Ginny Gall полностью

The others laughed, but Morris said the story was true. The man told the family that the other head — his brother — had died during the night. They had to cut the dead head off and they buried it in an apple crate. But the man felt so much remorse for the murder that he fled his home and disappeared. It was said that he traveled around the country by himself, taking a job here and there — bean picker in California, deliveryman in Kansas for a dairy — but never staying any place long. In some places he pretended to be his brother, even though no one in the place knew either of them. He called himself by his brother’s name and wore the kind of clothes his brother preferred. At night in his room — he stayed usually in a rooming house — people could hear what sounded like two people talking. Sometimes they’d argue and sometimes one begged forgiveness from the other, a forgiveness the other would never give, and sometimes they would sing a duet. How that could be no one knew, but two voices is what some people said they heard, singing old songs like “Wonder Where Is Good Old Daniel” and “’Buked and Scorned.” Almost always the old jubilees, folks said. He was a good worker, people said. He had a habit of leaning his head over to one side, like he was resting it on something, and when he did this a wistful, tearful look would come into his face. He never stayed in any job long, never stayed long in any place. One day you’d see him on the road walking toward the next town. Or maybe you wouldn’t see him at all. The housekeeper would come into his room and find the bed made and the towel and washcloth neatly folded and dust tracks on the floor where he tried to sweep the room clean. Usually there was a note and the note always said the same thing. My brother and I thank you for our stay. It was said he left the rural life and moved to the city where he took jobs in restaurants, working in sculleries washing dishes and such. Some people in the cities had heard of the two-headed man, some had even heard that one of the heads had died, but nobody suspected this man of being that person. It was said that in the beginning he lived in rooming houses, even in a small apartment a few blocks from the river, but then, so it was said, he began to appear in flops and missions where often his few belongings were stolen and his wistful look was taken for a sign of weakness and he was sometimes beaten up. He moved to the streets, where he lived in alleys and parks. On summer nights sometimes you could see him sitting by the river. Some said he had a little dog, a spotted mongrel, that followed him everywhere. Others said he had no dog. Eventually no one saw him again. Once or twice some reporter, having got wind of an old story that was said to involve such a man, something overheard in a newsman’s bar, would look for him, but he was not found. It was said that one summer night — when Castor and Pollux were in their ascendancy — he slipped into the river and was carried away.

By this time a couple of others had joined the group around the makeshift table and they too offered their stories. One spoke of a pack of wolves living in an abandoned house on one of the great cotton plantations to the west. Another told of money, confederate gold, buried in malachite chests along the Porterville Road, some said, at the bottom of a pond in a cypress grove. Another said he knew that grove, but he had heard of no money buried out there.

Wadn’t no gold left among those folks after the yankees got through with them, Albert said and everybody laughed.