Thomas Wolfe: Of Time and the River, You Can't Go Home Again & Look Homeward, Angel. Thomas Wolfe

the interest you’re taking in this,” said the sailor very earnestly.

      He likes this, Eugene thought. The affection of the world. He must have it.

      “Your father,” continued Horse Hines, “is one of the oldest and most respected business men in the community. And the Pentland family is one of the wealthiest and most prominent.”

      Eugene was touched with a moment’s glow of pride.

      “You don’t want anything shoddy,” said Horse Hines. “I know that. What you get ought to be in good taste and have dignity. Am I right?”

      Luke nodded emphatically.

      “That’s the way we feel about it, Mr. Hines. We want the best you have. We’re not pinching p-p-p-pennies where Ben’s concerned,” he said proudly.

      “Well, then,” said Horse Hines, “I’ll give you my honest opinion. I could give you this one cheap,” he placed his hand upon one of the caskets, “but I don’t think it’s what you want. Of course,” he said, “it’s good at the price. It’s worth the money. It’ll give you service, don’t worry. You’ll get value out of it —”

      Now there’s an idea, thought Eugene.

      “They’re all good, Luke. I haven’t got a bad piece of stock in the place. But —”

      “We want something b-b-b-better,” said Luke earnestly. He turned to Eugene. “Don’t you think so, ‘Gene?”

      “Yes,” said Eugene.

      “Well,” said Horse Hines, “I could sell you this one,” he indicated the most sumptuous casket in the room. “They don’t come better than that, Luke. That’s the top. She’s worth every dollar I ask for her.”

      “All right,” said Luke. “You’re the judge. If that’s the best you’ve g-g-g-got, we’ll take it.”

      No, no! thought Eugene. You mustn’t interrupt. Let him go on.

      “But,” said Horse Hines relentlessly, “there’s no need for you to take that one, either. What you’re after, Luke, is dignity and simplicity. Is that right?”

      “Yes,” said the sailor meekly, “I guess you’re right at that, Mr. Hines.”

      Now we’ll have it, thought Eugene. This man takes joy in his work.

      “Well, then,” said Horse Hines decisively, “I was going to suggest to you boys that you take this one.” He put his hand affectionately upon a handsome casket at his side.

      “This is neither too plain nor too fancy. It’s simple and in good taste. Silver handles, you see — silver plate here for the name. You can’t go wrong on this one. It’s a good buy. She’ll give you value for every dollar you put into it.”

      They walked around the coffin, staring at it critically.

      After a moment, Luke said nervously:

      “How — wh — wh — wh-what’s the price of this one?”

      “That sells for $450,” said Horse Hines. “But,” he added, after a moment’s dark reflection, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Your father and I are old friends. Out of respect for the family, I’ll let you have it at cost —$375.”

      “What do you say, ‘Gene?” the sailor asked. “Does it look all right to you?”

      Do your Christmas shopping early.

      “Yes,” said Eugene, “let’s take it. I wish there were another color. I don’t like black,” he added. “Haven’t you got any other color?”

      Horse Hines stared at him a moment.

      “Black IS the color,” he said.

      Then, after a moment’s silence, he went on:

      “Would you boys care to see the body?”

      “Yes,” they said.

      He led them on tiptoe down the aisle of the coffins, and opened a door to a room behind. It was dark. They entered and stood with caught breath. Horse Hines switched on a light and closed the door.

      Ben, clad in his best suit of clothes, a neat one of dark gray-black, lay in rigid tranquillity upon a table. His hands, cold and white, with clean dry nails, withered a little like an old apple, were crossed loosely on his stomach. He had been closely shaved: he was immaculately groomed. The rigid head was thrust sharply upward, with a ghastly counterfeit of a smile: there was a little gum of wax at the nostrils, and a waxen lacing between the cold firm lips. The mouth was tight, somewhat bulging. It looked fuller than it ever had looked before.

      There was a faint indefinably cloying odor.

      The sailor looked with superstition, nervously, with puckered forehead. Then he whispered to Eugene:

      “I g-g-guess that’s Ben, all right.”

      Because, Eugene thought, it is not Ben, and we are lost. He looked at the cold bright carrion, that bungling semblance which had not even the power of a good wax-work to suggest its image. Nothing of Ben could be buried here. In this poor stuffed crow, with its pathetic bartering, and its neat buttons, nothing of the owner had been left. All that was there was the tailoring of Horse Hines, who now stood by, watchfully, hungry for their praise.

      No, this is not Ben (Eugene thought). No trace of him is left in this deserted shell. It bears no mark of him. Where has he gone? Is this his bright particular flesh, made in his image, given life by his unique gesture, by his one soul? No, he is gone from that bright flesh. This thing is one with all carrion; it will be mixed with the earth again. Ben? Where? O lost!

      The sailor, looking, said:

      “That b-b-b-boy sure suffered.” Suddenly, turning his face away into his hand, he sobbed briefly and painfully, his confused stammering life drawn out of its sprawl into a moment of hard grief.

      Eugene wept, not because he saw Ben there, but because Ben had gone, and because he remembered all the tumult and the pain.

      “It is over now,” said Horse Hines gently. “He is at peace.”

      “By God, Mr. Hines,” said the sailor earnestly, as he wiped his eyes on his jacket, “that was one g-g-great boy.”

      Horse Hines looked raptly at the cold strange face.

      “A fine boy,” he murmured as his fish-eye fell tenderly on his work. “And I have tried to do him justice.”

      They were silent for a moment, looking.

      “You’ve d-d-done a fine job,” said the sailor. “I’ve got to hand it to you. What do you say, ‘Gene?”

      “Yes,” said Eugene, in a small choking voice. “Yes.”

      “He’s a b-b-b-bit p-p-p-pale, don’t you think?” the sailor stammered, barely conscious of what he was saying.

      “Just a moment!” said Horse Hines quickly, lifting a finger. Briskly he took a stick of rouge from his pocket, stepped forward, and deftly, swiftly, sketched upon the dead gray cheeks a ghastly rose-hued mockery of life and health.

      “There!” he said, with deep satisfaction; and, rouge-stick in hand, head critically cocked, like a painter before his canvas, he stepped back into the terrible staring prison of their horror.

      “There are artists, boys, in every profession,” Horse Hines continued in a moment, with quiet pride, “and though I do say it myself, Luke, I’m proud of my work on this job. Look at him!” he exclaimed with sudden energy, and a bit of color in his gray face. “Did you ever see anything more natural in your life?”

      Eugene turned upon the man a grim and purple stare, noting with pity, with a sort of tenderness, as the dogs of laughter tugged at his straining throat the earnestness and pride in the long horse-face.

      “Look