A Death In The Family (5 page)

“Don’t stuff, Jay,” she said after a silence.

“Hm?”

“Don’t eat more than you’ve appetite for.”

He had thought his imitation of good appetite was successful. “Don’t worry,” he said, spearing some more.

There wasn’t much to finish. She looked at him tenderly when he glanced down to see, and said nothing more about it.

“
Mnh
,” he said, leaning back.

Now there was nothing to take their eyes from each other; and still, for some reason, they had nothing to say. They were not disturbed by this, but both felt almost the shyness of courtship. Each continued to look into the other’s tired eyes, and their tired eyes sparkled, but not with realizations which reached their hearts very distinctly.

“What would you like to do for your birthday?” he asked.

“Why, Jay.” She was taken very much by surprise. “Why you nice thing! Why—why ...”

“You think it over,” he said. “Whatever you’d like best—within reason, of course,” he joked. “I’ll see we manage it. The children, I mean.” They both remembered at the same time. He said, “That is, of course, if everything goes the way we hope it will, up home.”

“Of course, Jay.” Her eyes lost focus for a moment. “Let’s hope it will,” she said, in a peculiarly abstracted voice.

He watched her. That occasional loss of focus always mystified him and faintly disturbed him. Women, he guessed.

She came back into this world and again they looked at each other. Of course, in a way, they both reflected, there isn’t anything to say, or need for us to say it, anyhow.

He took a slow, deep breath and let it out as slowly.

“Well, Mary,” he said in his gentlest voice. He took her hand. They smiled very seriously, thinking of his father and of each other, and both knew in their hearts, as they had known in their minds, that there was no need to say anything.

They got up.

Now where—
ahh
,” he said in deep annoyance.

“Coat n vest,” he said, starting for the stairs.

“You wait,” she said, passing him swiftly. “Fraid you’d wake the children,” she whispered over her shoulder.

While she was gone he went into the sitting room, turned on one light, and picked up his pipe and tobacco. In the single quiet light in the enormous quietude of the night, all the little objects in the room looked golden brown and curiously gentle. He was touched, without knowing why.

Home.

He snapped off the light.

She was a little slow coming down; seeing if they’re covered, he thought. He stood by the stove, idly watching the flexions of the dark and light squares in the linoleum. He was glad he’d gotten it down, at last. And Mary had been right. The plain black and white did look better than colors and fancy patterns.

He heard her on the stairs. Sure enough, first thing she said when she came in was, “You know, I was almost tempted to wake them. I suppose I’m silly but they’re so used to—I’m afraid they’re going to be very disappointed you didn’t tell them good-bye.”

“Good night! Really?” He hardly knew whether he was pleased or displeased. Were they getting spoilt maybe?

“I may be mistaken, of course.”

“Be silly to wake em up. You might not get to sleep rest of the night.”

He buttoned his vest.

“I wouldn’t think of it, except: well” (she was reluctant to remind him), “if worst comes to worst, Jay, you might be gone longer than we hope.”

“That’s perfectly true,” he said, gravely. This whole sudden errand was so uncertain, so ambiguous that it was hard for either of them to hold a focused state of mind about it. He thought again of his father.

“You think praps I should?”

“Let me think.”

“N-no,” he said slowly; “I don’t reckon. No. You see, even, well even at the worst I’d be coming back to take you-all up. Funeral I mean. And these heart things, they’re generally decided pretty fast. Chances are very good, either way, I’ll be back tomorrow night. That’s tonight, I mean.”

“Yes, I see. Yes.”

“Tell you what. Tell them, don’t promise them or anything of course, but tell them I’m practicly sure to be back before they’re asleep. Tell them I’ll do my best.” He got into his coat.

“All right, Jay.”

“Yes. That’s sensible.” She reached so suddenly at his heart that by reflex he backed away; the eyes of both were startled and disturbed. With a frowning smile she teased him: “Don’t be
frightened
, little Timid Soul; it’s only a clean handkerchief and couldn’t possibly hurt you.”

