The Sound of Thunder

  “And now, our Margaret,” said Maria, calmly, turning to her daughter-in-law. Her early training had taught her that difficult situations could best be managed by ignoring the difficulty. “Edward has left her for a day or two under my care,” and she smiled briefly at Margaret.

  David crossed the floor and held out his hand to Margaret and she took it. He pressed her hand. It was kind and comforting. He smiled down at her and said, “It’s been a long time since we saw each other, Margaret. I’m glad I’m here now.”

  His dark eyes were still restless but not so restless as she remembered. Nor were they embarrassed. They expressed his love for her, but it was a gentled love, and an accepting one.

  “I will ring for some more coffee and cakes,” said Maria. David sat down near Margaret and asked, “And how are you, Margaret?”

  “Very well, David,” she answered. It was so natural for him to be here, and she felt an immense relief. She was grateful for his tact and his casualness. But then everything David did had the touch of the soigné about it; it was impossible for him to be either awkward or crude. She settled her tightened body back in her chair and returned his smile. He was studying her with a penetrating look, open and friendly, and she did not know that he was suffering.

  “I thought I’d surprise everybody,” he said. “I can only stay two days, because I’ve an engagement in Philadelphia. You say Ed is out of town?”

  “Yes, in Cleveland,” said Margaret. “He’ll be back day after tomorrow. You’ll see him, won’t you?” Because of David’s infinite tact, she could speak naturally of her husband.

  He said, with real or assumed regret, “No, I’m afraid not. I’m leaving tomorrow night. Why, I haven’t seen old Ed for almost a year! But I’ll be back by the end of March for a week.” His face did not change as he spoke of his brother. It remained intent and kind. If his eyes retreated behind his eyelids, it was so quickly that Margaret did not catch the flicker.

  He turned to his mother and gave her an amusing resume of his concerts. Yes, he had received some very good reviews. Of course concert pianists were a specialized breed and did not, as a rule, draw anyone except those with a real interest in classical music or an assumed one. “I think,” he said, “that the pretenders are in the majority.” He spoke without cynicism or bitterness. “Usually they’re the nouveau riche who want to impress their new friends. They have all the jargon down very pat. I’ve learned not to ask searching questions when I’m invited to dinner at some mansion, obviously new, after a recital.”

  “Then what do you speak of?” asked Maria, interested.

  “I take the embarrassment out of the situation by immediately beginning to admire some objet d’art on the premises. That takes their uncomfortable minds off me. I’ve found that the best way to be a good conversationalist, and popular, is just to ask questions. You don’t even have to listen to the answers.”

  Again there was no cynicism in his voice, but only indulgence. The once intolerant David, through his own grief and despair, had learned to look at others with a large measure of compassion, even fools and rascals. He’s good, he’s kind, he’s a gentleman, thought Margaret, and began to enjoy his company as she could not remember having enjoyed it before. Ed was wrong about him, she said to herself, not in the least shocked by this treachery. I must tell him about David. He’s the only one in the family who has real character and depth. Still, she caught herself quickly, he also exploits Ed. She frowned a little, uneasily, unable to reconcile her two emotions.

  David talked almost exclusively to his mother, contenting himself by smiling at Margaret frequently, as he made a point. His thin arm, in its black sleeve, was very near her. She could see the prominent veins on his narrow hand, the long and sensitive fingers, the ring, set with an emerald, on the third finger. Though in good taste, it was an expensive ring, she saw. If David could afford such an article, then he had no right to take money from his brother, with or without David’s knowledge that he was being subsidized. I really must speak to Ed, thought Margaret, annoyed, and this time her thought was not touched with kindness for David.

  Then her musings vanished as a pain, like a pounding wave, struck her back once more and circled her body. She gasped, then compressed her mouth and lowered her head. David and his mother, talking animatedly, did not see her wince and shudder. Her forehead started with drops of water.

