(Sometimes a sentence, a paragraph or several, in a book, will state well the essence of a part of myself. Sometimes I fold the corner of its page to note it for that never day when I return for it.)
"Three," a voice said.
Will listened, cold but warming, glad to be in with roof above, floor below, wall and door between too much exposure, too much freedom, too much night.
"Three..."
Dad's voice, home now, moving down the hall, speaking to itself.
"Three..."
Why, thought Will, that's when the train came. Had Dad seen, heard, followed?
No, he mustn't! Will hunched himself. Why not? He trembled. What did he fear?
The carnival rushing in like a black stampede of storm waves on the shore out beyond? Of him and Jim and Dad knowing, of the town asleep, not knowing, was that it?
Yes. Will buried himself, deep. Yes...
"Three..."
Three in the morning, thought Charles Halloway, seated on the edge of his bed. Why did the train come at that hour?
For, he thought, it's a special hour. Women never wake then, do they? They sleep the sleep of babes and children. But men in middle age? They know that hour well. Oh God, midnight's not bad, you wake and go back to sleep, one or two's not bad, you toss but sleep again. Five or six in the morning, there's hope, for dawn's just under the horizon. But three, now, Christ, three A.M.! Doctors say the body's at low tide then. The soul is out. The blood moves slow. You're the nearest to dead you'll ever be save dying. Sleep is a patch of death, but three in the morn, full wide-eyed staring, is living death! You dream with your eyes open. God, if you had strength to rouse up, you'd slaughter your half-dreams with buckshot! But no, you lie pinned to a deep well-bottom that's burned dry. The moon rolls by to look at you down there, with its idiot face. It's a long way back to sunset, a far way on to dawn, so you summon all the fool things of your life, the stupid lovely things done with people known so very well who are now so very dead-- And wasn't it true, had he read it somewhere, more people in hospitals die at 3 A.M. that at any other time...?
Stop! he cried silently.
(Some things I read suspecting that they'll have a little substance for me. This came from Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury. Most of my reading has been done to pass time, like watching television. Mostly to eat the hours between getting into bed and waking up. And I'm getting sick of it, like I get sick of television.)
Three A.M. That's our reward. Three in the morn. The soul's midnight. The tide goes out, the soul ebbs. And a train arrives at an hour of despair.... Why?
(No, of course it's not that simple. This is the world, and we are men and women. I've been living to pass the time.)
He did not answer.
He could not tell her how he was.
"Three," a voice said.
Will listened, cold but warming, glad to be in with roof above, floor below, wall and door between too much exposure, too much freedom, too much night.
"Three..."
Dad's voice, home now, moving down the hall, speaking to itself.
"Three..."
Why, thought Will, that's when the train came. Had Dad seen, heard, followed?
No, he mustn't! Will hunched himself. Why not? He trembled. What did he fear?
The carnival rushing in like a black stampede of storm waves on the shore out beyond? Of him and Jim and Dad knowing, of the town asleep, not knowing, was that it?
Yes. Will buried himself, deep. Yes...
"Three..."
Three in the morning, thought Charles Halloway, seated on the edge of his bed. Why did the train come at that hour?
For, he thought, it's a special hour. Women never wake then, do they? They sleep the sleep of babes and children. But men in middle age? They know that hour well. Oh God, midnight's not bad, you wake and go back to sleep, one or two's not bad, you toss but sleep again. Five or six in the morning, there's hope, for dawn's just under the horizon. But three, now, Christ, three A.M.! Doctors say the body's at low tide then. The soul is out. The blood moves slow. You're the nearest to dead you'll ever be save dying. Sleep is a patch of death, but three in the morn, full wide-eyed staring, is living death! You dream with your eyes open. God, if you had strength to rouse up, you'd slaughter your half-dreams with buckshot! But no, you lie pinned to a deep well-bottom that's burned dry. The moon rolls by to look at you down there, with its idiot face. It's a long way back to sunset, a far way on to dawn, so you summon all the fool things of your life, the stupid lovely things done with people known so very well who are now so very dead-- And wasn't it true, had he read it somewhere, more people in hospitals die at 3 A.M. that at any other time...?
Stop! he cried silently.
(Some things I read suspecting that they'll have a little substance for me. This came from Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury. Most of my reading has been done to pass time, like watching television. Mostly to eat the hours between getting into bed and waking up. And I'm getting sick of it, like I get sick of television.)
Three A.M. That's our reward. Three in the morn. The soul's midnight. The tide goes out, the soul ebbs. And a train arrives at an hour of despair.... Why?
(No, of course it's not that simple. This is the world, and we are men and women. I've been living to pass the time.)
He did not answer.
He could not tell her how he was.
..
I'm in the process of writing you.