“I’m sorry,” he laughed, “I just didn’t know what you were up to.” He pulled in his chin, frowning slightly, as he watched her take out the crumpled handkerchief and arrange the fresh one. Being fussed over embarrassed him; he was still more sharply embarrassed by the discreet white corner his wife took care to leave peeping from the pocket. His hand moved instinctively; he caught himself in time and put his hand in his pocket.

“There. You look very nice,” she said, studying him earnestly, as if he were her son. He felt rather foolish, tender towards her innocence of this motherliness, and quite flattered. He felt for a moment rather vainly sure that he did indeed look very nice, to her anyhow, and that was all he cared about.

“Well,” he said, taking out his watch. “Good Lord a mercy!” He showed her. Three-forty-one. “I didn’t think it was hardly three.”

“Oh yes. It’s very late.”

“Well, no more dawdling.” He put an arm around her shoulder and they walked to the back door. “All right, Mary. I hate to go, but—can’t be avoided.”

She opened the door and led him through, to the back porch. “You’ll catch cold,” he said. She shook her head. “No. It feels milder outside than in.”

They walked to the edge of the porch. The moistures of May drowned all save the most ardent stars, and gave back to the earth the sublimated light of the prostrate city. Deep in the end of the back yard, the blossoming peach tree shone like a celestial sentinel. The fecund air lavished upon their faces the tenderness of lovers’ adoring hands, the dissolving fragrance of the opened world, which slept against the sky.

“What a heavenly night, Jay,” she said in the voice which was dearest to him. “I almost wish I could come with you”—she remembered more clearly “—in whatever happens.”

“I wish you could, dear,” he said, though his mind had not been on such a possibility; frankly, he had suddenly looked forward to the solitary drive. But now the peculiar quality of her voice reached him and he said, with love, “I wish you could.”

They stood bemused by the darkness.

“Well, Jay,” she said abruptly, “I mustn’t keep you.”

He was silent a moment. “hope,” he said, a curious, weary sadness in his voice. “Time to go.”

He took her in his arms, leaning back to look at her. It was not really anything of a separation, yet he was surprised to find that it seemed to him a grave one, perhaps because his business was grave, or because of the solemn hour. He saw this in her face as well, and almost wished they had waked the children after all.

“Good-bye, Mary,” he said.

“Good-bye, Jay.”

They kissed, and her head settled for a moment against him. He stroked her hair. “I’ll let you know,” he said, “quick as I can, if it’s serious.”

“I pray it won’t be, Jay.”

“Well, we can only hope.” The moment of full tenderness between them was dissolved in their thought, but he continued gently to stroke the round back of her head.

“Give all my love to your mother. Tell her they’re both in my thoughts and wishes—constantly. And your father, of course, if he’s—well enough to talk to.”

“Sure, dear.”

“And take care of yourself.”

“Sure.”

He patted her back and they parted.

“Then I’ll hear from you—see you—very soon.”

“That’s right.”

“All right, Jay.” She squeezed his arm. He kissed her, just beneath the eye, and realized her disappointed lips; they smiled, and he kissed her heartily on the mouth. In a glimmer of gaiety, both were on the verge of parting with their customary morning farewell, she singing, “Good-bye John, don’t stay long,” he singing back, “I’ll be back in a week or two,” but both thought better of it.

“All right, dear. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, my dear.”

He turned abruptly at the bottom of the steps. “Hey,” he whispered. “How’s your money?”

She thought rapidly. “All right, thank you.”

“Tell the children good-bye for me. Tell them I’ll see them tonight.”

“I better not promise that, had I?”

“No, but probably. And Mary: I hope I can make supper, but don’t wait it.”

“All right.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.” He walked back towards the bam. In the middle of the yard he turned and whispered loudly, “And you think it over about your birthday.”

“Thank you, Jay. All right. Thank you.”

She could hear him walking as quietly as possible on the cinders. He silently lifted and set aside the bar of the door, and opened the door, taking care to be quiet. The first leaf squealed; the second, which was usually worse, was perfectly still. Stepping to the left of the car, and assuming the serious position of stealth which the narrowness of the garage made necessary, he disappeared into the absolute darkness.