  Pierre came in again to light the lamps and replenish the fire with large lumps of cannel coal. The fire spluttered and turned a brighter red. Night stood at the windows. Margaret clutched the arms of her chair and cried in terror in herself, Ed! Ed! But Edward was on a train, nearing Cleveland now. I’m afraid, she thought. I’m awfully afraid; something is going to happen. I suppose we could reach him at a station, with a telegram. But perhaps it’s too late for that. Or at his hotel when he arrives. No, no, I mustn’t worry him. I need him, but I mustn’t worry him! His voice—it was so strained and stifled this afternoon. Something is wrong, very wrong. And after all, it won’t be for a month or six weeks; the doctor said. This is just part of the whole thing; I can’t start to scream and be foolish.

  The door flew open, violently, and Sylvia, with her everlasting lacy white shawl over her crimson wool frock, stood upon the threshold. She looked wild and breathless, and her black eyes were gleaming with rage and affront. She cried out in a furious voice. “You came home, Dave, but you never thought of seeing me or asking about me! Oh, no! I’m not important enough to my brother! I had to find out you were here through that damned old Pierre, who mentioned it casually when he brought my tea!”

  “Sylvia,” said Maria, coldly. But David rose slowly and went to his sister. She stopped him halfway with a gesture which resembled the savage wielding of a steel whip. “Never mind, Dave. Just forget me, that’s all. Poor old Sylvia, the old maid, shut up in her room.” She laughed with sudden shrill scorn. “There’re other people here more important to you.” Her eyes flicked on Margaret, cowering in bemused pain in her chair.

  “Sylvia,” said Maria again, and this time her daughter heard and was silent, only gazing at Margaret with steady loathing and repudiation. Her emaciated body shook with passion. Even David had never seen her so aroused, so wild. He said, “I’m sorry, Sylvia. I did ask about you immediately. But Pierre said you weren’t well and were resting, and I thought I’d wait until later.” He was greatly alarmed. He had guessed that his family was not cordial to Margaret, for his sake, and because she was Edward’s wife, but he had not expected such hatred, such rageful rejection, even from his sister. He was extremely concerned for Margaret.

  Sylvia drew an audible breath; it was almost a hiss. She dared not attack her mother or Margaret now. So she attacked David, and acid tears spurted into her eyes.

  “Always so tactful, aren’t you, Dave?” Her voice was taut and thin. “Always ready with the smooth explanation and excuse.” But even in her passion she saw how worn and haggard he was and she was struck with grief and fresh rage against Margaret. Her voice changed and shook when she had swallowed with difficulty and she could speak again. “But some people aren’t worth your kindness, Dave, believe me. Some people are low and detestable and coarse and cheap. You shouldn’t waste yourself on them, Dave!”

  “I meet all kinds of people in my profession and travels,” said David, quietly, still hoping to save the situation which even his mother did not seem able to control. “Would you want me to insult them or treat them with contempt?”

  “Yes, yes!” cried Sylvia. “Yes, yes! That’s all they deserve!”

  Her voice broke in a sob, and she stood with her hands clenched at her sides, and looked only at Margaret, whose face was very pale and remote and whose head had fallen forward.

  “Then,” said David, with a painful smile, “I’d soon have no engagements, Sylvia. Suppose we go to your room and have a little talk, alone together?”

  She started back from him, and her white and angular face gleamed like bone in the lamplight. “Oh, no, Dav
e! I wouldn’t deprive you of your wonderful company—”

  Maria stood up massively. “I think we should leave Margaret alone to rest until dinner,” she said. “Come, Sylvia. I believe it is time for your tonic.”

  “Rest, rest!” exclaimed Sylvia, hysterically. “There’s nothing but damned rest in this accursed house! Pa rests; Sylvia rests; Ma rests. And she—” Her eyes were a fierce blaze on Margaret, an annihilating blaze. Her face became contorted, and the delicate lavender veins at her temples stood out.

  Why, thought David, his consternation increasing, she acts as if she’s out of her mind. She’s lost all sense of decency. It isn’t all just because of me, either. It’s something deeper than that. He had known grief and despair as old acquaintances this past year, and he saw that they were also haunters of his sister. But why this was so he could not imagine. Sylvia had never mentioned, in her letters to him, any man she had met or known except Padraig Devoe, and then only in passing. She had stopped mentioning him when he had married that actress.

