A Death in the Family

  “Very sensible,” she said, dubiously.

  “Damned sensible,” he said with conviction. “She’s just trying her best to hold herself together,” he explained.

  Catherine turned her head in courteous inquiry.

  “Trying—to hold—herself—together!”

  She winced. “Don’t—shout at me, Joel. Just speak distinctly and I can hear you.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said; he knew she had not heard. He leaned close to her ear. “I’m sorry,” he said again, carefully and not too loudly. “Jumpy, that’s all.”

  “No matter,” she said in that level of her voice which was already old.

  He watched her a moment, and sighed with sorrow for her, and said, “We’ll know before long.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I presume.” She relaxed her hands in her sewing and gazed out across the shadowy room.

  It became mere useless torment to watch her; he went back to The New Republic.

  “I wonder how it happened,” she said, after a while.

  He leaned towards her: “So do I.”

  “There must have been others injured, as well.”

  Again he leaned towards her. “Maybe. We don’t know.”

  “Even killed, perhaps.”

  “We don’t—know, Catherine.”

  “No.”

  Jay drives like hell broken loose, Joel thought to himself; he decided not to say it. Whatever’s happened, he thought, one thing he doesn’t need is that kind of talk about him. Or even thinking.

  He began to realize, with a kind of sardonic amusement, that he was being superstitious as well as merely courteous. Why I don’t want to go up till we hear, too, he said to himself. Hands off. Lap of the gods. Don’t rock the boat.

  Particularly not a wrecked boat.

  “Of course, it does seem to me, Jay drives rather recklessly,” Catherine said, carefully.

  “Everybody does,” he told her. Rather, indeed!

  “I remember I was most uneasy when they decided to purchase it.”

  Well, you’re vindicated.

  “Progress,” he told her.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Progress. We mustn’t—stand—in the way—of Progress.”

  “No,” she said uneasily, “I suppose not.”

  Good—God, woman!

  “That’s a joke, Catherine, a very—poor—joke.”

  Oh.

  “I don’t think it’s a time for levity, Joel.”

  “Nor do I.”

  She tilted her head courteously. Taking care not to yell, he said, “You’re right. Neither—do—I.”

  She nodded.

  Working his way through another editorial as through barbed wire, Joel thought: I had no business calling her. Why couldn’t I trust her to let me know, quick’s she heard. Hannah, anyhow.

  He pushed ahead with his reading.

  A heaviness had begun in him from the moment he had heard of the accident; he had said to himself, uh-huh, and without expecting to, had nodded sharply. It had been as if he had known that this or something like it was bound to happen, sooner or later; and he was hardly more moved than surprised. This heaviness had steadily increased while he sat and waited and by now the air felt like iron and it was almost as if he could taste in his mouth the sour and cold, taciturn taste of iron. Well what else are we to expect, he said to himself. What life is. He braced against it quietly to accept, endure it, relishing not only his exertion but the sullen, obdurate cruelty of the iron, for it was the cruelty which proved and measured his courage. Funny I feel so little about it, he thought. He thought of his son-in-law. He felt respect, affection, deep general sadness. No personal grief whatever. After all that struggle, he thought, all that courage and ambition, he was getting nowhere. Jude the Obscure, he suddenly thought; and then of the steady thirty-years’ destruction of all of his own hopes. If it has to be a choice between crippling, invalidism, death, he thought, let’s hope he’s out of it. Even just a choice between that and living on another thirty or forty years; he’s well out of it. In my opinion, damn it; not his. He thought of his daughter: all her spirit, which had resisted them so admirably to marry him, then only to be broken and dissolved on her damned piety; all her intelligence, hardly even born, came to nothing in the marriage, making ends meet and again above all, the Goddamned piety; all her innocent eagerness, which it looked as if nothing could ever kill, still sticking its chin out for more. And again, he could feel very little personal involvement. She made her bed, he thought, and she’s done a damned creditable job of lying in it; not one whine. And if he’s—if that’s—finished now, there’s hell to pay for her, and little if anything I can do. Now he remembered vividly, with enthusiasm and with sadness, the few years in which they had been such good friends, and for a moment he thought perhaps again, and caught himself up in a snort of self-contempt. Bargaining on his death, he thought, as if I were the rejected suitor, primping up for one more try: once more unto the breach. Besides, that had never been the real estrangement; it was the whole stinking morass of churchiness that really separated them, and now that was apt to get worse rather than better. Apt? Dead certain to.