She knew he would try not to wake the neighbors and the children; and that it was impossible to start the auto quietly. She waited with sympathy and amusement, and with habituated dread of his fury and of the profanity she was sure would ensue, spoken or unspoken.

Uhgh
—hy uh yu hy why uhy uh: wheek-uh-wheek-uh:

Ughh
—hy wh yuh: wheek:

(now the nearly noiseless, desperate adjustments of spark and throttle and choke)

Ughgh
—hyuh yuhyuh wheek yuh yuh wheek wheek wheek yuh yuhyuh: wheek:

(which she never understood and, from where she stayed now, could predict so well)

Ughgh—Ughgh
—yuhyuh
Ugh
wheek yuh yuh
Ughgh
yuh wheek wheek yuhyuh: wheek wheek: uh:

(like a hideous, horribly constipated great brute of a beast: like a lunatic sobbing: like a mouse being tortured):

Ughgh—Ughgh—Ughgh
(Poor thing, he must be simply furious)
Ughgh
—wheek—
Whughugh
yuh—
Ughwhee
kyuh
uughgyugh
yuhyuhy a a a a a a a h h h h h h R h R h R H R H R H (oh,
stop
it!) R H R H (a window went up) R H R H R H R H R H R yuhyhhRRHRHRHRHRHRHRHRHRHRH (the door smacked to in rage and triumph) RhRhRh - - - - - - - - (the window went down) RHRHRHRHRH (the machine backed out; crackling on the cinders). RHRH - - - - - (he wrenched it rudely but adroitly in a backward curve, almost to the chicken wire; from between the houses, light from the street caught its black side) rhrh - - - - (and swung as rudely round the corner of the barn and, by opposite turn, into the alley, facing eastward, where it stood) rhrh - - - - - - - - (obedient, conquered, malicious as a mule, while he briefly reappeared, faced towards the house, saw her, waved one hand—she waved, but he did not see her—and drew the gate shut, disappearing beyond it) rhrhrhrhrhrhrhRHRHRHRHRHRHR

H

   R

     H

       R

        H

          rh

          rh

          rh

          rh

          rh

          rh

          rh

          rh

        rh

      rh

      rh

        rh

C utta wawwwwk:

                   Craaawwrk?

                             Chiquawkwawh.

                                                      Wrrawkuhkuhkuh.

                                                                   Craarrawwk.

                                                                           rwrwrk?

                                                                                     yrk.

                                                                                         rk:

She released a long breath, very slowly, and went into. the house.

There was her milk, untouched, forgotten, barely tepid. She drank it down, without pleasure; all its whiteness, draining from the stringing wet whiteness of the empty cup, was singularly repugnant. She decided to leave things until morning, ran water over the dishes, and left them in the sink.

If the children had heard so much as a sound, they didn’t show it now. Catherine, as always, was absolutely drowned in sleep, and both of them, as always, were absolutely drowned.

Really, they are too big for that, she thought. Rufus certainly. She carefully readjusted their covers, against catching cold. They scarcely stirred.

I ought to ask a doctor.

She saw the freshened bed. Why, the
dear
, she thought, smiling, and got in. She was never to realize his intention of holding the warmth in for her; for that had sometime since departed from the bed.

Chapter 3

He imagined that by about now she would about be getting back and finding the bed. He smiled to think of her finding it.

He drove down Forest, across the viaduct, past the smoldering depot, and cut sharply left beneath the asylum and steeply downhill. The L&N yards lay along his left, faint skeins of steel, blocked shadows, little spumes of steam; he saw and heard the flickering shift of a signal, but he could no longer remember what that one meant. Along his right were dark vacant lots, pale billboards, the darker blocks of small sleeping buildings, an occasional light. He would have eaten in one of these places, small, weakly lighted holes-in-the-wall, opaque with the smoke of overheated lard, some for Negroes, some for whites, which served railroad men and the unexplainable nighthawks you found in any fair-sized town. You never saw a woman there, except sometimes behind a counter or sweating over a stove. He never used to talk when he went to them, but he enjoyed the feeling of conspiracy, and the sound of voices. If you went to the right ones, and if you were known, or looked like you could be trusted, you could get a shot or two of liquor, any hour of the night.