  “It is time for your tonic,” said Maria inexorably, and took her daughter’s bony elbow firmly in her hand. “Also, there is something I wish to discuss with you, Sylvia. You are certainly not well.”

  Sylvia snatched her arm from her mother’s grasp, tried to speak, then burst into a storm of weeping. She covered her face with her hands. David stood by helplessly, profoundly shocked and grieved and bewildered.

  Shameful, shameful, thought Maria, with no pity at all. It is a plebeian’s outbreak, without reticence or pride. I cannot imagine any of my cousins or nephews or nieces losing self-control like this and forgetting themselves. She was full of umbrage and disdain for Sylvia. “You are a fool,” she said in a hard, low tone. “You are not a lady.” But Sylvia did not hear; she was lost in her agony and her sorrow and hatred, the tears splashing through her fingers.

  David gave his mother a quelling glance, an appealing glance, and put his arm about his sister. His one desire was to remove her from this room, and the sight of Margaret, and the knowledge of Margaret. “All right, dear,” he said gently. “Come into your room with me and we’ll talk it over. Dear Sylvie,” he added, using his childhood nickname for her, in a last appeal.

  Sylvia heard, dropped her hands from her ravished face, and leaned against her brother. “Oh, Dave,” she said brokenly. “You don’t know, you don’t know. Dave, I can’t stand it. Dave, I’ll lose my mind.”

  Maria understood, but still a lady, an aristocrat, did not break under any sorrow or stress, except when alone. “I am afraid you do not have any mind,” she said with controlled harshness. “Or any manners. Go with your brother, Sylvia.”

  She ventured a look at Margaret’s chair near the fire. But it was empty. Maria nodded her head with approval. A lady always removed herself from a shameless situation which she could not accept. Margaret had retired to her bedroom, and that was correct.

  Then, even above Sylvia’s incoherent weeping, Maria heard a faint and agonized wailing, which dwindled almost immediately into silence as though a hand had been put forcefully over a tortured mouth. Forgetting even her daughter, Maria lumbered quickly to Margaret’s bedroom. Margaret was crouching on her bed like an animal, on her hands and knees, her head fallen between her stiffened arms. She did not look up as Maria closed the door. Drops of water dripped from her face, and her lower lip was caught between her teeth. A sudden spasm seized her, and her whole body shook as if a wave had struck it with powerful force. But she did not utter a sound now.

  “So,” said Maria, softly, “it has come. Do not be afraid. We must send for the doctor at once.”

  The wave of torment receded, and Margaret dropped on her side like a felled deer. Her face was glazed and blank, her eyes sightless. Maria rang for a maid.

  “We must be calm,” said Maria, who was terribly concerned. The children would be premature; it was possible they would die. “We must find Edward and bring him home.”

  Margaret said, and her voice was almost normal, “No. I must go through this alone. It would worry him—”

  “It is his duty to be worried,” said Maria. But Margaret suddenly took her hand in a wet grip, and her eyes became alive once more. “No. He’s almost in Cleveland now. And there’s no train back here tonight. I know. So he’d be in misery all night, until tomorrow, at noon, when there is a train.” Her voice was weak and yet firm. “Don’t send him a telegram—until it’s all over. I can’t worry him; it wouldn’t do any good, you see.”

  She was in enormous and relentless pain, even though the onslaught of the excruciating wave had receded. She tried to smile up into Maria’s sober face. “After all,” she said, “other women have children when their husbands are away. So I’ll have these.”

  A maid came in and Maria briefly told her to call Margaret’s doctor. After the girl had left on swift feet, Maria said, “We must get undressed and comfortable in bed.” She approved of Margaret more and more; there was character here, and fortitude, and consideration for others. She could see the anguish in those strained blue eyes, yet Margaret was not crying or screaming. She even assisted Maria in her own undressing. Once, when her petticoat tangled about her knees, she could even laugh.

