angel, the shoulder man, who later drowned the operator of the half-track in a shell hole filled with stagnant water and urine of the troops, took him up in his arms as carefully and coolly as a woman of long service. And with the needle and morphic fluid calmed him, standing then in suspect shadow, smoking, until Sparrow should rise, muttering, “Shivers and shakes,” and proceed with his drugged and jittery step to a brief meal or to the job.
“This ought to do it,” he said, and leaned forward, pinched as much of the flesh on Sparrow’s arm as hecould into a chilly blister. Then he punctured it, slid the needle beneath Sparrow’s skin, gently pushed down the plunger. For a moment he could see the fluid lying like a pea just under the skin, then suddenly it dropped into a duct or into the mouth of a vein and was gone. He withdrew the needle and there was a tiny heart of blood on the tip of it. He watched, and in the middle of the tattoo—a headstone with “Flander’s Field” in scroll beneath it—his pinch marks and the nick of the needle were still visible. He was casting a long shadow across Sparrow’s torso, and the substance of his own head, the lines of his shoulders—constructed to catch a man’s love for master tailoring—these lay lightly on the man in his agony. Then he looked across to Thick, who was stooping also and hiding his mouth behind a hand, keeping an eye on the bare needle. Thick’s own forehead was trickling.
“He ain’t going to need a transfusion … is he now, Larry?”
“Cover him with a sheet, for God’s sake, and let’s go,” said Little Dora, and dug with mannish fingers into her stuffed side.
“Michael was sick once,” whispered Margaret, and she was kneeling.
But this was not Sparrow’s worst. Nor was it Daphne’s Row or escaping in the manure wagon or trying to fix the needle behind the newspapers that time on the rocking train that had caused Larry himself to sweat and think of summoning the doctor who was bald and unlicensed and the best in the business for a man who hadbeen stabbed or shot in the groin. None of these, but the time in the hock and antique shop—when the black cars passed up and down in front of the cluttered window and Sparrow had collapsed on a scabrous tiger skin, pulling a tea set with him and falling with his mouth jammed into the heel of a brass boot and he, Larry, had tried to squat beside and reach for him through a pile of bone and silken fans. His knee had crushed an old bellows and dust fell all about them, while paper weights rolled against the tiger’s head. He had crouched there over Sparrow and had torn the tin packet. And a parrot in the back of the shop kept screaming, “Piss in his eye, piss in his eye!” from a great fortress-shaped wire cage. And while the cars hunted them up and down the street, while the parrot shrieked, he had freed Sparrow’s arm from the cloth and had been too hasty, then, withdrawing the point, so that the needle broke, and the skin immediately turned blue. But even that day he had managed, watched Sparrow’s cheekbones recede under a little color, helped him to crawl through the tunnel of Spanish shawls and so to escape, and had killed the parrot by stuffing his handkerchief into its shocked and gloomy face. Dragging Sparrow away he had heard the cage still swinging.
“That will do, I imagine,” he said, and straightened. But no one else moved. First one, then by twos and threes the playing cards blew off the table and swished to the floor or landed on edge with tiny clacking noises, all face down except the queen. Thick wet his lips; Little Dora lifted back her veil; Cowles was biting his nails.Monica blinked her green and fearful eyes and Sparrow from the bed was sighing.
“Better now, Sparrow? Come along then. …”
“Wait!” said Little Dora. “You don’t mean you’re going without me, Larry! You wouldn’t leave Little Dora behind! Not another day in the Roost. And I thought I’d
“This ought to do it,” he said, and leaned forward, pinched as much of the flesh on Sparrow’s arm as hecould into a chilly blister. Then he punctured it, slid the needle beneath Sparrow’s skin, gently pushed down the plunger. For a moment he could see the fluid lying like a pea just under the skin, then suddenly it dropped into a duct or into the mouth of a vein and was gone. He withdrew the needle and there was a tiny heart of blood on the tip of it. He watched, and in the middle of the tattoo—a headstone with “Flander’s Field” in scroll beneath it—his pinch marks and the nick of the needle were still visible. He was casting a long shadow across Sparrow’s torso, and the substance of his own head, the lines of his shoulders—constructed to catch a man’s love for master tailoring—these lay lightly on the man in his agony. Then he looked across to Thick, who was stooping also and hiding his mouth behind a hand, keeping an eye on the bare needle. Thick’s own forehead was trickling.
“He ain’t going to need a transfusion … is he now, Larry?”
“Cover him with a sheet, for God’s sake, and let’s go,” said Little Dora, and dug with mannish fingers into her stuffed side.
“Michael was sick once,” whispered Margaret, and she was kneeling.
But this was not Sparrow’s worst. Nor was it Daphne’s Row or escaping in the manure wagon or trying to fix the needle behind the newspapers that time on the rocking train that had caused Larry himself to sweat and think of summoning the doctor who was bald and unlicensed and the best in the business for a man who hadbeen stabbed or shot in the groin. None of these, but the time in the hock and antique shop—when the black cars passed up and down in front of the cluttered window and Sparrow had collapsed on a scabrous tiger skin, pulling a tea set with him and falling with his mouth jammed into the heel of a brass boot and he, Larry, had tried to squat beside and reach for him through a pile of bone and silken fans. His knee had crushed an old bellows and dust fell all about them, while paper weights rolled against the tiger’s head. He had crouched there over Sparrow and had torn the tin packet. And a parrot in the back of the shop kept screaming, “Piss in his eye, piss in his eye!” from a great fortress-shaped wire cage. And while the cars hunted them up and down the street, while the parrot shrieked, he had freed Sparrow’s arm from the cloth and had been too hasty, then, withdrawing the point, so that the needle broke, and the skin immediately turned blue. But even that day he had managed, watched Sparrow’s cheekbones recede under a little color, helped him to crawl through the tunnel of Spanish shawls and so to escape, and had killed the parrot by stuffing his handkerchief into its shocked and gloomy face. Dragging Sparrow away he had heard the cage still swinging.
“That will do, I imagine,” he said, and straightened. But no one else moved. First one, then by twos and threes the playing cards blew off the table and swished to the floor or landed on edge with tiny clacking noises, all face down except the queen. Thick wet his lips; Little Dora lifted back her veil; Cowles was biting his nails.Monica blinked her green and fearful eyes and Sparrow from the bed was sighing.
“Better now, Sparrow? Come along then. …”
“Wait!” said Little Dora. “You don’t mean you’re going without me, Larry! You wouldn’t leave Little Dora behind! Not another day in the Roost. And I thought I’d
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