Anti-Life

           JamesTaggartreachedintothepocketofhisdinnerjacket,pulledoutthefirstwadofpaperhefound,whichwasahundred-dollarbill,anddroppeditintothebeggar’shand.

           Henoticedthatthebeggarpocketedthemoneyinamannerasindifferentashisown.

           "Thanks,bud,"saidthebeggarcontemptuously,andwalkedaway.

           JamesTaggartremainedstillinthemiddleofthesidewalk,wonderingwhatgavehimasenseofshockanddread.Itwasnottheman’sinsolence—hehadnotsoughtanygratitude,hehadnotbeenmovedbypity,hisgesturehadbeenautomaticandmeaningless.Itwasthatthebeggaractedasifhewouldhavebeenindifferenthadhereceivedahundreddollarsoradimeor,failingtofindanyhelpwhatever,hadseenhimselfdyingofstarvationwithinthisnight.Taggartshudderedandwalkedbrusquelyon,theshudderservingtocutofftherealizationthatthebeggar’smoodmatchedhisown.

           Thewallsofthestreetaroundhimhadthestressed,unnaturalclarityofasummertwilight,whileanorangehazefilledthechannelsofintersectionsandveiledthetiersofroofs,leavinghimonashrinkingremnantofground.Thecalendarintheskyseemedtostandinsistentlyoutofthehaze,yellowlikeapageofoldparchment,saying:August5.No—hethought,inanswertothingshehadnotnamed—itwasnottrue,hefeltfine,that’swhyhewantedtodosomethingtonight.