The Reckoning | Page 3

(Shaving.) By the way, sir, haven't you recognized me yet?
THE CUSTOMER. Recognized you?
THE BARBER. Oh, I see. You thought I was just a lunatic. Well, I'm not. Look at me. Look at me closely.
THE CUSTOMER. I don't know you!
THE BARBER. No? Well, just say to yourself, "Twelve years ago this man's hair was not so gray. Twelve years ago this man's face didn't show so many lines of care. Twelve years ago this man lived--well, in a little town near Savannah, and--"
THE CUSTOMER. (Beginning to recognize him) You-you can't be--
THE BARBER. Say it.
THE CUSTOMER. Kilburn!
THE BARBER. Yes, Kilburn!
THE CUSTOMER. (Hoarsely) And you followed me about!
THE BARBER. For twelve years!
THF CUSTOMER. From town to town!
THE BARBER. I was never more than a week behind you.
THE CUSTOMER. (With unutterable horror) Good God!
THE BARBER. Yes, God. I used to think of Him a great deal, John. I used to ask Him why He never brought you into my shop.
THE CUSTOMER. Oh! Oh!
THE BARBER. But He brought you here at last, John! He brought you here at last! (He pauses.) For twelve mortal years I've been hoping for this day! Once, in Muscatine, you came in, but there was another man in the chair, and you wouldn't wait. Once, in Louisville, you crossed my threshold, looked at your watch, and walked out again. But sooner or later, John, I knew you'd walk into my shop, and sit down in my chair! That day has come! (He looks into his eyes.) You and I, John, the two of us, have a long account to settle, haven't we? I've been one of your creditors, too! And this is the reckoning, John! You're going to pay me--pay me in full--and you're going to pay me now!
THE CUSTOMER. What are you going to do?
THE BARBER. That's a hard question, John. I'd be justified in cutting your throat, wouldn't I?
THE CUSTOMER. It would be murder!
THE BARBER. Ugly word, isn't it?
THE CUSTOMER. Murder in the first degree!
THE BARBER. Oh, of course!
THE CUSTOMER. They'd get you as sure as fate!
THE BARBER. I wouldn't run away.
THE CUSTOMER. But, Kilburn, think what you are doing!
THE BARBER. I've been thinking about it for twelve years, John.
THE CUSTOMER. I'm on my back, helpless!
THE BARBER. You'd run if I let you up.
THE CUSTOMER. But give me a chance! Kilburn, give me--
THE BARBER. (Interrupting) No, John, you get no chance. You gave Jennie none. (He pauses.) She was just eighteen when you came to our town. She was only a child, John, only a child. Her mother was dead. I was all she had--and she was all I had. And I was trying to bring her up right--to make her the same kind of a woman her mother had been, if you know what that means.
THE CUSTOMER. I didn't--
THE BARBER. Don't tell me what you did and what you didn't! She loved you--and--and I trusted you. You were going to get married. You took her away with you--and you didn't marry her! Marriage? Why, you never thought of it! You couldn't get her any other way --you wanted her--and you got her! You didn't care about me, and you didn't care about her. She was a toy. She amused you, and when you were through with her, you flung her into the gutter! It makes me sick to think of it! (He goes on more quietly.) She came home six months later. How she got back all the way from where you'd taken her, I don't know--and I don't like to guess. And then-then--
THE CUSTOMER. I'll marry her now, Kilburn.
THE BARBER. You'll have to ask her about that.
THE CUSTOMER. (Eagerly) Well?
THE BARBER. In two minutes you'll be able to ask her.
THE CUSTOMER. What do you mean?
THE BARBER. She's dead, John--dead.
(THE CUSTOMER groans. Then, suddenly, he tries to rise. THE BARBER places his hand over his forehead and eyes, and forces him back into the chair.)
THE BARBER. Thirty seconds for your prayers, John!
THE CUSTOMER. Don't kill me, man! Don't kill me! I'm not fit to die! I'm not ready! A minute! Two minutes! I'm too young! Don't kill--
(THE BARBER, still with his hand upon the other man's eyes, suddenly seizes a wet towel and strikes him across the throat with it. THE CUSTOMER faints. THE BARBER looks at him contemptuously; abruptly raises the chair to a sitting position; puts away the razor.)
THE BARBER. So your nerve gave way, John? Your nerve gave way? (He spreads the towel over THE CUSTOMER's face and roughly wipes away the lather.)
THE CUSTOMER. (Beginning to come to; faintly) Where am I?
THE BARBER. You ought to be in hell, but I guess you're still on God's good earth.
THE CUSTOMER. (Putting his hand to his throat) You--you didn't kill me?
THE BARBER. No. I didn't.
THE CUSTOMER. (Standing up) And you could have!
THE BARBER. John, when you're