56
PARTISAN REVIEW
I sat bolt upright. My heart beat in my ears and in my throat. There
was a fire, a bonfire, across the pavement. I could see silhouettes mov–
ing in a jumble before it. There were men in boots and cowboy hats.
Some of them had burning pieces of wood in their hands. They waved
the flaming torches. I heard, beneath the shouts and the song snatches,
a steady moan. I knew it was Mary. She wasn't in her bed; she was sit–
ting, dressed and bewigged, in the room's only chair. For a moment I
struggled to work out what was real, this scene, this moment, and
what-the image of the maid, naked, taking her head from her shoul–
ders-was the dream.
"Where's Arthur?" I asked. "Isn't he back yet?"
She didn't answer. She continued to moan.
"I told you," said Bartie. "They've got him. They've got that nigger.
They're going to string him up!"
I rolled off my side of the bed and moved to the window. I pressed,
peering, against the glass. I was shocked to see that Barton was right:
they did have Arthur. He was standing at the center of a group of men.
His coat was off and each time he took a stumbling step it dragged
behind him in the dust. The men, all white men, laughed and jeered.
Then the old servant staggered; he fell to his knees. There was a whoop,
a war whoop, like Indians in the movies.
I whirled around. "Mary, get the telephone. Call the police."
She did not move from the seat of her chair.
I ran to the phone. There was a low dial tone, which, no matter what
numbers I dialed, did not alter its drone. Then I ran to the bathroom.
The only window was small and high. I didn't think I could get through.
Certainly Mary couldn't. But Barton, by standing on the toilet tank,
might just be ab le to wiggle his way out and try to bring help.
"Bartie! Hey, Bartie!"
He didn't answer. I trotted back to the bedroom. The window was
glowing with the reflection of sparks and flame. And not just the win–
dow. The door was open and Barton stood in it, the outline of his body
lit by the fire. Before I could move he dashed across the sliver of court–
yard and onto the lip of the highway.
"Let him go!" he shouted. "You bad people! Let him go! He belongs
to Bartie!"
Then, as if the crazed men had heard him, the mob parted and Arthur
lurched onto the black macadam. By one hand he was still dragging his
jacket; in the other he waved a flaming stick.
In
the light of that brand
I saw our Buick, parked at the other end of the motel. The chauffeur
weaved his way across the roadway, shedding sparks . He stopped in