  And his wife, while she mended, was thinking: such a tragedy. Such a burden for her. Poor dear Mary. How on earth is she to manage. Of course it’s still entirely possible that he isn’t—passed away. But that could make matters even more—tragic, for both of them. Such an active man, unable to support his family. How dreadful, in any event. Of course, we can help. But not with the hardest of the burden. Poor dear child. And the poor children. And beneath such unspoken words, while with her weak eyes she bent deeply to her mending, her generous and unreflective spirit was more deeply grieved than she could find thought for, and more resolute than any thought for resoluteness could have made it. How very swiftly life goes! she thought. It seems only yesterday that she was my little Mary, or that Jay first came to call. She looked up from her mending into the silent light and shadow, and the kind of long and profound sighing of the heart flowed out of her which, excepting music. was her only way of yielding to sadness.

  “We must be very good to them, Joel,” she said.

  He was startled, almost frightened, by her sudden voice, and he wanted, in some vengeful reflex of exasperation, to ask her what she had said. But he knew he had heard her and, leaning towards her, replied, “Of course we must.”

  “Whatever has happened.”

  “Certainly.”

  He began to realize the emotion, and the loneliness, behind the banality of what she had said; he was ashamed of himself to have answered as if it were merely banal. He wished he could think what to say that would make up for it. but he could not think of what to say. He knew of his wife, with tender amusement, that she almost certainly had not realized his unkindness, and that she would be hopelessly puzzled if he tried to explain and apologize. Let it be, he thought.

  He feels much more than he says, she comforted herself; but she wished that he might ever say what he felt. She felt his hand on her wrist and his head close to hers. She leaned towards him.

  “I understand, Catherine,” he said.

  What does he mean that he understands, Catherine wondered. Something I failed to hear, no doubt, she thought, though their words had been so few that she could not imagine what. But she quickly decided not to exasperate him by a question; she was sure of his kind intention, and deeply touched by it.

  “Thank you, Joel,” she said, and putting her other hand over his, patted it rapidly, several times. Such endearments, except in their proper place, embarrassed her and, she had always feared, were still more embarrassing to him; and now, though she had been unable to resist caressing him, and take even greater solace from his gentle pressing of her wrist, she took care soon to remove her hand, and soon after, he took his own away. She felt a moment of solemn and angry gratitude to have spent so many years, in such harmony, with a man so good, but that was beyond utterance; and then once more she thought of her daugh
ter and of what she was facing.

  Joel, meanwhile, was thinking: she needs that (pressing her wrist), and, as she shyly took her hand away, I wish I could do more; and suddenly, not for her sake but by an impulse of his own, he wanted to take her in his arms. Out of the question. Instead, he watched her dim-sighted, enduring face as she gazed out once more across the room, and felt a moment of incredulous and amused pride in her immense and unbreakable courage, and of proud gratitude, regardless of and including all regret, to have had so many years with such a woman; but that was beyond utterance; and then once more he thought of his daughter and of what she had been through and now must face.

  “Sometimes life seems more—cruel—than can be borne,” she said. “Theirs, I’m thinking of. Poor Jay’s, and poor dear Mary’s.”

  She felt his hand and waited, but he did not speak. She looked toward him, apprehensively polite, her beg-pardon smile, by habit, on her face; and saw his bearded head, unexpectedly close and huge in the light, nodding deeply and slowly, five times.

