XXI

Overnight Fred Merritt’s Court Avenue house had become a ghastly ruin. Every pane had been bashed in with flood, every window frame charred with fire, each of the gray stone window margins frayed and blackened with smoke. Yesterday these windows had surveyed the world serenely, bright and alive. Today they looked like the deep, dark-circled orbits of sunken blind eyes.

The place had been gutted, heart and bowels. Its vitals, whatever things had given it substance, circulation, and life, all had been hopelessly battered and crushed till they’d shrunk out of sight: One could stand on the sidewalk and see the sunset through and beyond the rear wall⁠—a hard broad grin of a sunset, which transilluminated the flame sacked dwelling, mocking its emptiness without pity, deriding its devastation. When eventually the sun’s grin faded out, it was as if a contemptuous amused observer had at last turned aside and gone off on more important business.

The house stood stark as a corpse in the shrouding dusk.

It was upon this scene that Shine came, less frantic now, but no less grim than when he had left the hospital earlier in the day. Even then he had realized that Merrit would not be found at home during the day, and had finished his afternoon’s work in a silent turmoil. Added delay had not subdued his fury⁠—had merely stored up a greater potential violence, like added tension on a spring. Now, when he unexpectedly came upon this ruin, it was as if the spring suddenly cracked.

He stood on the sidewalk looking up at the looming gray carcass of a house. For a moment it took his breath. Twilight made it the more indistinct⁠—he craned his neck forward and stared; looked all about him to verify the neighborhood, walked forward to a point where he could discern the number on the house next door⁠—315⁠—came back, stood in a stupor of unbelief; and after a while heaved a great sigh of reluctant, bitter conviction:

“Damn if the fays didn’t get ’im,” he muttered. “The dirty⁠—” For the time being his present mission of vengeance was submerged in the onrush of a greater hatred, a hatred more deeply ingrained and of far longer standing; for the moment he glared insanely around at the cool, still, empty street and at the rows of serene gray houses standing side by side. They gave forth a maddening impression of distance and unconcern. They looked quite satisfied. This catastrophe was for them the answer to all their prayers. Now that it was done, they could go on as they always had. The ruined dwelling had simply earned and received the wages of sin⁠—If Shine could have trampled and crushed them all in that moment, he would surely have done so.

But as this tide of hatred fell and receded, his original murderous intent emerged like a spire through abating flood. What if they had got Merrit? A guy like Merrit deserved everything he got. And he hadn’t got half what was coming to him yet⁠—not if he could be found⁠—Linda resting comfortably⁠—the dickty liquor-head⁠—

He knew it. Merrit had meant to put it on her ever since that first morning here on Court Avenue⁠—the morning she strode past like a million dollars, ignoring Jinx and Bubber’s comments. “Figgerin’ on a jive already⁠—the doggone dickty hound. Why the hell can’t dickties stick to their own women, ’stead o’ messin’ ’round some honest workin’ girl?” That was the thought he had got from the way Merrit looked at her that morning⁠—Well⁠—it wouldn’t be long now⁠—let him get one hand on that yellow throat⁠—just let him sink the fingers of one hand into it⁠—just let him take the bastard’s ankle in his hands and twist it off⁠—

But this house⁠—Hell a’mighty⁠—what a wreck⁠—

His turbulent emotions strangely dominated by curiosity, he slowly, almost fearfully made his way up the front stoop of the house. Shattered glass, strewn over the steps, crunched dryly under his feet. The doorways bounding the vestibule were open; the outer door a mere frame to which angular fragments of glass still clung like monstrous teeth; the inner a fallen barrier, shattered and blackened, prone on the floor.

He explored the front room, stepping cautiously over obstructing wreckage, just able to perceive in the dimness the utter, unsparing destruction; ceilings black, walls gray and water-soaked, woodwork a burnt-cork caricature, patches of plaster fallen away baring the carbonized understructure.

“Whoever done this sho’ knew his business⁠—the⁠—”

The floor was a clutter of water-soaked pieces, some still wrapped in burlap. A cabinet lay on its side in a corner, its upper half bared and blackened, its lower still embraced in a scorched, wet covering. Little puddles glistened here and there; a rug protested under Shine’s step with the squish of a full sponge, compressed. A besooted prism-chandelier still hung from the channeled ceiling, against the gray of which it was silhouetted like a shadow of itself. To the rim of the broad doorway leading from this room, there still hung traces of what had yesterday been portieres of metal brocade, now shreds of gray lace woven of cobwebs, the greater part fallen about the threshold, a scum of soft wet ash.

“This ain’t a damn thing compared to what I’ll do to him⁠—”

Shine moved through the foyer past a crumbled charcoal staircase, and on thence into the back room. This room, equally demolished, was narrower than the front, and presented at one side a doorless doorway leading into a small side room. Disregarding the settling darkness, Shine went over to this doorway, then suddenly halted, stood quite motionless, intent on an unexpected sight within that room.

The rear wall was almost entirely occupied by a tall broad window. There was a table before this window, and seated at the table, a man. Looking obliquely through the doorway, Shine saw that the man did not sit wholly erect, but slumped down in his chair as limply as if his backbone had melted, drooped there almost double, his head bowed forward on his chest. Despite this lifeless posture, it was possible to recognize the figure by the gray dusk of the window against which it was outlined. Shine knew that he was looking upon Fred Merrit.

He stared scowling a moment, bent forward a bit to catch some sign of life, and was on the point of approaching the figure when it moved in a curious way: shook like a man with a chill⁠—slumped quiet⁠—violently shook again. Slowly it dawned on Shine that maybe the bird was crying. And as he continued to stare and wonder on this unfamiliar sight, he became aware of something grasped in one of Merrit’s extended hands: a fairly large picture-frame, out of which the canvas had been burnt, leaving only a frayed, singed, marginal rim. Shine belabored his brain to catch an elusive memory of that frame, till it broke upon him that this was the one that had contained the likeness of Merrit’s mother; the one about which Mrs. Fuller had warned, “He’d die if he ever lost it.”

For what seemed a long time Shine stood looking, things romping through his brain. Linda struggling⁠—no⁠—resting comfortably. The Goddamned dickty⁠—what happened? Fays got him⁠—dirty sneaks⁠—I mean they got him⁠—look at this place. Merrit. There he is⁠—what the hell⁠—crying⁠—Jesus⁠—that picture of his mother⁠—

Then Shine did what would have seemed to his associates an amazing, an unpardonable thing. There with the man he’d set out to punish alone, within his grasp, he stood silent, apparently undecided, made not a single move to strike. And after a while, slowly turned about and found his way out of the house.

It amazed Shine himself⁠—amazed him and chagrined him. He felt rather glad of the darkness outside⁠—it was a sort of balm for his shame. Hard boogy he was⁠—yea⁠—awful hard⁠—the hardest boogy in Harlem. There he was, this dickty, this guy that⁠—right there, crying to be crowned. And what does the hard guy do⁠—the hardest boogy in Harlem? He gets a seasick feeling in the belly and turns around and sneaks out!

He mumbled excuses to himself as he wandered away down the street:

“Hell⁠—I’ll get ’im later⁠—Gee⁠—y’ can’t hit a guy when he’s down⁠—”