whispering. I went on through all the lines, going slowly, carefully, because the meaning wasn't at all concrete.
The images were full of flight. Lights lanced through them, glancing off edges that might have been the tips of wings—and there was air, like the headiness of freedom, like an independence from the bounds of earth—exactly the opposite of darkness. It was an incredible thing to read.
I finally stopped and put my hand down on top of the paper, my eyes closed against those pictures.
What was this doing in Smitty's paper? And how had Caulder gotten a hold of it?
I read it through one more time, my hands pressed together, the tips of them at my lips.
The fact that this had been stuck inside Smitty's paper was uncontestable—you could see the fold lines on it. The question had more to do with how it had gotten there. I picked up the scrap, squinted at the writing, trying to see some element of Smitty's math proof printing in it. If I'd known for certain the writing was Smitty's, that would have told me something—or maybe not; obviously, he'd copied it down for a reason, maybe for another paper… but maybe not. Maybe he'd just copied it because he'd liked it. I thought about that for a moment, and felt my heart speeding up.
If Smitty Tibbs read poetry—if he liked it…
I looked down at the little piece of paper in my hands. If he had written this down the same way I do, he'd done it to make the words his own, because these words had spoken something he couldn't have said himself. And if that was so, what I had in my hand was an open window into somebody else's house.
I put the poem down on the table in front of me.
I was trespassing.
The interim bell rang. I swallowed, picked up the little paper and slipped it into the pocket of my shirt. Then I gathered up my things and went to meet Hally.
She was waiting for me by the cafeteria door. “I'm so glad you deserted Caulder,” she said. “I never could figure out why you guys feel like you've got to eat so early.”
For a millisecond, I considered showing her the poem. She was the only other person I knew—except, maybe, Charlie—who would be able to hear the spaces and the speed and the release of passion that I felt in it. And she would probably know whereit had come from, what age of sudden, wild vision. But I found I didn't want to show it to her. I didn't even want to sit around and chat just then. I had this quiet feeling inside of me, the way you do when you've been in a church or something. Mixed with guilt.
I told myself I would show her. Eventually. Just—not for a little while yet.
We took our trays and picked a place away from the heat of the south windows. It was an incredibly warm, brilliant afternoon, and the trees outside the building were like glowing clouds of lemon yellow and scarlet.
When I looked up, I saw Smitty, sitting by himself across the room. The sight of him gave me a tremendous jolt.
“You're not listening,” Hally said, following the direction of my stare. “Oh,” she said with some kind of meaning I didn't understand.
“I'm trying,” I said absently—but that wasn't true. The little paper in my pocket was burning. I put my hand over it and, totally on impulse, said, “I've got something that belongs to him. I'll be back in a minute.”
As I made my way across that cafeteria, my chest started closing up on me. Suddenly I was heart-riven and hard of breathing, and I honestly didn't understand why. I guess I should have listened. I guess I should have trusted my heart.
I came up behind Smitty's chair and glanced over at Hally, who was watching me curiously over the rim of her cup. Then I hunkered down beside the chair, sitting on my heels, and peered up at him. He, of course, took no notice of me at all. My hands went cold.
“Hi,” I said on no breath at all. “Listen,” I said. “Caulder gave me your Machiavelli paper. This was stuck in it—”
His body went rigid.
“I thought you might want it
The images were full of flight. Lights lanced through them, glancing off edges that might have been the tips of wings—and there was air, like the headiness of freedom, like an independence from the bounds of earth—exactly the opposite of darkness. It was an incredible thing to read.
I finally stopped and put my hand down on top of the paper, my eyes closed against those pictures.
What was this doing in Smitty's paper? And how had Caulder gotten a hold of it?
I read it through one more time, my hands pressed together, the tips of them at my lips.
The fact that this had been stuck inside Smitty's paper was uncontestable—you could see the fold lines on it. The question had more to do with how it had gotten there. I picked up the scrap, squinted at the writing, trying to see some element of Smitty's math proof printing in it. If I'd known for certain the writing was Smitty's, that would have told me something—or maybe not; obviously, he'd copied it down for a reason, maybe for another paper… but maybe not. Maybe he'd just copied it because he'd liked it. I thought about that for a moment, and felt my heart speeding up.
If Smitty Tibbs read poetry—if he liked it…
I looked down at the little piece of paper in my hands. If he had written this down the same way I do, he'd done it to make the words his own, because these words had spoken something he couldn't have said himself. And if that was so, what I had in my hand was an open window into somebody else's house.
I put the poem down on the table in front of me.
I was trespassing.
The interim bell rang. I swallowed, picked up the little paper and slipped it into the pocket of my shirt. Then I gathered up my things and went to meet Hally.
She was waiting for me by the cafeteria door. “I'm so glad you deserted Caulder,” she said. “I never could figure out why you guys feel like you've got to eat so early.”
For a millisecond, I considered showing her the poem. She was the only other person I knew—except, maybe, Charlie—who would be able to hear the spaces and the speed and the release of passion that I felt in it. And she would probably know whereit had come from, what age of sudden, wild vision. But I found I didn't want to show it to her. I didn't even want to sit around and chat just then. I had this quiet feeling inside of me, the way you do when you've been in a church or something. Mixed with guilt.
I told myself I would show her. Eventually. Just—not for a little while yet.
We took our trays and picked a place away from the heat of the south windows. It was an incredibly warm, brilliant afternoon, and the trees outside the building were like glowing clouds of lemon yellow and scarlet.
When I looked up, I saw Smitty, sitting by himself across the room. The sight of him gave me a tremendous jolt.
“You're not listening,” Hally said, following the direction of my stare. “Oh,” she said with some kind of meaning I didn't understand.
“I'm trying,” I said absently—but that wasn't true. The little paper in my pocket was burning. I put my hand over it and, totally on impulse, said, “I've got something that belongs to him. I'll be back in a minute.”
As I made my way across that cafeteria, my chest started closing up on me. Suddenly I was heart-riven and hard of breathing, and I honestly didn't understand why. I guess I should have listened. I guess I should have trusted my heart.
I came up behind Smitty's chair and glanced over at Hally, who was watching me curiously over the rim of her cup. Then I hunkered down beside the chair, sitting on my heels, and peered up at him. He, of course, took no notice of me at all. My hands went cold.
“Hi,” I said on no breath at all. “Listen,” I said. “Caulder gave me your Machiavelli paper. This was stuck in it—”
His body went rigid.
“I thought you might want it
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