eleven o'clock。
10
…T OR six weeks Portia had waited to hear from William。 Every
evening she would come to the house and ask Doctor
Copeland the same question： 'You seen anybody who
215
gotten a letter from Willie yet？' And every night he was
obliged to tell her that he had heard nothing。
At last she asked the question no more。 She would come into
the hall and look at him without a word。 She drank。 Her
blouse was often half unbuttoned and her shoestrings loose。
February came。 The weather turned milder； then hot。 The sun
glared down with hard brilliance。 Birds sang in the bare trees
and children played out of doors barefoot and naked to the
waist。 The nights were torrid as in midsummer。 Then after a
few days winter was upon the town again。 The mild skies
darkened。 A chill rain fell and the air turned dank and bitterly
cold。 In the town the Negroes suffered badly。 Supplies of fuel
had been exhausted and there was a struggle everywhere for
warmth。 An epidemic of pneumonia raged through the wet；
narrow streets； and for a week Doctor Copeland slept at odd
hours； fully clothed。 Still no word came from William。 Portia
had written four times and Doctor Copeland twice。
During most of the day and night he had no time to think。 But
occasionally he found a chance to rest for a moment at home。
He would drink a pot of coffee by the kitchen stove and a deep
uneasiness would come in him。 Five of his patients had died。
And one of these was Augustus Benedict Mady Lewis； the
little deaf