He did not go to work next morning. He was too busy weaving colossally on the thousand looms that ran inside his head. His mother went to work, but first she sent for the doctor. It was a severe attack of la grippe, he said. Jennie served as nurse and carried out his instructions.
It was a very severe attack, and it was a week before Johnny dressed and tottered feebly across the floor. Another week, the doctor said, and he would be fit to return to work. The foreman of the loom room visited him on Sunday afternoon, the first day of his convalescence. The best weaver in the room, the foreman told his mother. His job would be held for him. He could come back to work a week from Monday.
Why dont you thank im, Johnny? his mother asked anxiously.
Hes ben that sick he aint himself yet, she explained apologetically to the visitor.
Johnny sat hunched up and gazing steadfastly at the floor. He sat in the same position long after the foreman had gone. It was warm outdoors, and he sat on the stoop in the afternoon. Sometimes his lips moved. He seemed lost in endless calculations.
Next morning, after the day grew warm, he took his seat on the stoop. He had pencil and paper this time with which to continue his calculations, and he calculated painfully and amazingly.
What comes after millions? he asked at noon, when Will came home from school. An how dye work em?
That afternoon finished his task. Each day, but without paper and pencil, he returned to the stoop. He was greatly absorbed in the one tree that grew across the street. He studied it for hours at a time, and was unusually interested when the wind swayed its branches and fluttered its leaves. Throughout the week he seemed lost in a great communion with himself. On Sunday, sitting on the stoop, he laughed aloud, several times, to the perturbation of his mother, who had not heard him laugh for years.
Next morning, in the early darkness, she came to his bed to rouse him. He had had his fill of sleep all the week, and awoke easily. He made no struggle, nor did he attempt to hold on to the bedding when she stripped it from him. He lay quietly, and spoke quietly.
It aint no use, ma.
Youll be late, she said, under the impression that he was still stupid with sleep.
Im awake, ma, an I tell you it aint no use. You might as well lemme alone. I aint goin to git up.
But youll lose your job! she cried.
I aint goin to git up, he repeated in a strange, passionless voice.
She did not go to work herself that morning. This was sickness beyond any sickness she had ever known. Fever and delirium she could understand; but this was insanity. She pulled the bedding up over him and sent Jennie for the doctor.
When that person arrived, Johnny was sleeping gently, and gently he awoke and allowed his pulse to be taken.
Nothing the matter with him, the doctor reported. Badly debilitated, thats all. Not much meat on his bones.
Hes always been that way, his mother volunteered.
Now go way, ma, an let me finish my snooze.
Johnny spoke sweetly and placidly, and sweetly and placidly he rolled over on his side and went to sleep.
At ten oclock he awoke and dressed himself. He walked out into the kitchen, where he found his mother with a frightened expression on her face.
Im goin away, ma, he announced, an I jes want to say good-bye.
She threw her apron over her head and sat down suddenly and wept. He waited patiently.
I might a-known it, she was sobbing.
Where? she finally asked, removing the apron from her head and gazing up at him with a stricken face in which there was little curiosity.
I dont know anywhere.
As he spoke, the tree across the street appeared with dazzling brightness on his inner vision. It seemed to lurk just under his eyelids, and he could see it whenever he wished.
An your job? she quavered.
I aint never goin to work again.
My God, Johnny! she wailed, dont say that!
What he had said was blasphemy to her. As a mother who hears her child deny God, was Johnnys mother shocked by his words.
Whats got into you, anyway? she demanded, with a lame attempt at imperativeness.
Figures, he answered. Jes figures. Ive ben doin a lot of figurin this week, an its most surprisin.
I dont see what thats got to do with it, she sniffled.
Johnny smiled patiently, and his mother was aware of a distinct shock at the persistent absence of his peevishness and irritability.
Ill show you, he said. Im plum tired out. What makes me tired? Moves. Ive ben movin ever since I was born. Im tired of movin, an I aint goin to move any more. Remember when I worked in the glass-house? I used to do three hundred dozen a day. Now I reckon I made about ten different moves to each bottle. Thats thirty-six thousan moves a day. Ten days, three hundred an sixty thousan moves. One month, one million an eighty thousan moves. Chuck out the eighty thousan he spoke with the complacent beneficence of a philanthropist chuck out the eighty thousan, that leaves a million moves a month twelve million moves a year.
At the looms Im movin twicst as much. That makes twenty-five million moves a year, an it seems to me Ive ben a movin that way most a million years.
Now this week I aint moved at all. I aint made one move in hours an hours. I tell you it was swell, jes settin there, hours an hours, an doin nothin. I aint never ben happy before. I never had any time. Ive ben movin all the time. That aint no way to be happy. An I aint going to do it any more. Im jes goin to set, an set, an rest, an rest, and then rest some more.
But whats goin to come of Will an the children? she asked despairingly.
Thats it, Will an the children, he repeated.
But there was no bitterness in his voice. He had long known his mothers ambition for the younger boy, but the thought of it no longer rankled. Nothing mattered any more. Not even that.
I know, ma, what youve ben plannin for Will keepin him in school to make a book-keeper out of him. But it aint no use, Ive quit. Hes got to go to work.
An after I have brung you up the way I have, she wept, starting to cover her head with the apron and changing her mind.
You never brung me up, he answered with sad kindliness. I brung myself up, ma, an I brung up Will. Hes biggern me, an heavier, an taller. When I was a kid, I reckon I didnt git enough to eat. When he come along an was a kid, I was workin an earnin grub for him too. But thats done with. Will can go to work, same as me, or he can go to hell, I dont care which. Im tired. Im goin now. Aint you goin to say goodbye?
She made no reply. The apron had gone over her head again, and she was crying. He paused a moment in the doorway.
Im sure I done the best I knew how, she was sobbing.
He passed out of the house and down the street. A wan delight came into his face at the sight of the lone tree. Jes aint goin to do nothin, he said to himself, half aloud, in a crooning tone. He glanced wistfully up at the sky, but the bright sun dazzled and blinded him.
It was a long walk he took, and he did not walk fast. It took him past the jute-mill. The muffled roar of the loom room came to his ears, and he smiled. It was a gentle, placid smile. He hated no one, not even the pounding, shrieking machines. There was no bitterness in him, nothing but an inordinate hunger for rest.