Suttree

by Cormac McCarthy

A thin and fragrant arm descended on Suttree’s shoulder in a taffeta whisper, a cufflink coined from a bicycle reflector. An African mask in meretricious harlequinade and ivory teeth beset with gold. Hey baby, where you been so long? Hello John. Just around. I been out of town myself. Where’ve you been? I’s in Lexington. I seen James Herndon. Sweet Evenin Breeze. She just beautiful, for her age. Who’s the oldest? Oldest what? You or her. Him. It. Hush. That thing is sixty. How old are you, John? Trippin Through The Dew ignored the question. He said: You know what they goin to put in the paper when she die? Big headlines. What’s that. They done got it all ready. Sweet Evenin Breeze Blows No More. Suttree grinned. The invert was bent double holding himself, his face squinched. He whinnied like a she horse. What are they going to say about you John? Sheeit. I aint goin to die. Maybe not, said Suttree.