  Chapter 10

  Andrew did not bother to knock, but opened the door and closed it quietly behind him and, seeing their moving shadows near the kitchen threshold, walked quickly down the hall. They could not see his face in the dark hallway but by his tight, set way of walking, they were virtually sure. They were all but blocking his way. Instead of going into the hall to meet him, they drew aside to let him into the kitchen. He did not hesitate with their own moment’s hesitation but came straight on, his mouth a straight line and his eyes like splintered glass, and without saying a word he put his arms around his aunt so tightly that she gasped, and lifted her from the floor. “Mary,” Hannah whispered, close to his ear; he looked; there she stood waiting, her eyes, her face, like that of an astounded child which might be pleading, Oh, don’t hit me; and before he could speak he heard her say, thinly and gently, “He’s dead, Andrew, isn’t he?” and he could not speak, but nodded, and he became aware that he was holding his aunt’s feet off the floor and virtually breaking her bones, and his sister said, in the same small and unearthly voice, “He was dead when you got there”; and again he nodded; and then he set Hannah down carefully on her feet and, turning to his sister, took her by her shoulders and said, more loudly than he had expected, “He was instantly killed,” and he kissed her upon the mouth and they embraced, and without tears but with great violence he sobbed twice, his cheek against hers, while he stared downwards through her loose hair at her humbled back and at the changeful blinking of the linoleum; then, feeling her become heavy against him, said, “Here, Mary,” catching her across the shoulders and helping her to a chair, just as she, losing strength in her knees, gasped, “I’ve got to sit down,” and looked timidly towards her aunt, who at the same moment saying, in a broken voice, “Sit down, Mary,” was at her other side, her arm around her waist and her face as bleached and shocking as a skull. She put an arm tightly around each of them and felt gratitude and pleasure, in the firmness and warmth of their moving bodies, and they walked three abreast (like bosom friends, it occurred to her. the three Musketeers) to the nearest chair; and she could see Andrew twist it towards her with his outstretched left hand, and between them, slowly, they let her down into it, and then she could see only her aunt’s face, leaning deep above her, very large and very close, the eyes at once intense and tearful behind their heavy lenses, the strong mouth loose and soft, the whole face terrible in love and grief, naked and undisciplined as she had never seen it before.

  “Let Papa know and Mama,” she whispered. “I promised.”

  “I will,” Hannah said, starting for the hall.

  “Walter’s bringing them straight up,” Andrew said. “They know by now.” He brought another chair. “Sit down, Aunt Hannah.” She sat and took both Mary’s hands in her own, on Mary’s knees, and realized that Mary was squeezing her hands with all her strength, and as strongly as she was able. She replied in kind to this constantly, shifting, almost writhing pressure.

  “Sit with us, Andrew,” Mary said, a little more loudly; he was already bringing a third chair and now he sat, and put his hands upon theirs, and, feeling the convulsing of her hands, thought, Christ, it’s as if she were in labor. And she is. Thus they sat in silence a few moments while he thought: now I’ve got to tell them how it happened. In God’s name, how can I begin!

  “I want whiskey,” Mary said, in a small, cold voice, and tried to get up.

  “I’ll get it,” Andrew said, standing.

  “You don’t know where it is,” she said, continuing to put aside their hands even after they were withdrawn. She got up and they stood as if respectfully aside and she walked between them and went into the hall; they heard her rummaging in the closet, and looked at each other. “She needs it,” Hannah said.

  He nodded. He had been surprised, because of Jay, that there was whiskey in the house; and he was sick with self-disgust to have thought of it. “We all do,” he said.

  Without looking at them Mary went to the kitchen closet and brought a thick tumbler to the table. The bottle was almost full. She poured the tumbler full while they watched her, feeling they must not interfere, and took a deep gulp and choked on it, and swallowed most of it.

  “Dilute it,” Hannah said, slapping her hard between the shoulders and drying her lips and her chin with a dish towel. “It’s much too strong, that way.”

  “I will,” Mary croaked, and cleared her throat, “I will,” she said more clearly.

  “Just sit down, Mary,” Andrew and Hannah said at the same moment, and Andrew brought her a glass of water and Hannah helped her to her chair.

  “I’m going to have some, too,” Andrew said.

  “Goodness, do!” said Mary.

  “Let me fix us a good strong toddy,” Hannah said. “It’ll help you to sleep.”

  “I don’t want to sleep,” Mary said; she sipped at her whiskey and took plenty of the water. “I’ve got to learn how it happened.”