  The maid, frightened and inquisitive, returned to say that the doctor could not be reached for at least four hours and that a message had been left for him. Maria hid her alarm. “It will not be for some time,” she said to Margaret, who now lay on her pillows spent and quiet. “The first is always long delayed.”

  “Yes,” said Margaret, as if from experience. She was bracing herself against a new onslaught of the wave. She thought she could actually see the distant wave against a black horizon, and it was crested with threatening agony as red as blood. In a moment it would strike her, and she cringed in expectation. She turned her head into her pillow and caught the white slip between her teeth. Then the wave struck, and she writhed in silent and inhuman suffering. She watched the wave recede, behind her closed eyes; it went back, thundering, and she lay on some beach in the darkness, wounded and broken.

  Hands were touching expertly, but she did not feel them. Even when she opened her eyes, she could hardly see. The room had tilted drunkenly; everything was too bright but too out of focus, like a nightmare. There was the taste of salt in her mouth; she did not know that her lip was bleeding. There was a tremendous bloated face bent over her, and she did not recognize Maria. A bubbling sound rose in her throat, and she did not know.

  She was not conscious that David had just come into her bedroom. “I heard from the maid,” David said in a low voice to his mother. “Is it very bad?”

  “Very bad,” replied Maria, straightening the silken quilt over Margaret’s collapsed body. “She is practically unconscious, the poor child.” With a tenderness she had never shown her own children, she smoothed Margaret’s disordered hair and touched the wet cheek. She could hardly endure the glazed stare fixed on the ceiling. “I do not like this,” said Maria. “A few moments ago she was aware and talking with me. And now she is not aware of anything except her pain. Her doctor has told her that she would be in great danger, that she might lose not only her children but her own life.”

  Dave uttered an exclamation. “Oh, no,” he said feebly. He sat down beside Margaret and took the soft, flaccid hand. “Does Ed know?”

  “No. She would not tell him. She is a lady of much character,” said Maria. “Where is Sylvia?”

  Dave gave a short, miserable laugh. “Crying on her bed. But what are we going to do about Margaret?”

  He did not hear his mother answer. Margaret was gripping his hand fiercely, and her body was slowly arching. Her stark face became livid; her staring eyes darkened. She uttered a long deep moaning, which, to David, was unendurable. Margaret’s whitening fingernails sank into his fingers, and he did not feel their piercing. He forgot that his mother was present. He said clearly, “Margaret. Margaret, my darling. I’m here. Margaret.”

  He bent his head over her and kissed
her forehead, and then pressed his cheek against hers. Her moaning faded away; she was still, as if listening. But her body quivered under the quilt. After a moment or two, she whispered, “Yes. Yes, dear.”

  She spoke like an exhausted child, out of her half-delirium. Her bright hair was a fan about her face, which was so suddenly small and dwindled and of such a frightening color. The blueness of her eyes gleamed from between her half-closed gilt eyelashes.

  “We must have another doctor. We cannot wait,” said Maria, and she rang the bell again. Her heart was hurting intolerably; she could not remember when she had last felt this sting of tears along her eyelids. She looked at the sleek narrowness of her son’s bent head, at his absorbed and passionate face, at the hand that held Margaret’s in a reassuring grip. “Ed, Ed,” whispered Margaret, and David replied with confident love, “Yes. I’m here. I won’t go away.”

  Maria averted her head, and her big chin quivered beyond her control. She started when she saw that Sylvia stood in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, without kindness. She noticed, with abstraction, that Sylvia was no longer wearing her shawl. The girl was looking, as if with fascination, at Margaret and David. She said dully, “The maid just told me. I—” She stopped and drew nearer the bed, wrapping her thin arms about her breast and shoulders. “Oh, my God,” she murmured. “She looks very ill. Dying.” Her own face, in the lamplight, had changed subtly.

  “Do not be so sure,” said Maria, with coldness. Sylvia turned her head to her mother, and the tilted eyes widened in astonishment.