  “Aunt Hannah,” Andrew asked quietly, motioning towards the bottle.

  “Please.”

  While he broke ice and brought glasses and a pitcher of water, none of them spoke; Mary sat in a distorted kind of helplessness at once meek and curiously sullen, waiting. Months later, seeing a horse which had fallen in the street, Andrew was to remember her; and he was to remember it wasn’t drunkenness, either. It was just the flat of the hand of Death.

  “Let me pour my own,” Mary said. “Because,” she added with deliberation while she poured, “I want it just as strong as I can stand it.” She tasted the dark drink, added a little more whiskey, tasted again, and put the bottle aside. Hannah watched her with acute concern, thinking, if she gets drunk tonight, and if her mother sees her drunk, she’ll half die of shame, and thinking, nonsense. It’s the most sensible thing she could do.

  “Drink it very slowly, Mary,” Andrew said gently. “You aren’t used to it.”

  “I’ll take care,” Mary said.

  “It’s just the thing for shock,” Hannah said.

  Andrew poured two small straight drinks and gave one to his aunt; they drank them off quickly and took water, and he prepared two pale highballs.

  “Now, Andrew, I want to hear all about it,” Mary said.

  He looked at Hannah.

  “Mary,” he said. “Mama and Papa’ll be here any minute. You’d just have to hear it all over again. I’ll tell you, of course, if you prefer, right away but—could you wait?”

  But even as he was speaking she was nodding, and Hannah was saying, “Yes, child,” as all three thought of the confusions and repetitions which were, at best, inevitable. Now after a moment Mary said, “Anyway, you say he didn’t have to suffer. Instantly, you said.”

  He nodded, and said, “Mary, I saw him—at Roberts’. There was just one mark on his body.”

  She looked at him. “His head.”

  “Right at the exact point of the chin, a small bruise. A cut so small—they can close it with one stitch. And a little
blue bruise on his lower lip. It wasn’t even swollen.”

  “That’s all,” she said.

  “All.” Hannah said.

  “That’s all,” Andrew said. “The doctor said it was concussion of the brain. It was instantaneous.”

  She was silent; he felt that she must be doubting it. Christ, he thought furiously, at least she could be spared that!

  “He can’t have suffered, Mary, not even for a fraction of a second. Mary, I saw his face. There wasn’t a glimmer of pain in it. Only—a kind of surprise. Startled.”

  Still she said nothing. I’ve got to make her sure of it, he thought. How in heaven’s name can I make it clearer? If necessary, I’ll get hold of the doctor and make him tell her hims …

  “He never knew he was dying,” she said. “Not a minute, not one moment, to know, ‘my life is ending.’ ”

  Hannah put a quick hand to her shoulder; Andrew dropped to his knees before her; took her hands and said, most earnestly, “Mary, in God’s name be thankful if he didn’t! That’s a hideous thing for a man in the prime of life to have to know. He wasn’t a Christian, you know,” he blurted it fiercely. “He didn’t have to make his peace with God. He was a man, with a wife and two children, and I’d say that sparing him that horrible knowledge was the one thing we can thank God for!” And he added, in a desperate voice, “I’m so terribly sorry I said that, Mary!”

  But Hannah, who had been gently saying, “He’s right, Mary, he’s right, be thankful for that,” now told him quietly, “It’s all right, Andrew”; and Mary, whose eyes fixed upon his, had shown increasing shock and terror, now said tenderly, “Don’t mind, dear. Don’t be sorry. I understand. You’re right.”

  “That venomous thing I said about Christians,” Andrew said after a moment. “I can never forgive myself, Mary.”

  “Don’t grieve over it, Andrew. Don’t. Please. Look at me, please.” He looked at her. “It’s true I was thinking as I was bound to as a Christian, but I was forgetting we’re human, and you set me right and I’m thankful. You’re right. Jay wasn’t—a religious man, in that sense, and to realize could have only been—as you said for him. Probably as much so, even if he were religious.” She looked at him quietly. “So just please know I’m not hurt or angry. I needed to realize what you told me and I thank God for it.”