A Death in the Family

  Joel asked, “Do they have any idea what happened?”

  Andrew said to his mother, “Papa says, ‘Do they have any idea how it happened?’ ” She nodded, and smiled her thanks, and tilted her trumpet nearer his mouth.

  “Yes, some idea,” Andrew said. “They showed me. They found that a cotter pin had worked loose—that is, it had fallen all the way out—this cotter pin had fallen out, that held the steering mechanism together.”

  “Hahh?”

  “Like this, Mama—look,” he said sharply, thrusting his hands under her nose.

  “Oh excuse me,” she said.

  “See here,” he said; he had locked a bent knuckle between two bent knuckles of the other hand. “As if it were to hold these knuckles together—see?”

  “Yes.”

  “There would be a hole right through the knuckles and that’s where the cotter pin goes. It’s sort of like a very heavy hairpin. When you have it all the way through, you open the two ends flat—spread them—like this …” he showed her his thumb and forefinger, together, then spread them as wide and flat as he could. “You understand?”

  “No matter.”

  “Let it go, son,” his father said.

  “It’s all right, Mama,” Andrew said. “It’s just something that holds two parts together—in this case, his steering gear—what he guided the auto with. Th …”

  “I understand,” she said impatiently.

  “Good, Mama. Well this cotter pin, that held the steering mechanism together down underneath the auto, where there was no chance of seeing it, had fallen out. They couldn’t find it anywhere, though they looked all over the place where it happened and went over the road for a couple of hundred yards with a fine-tooth comb. So they think it may have worked loose and fallen out quite a distance back—it could be, even miles, though probably not so far. Because they showed me,” again he put his knuckles where she could see, “even without the pin, those two parts might hang together,” he twisted them, “you might even steer with them. and not have the slightest suspicion there was anything wrong, if you were on fairly smooth road, or didn’t have to wrench the wheel, but if you hit a sharp bump or a rut or a loose rock, or had to twist the wheel very hard very suddenly, they’d come apart, and you’d have no control over anything.”

  Mary put her hands over her face.

  “What they think is that he must have hit a loose rock with one of the front wheels, and that gave everything a jolt and a terrific wrench at the same time. Because they found a rock, oh, half the size of my head, down in the ditch, very badly scraped and with tire marks on it. They showed me. They think it must have wrenched the wheel right out of his hands and thrown him forward very hard so that he struck his chin, just one sharp blow against the steering wheel. And that must have killed him on the spot. Because he was thrown absolutely clear of the car as it ran off the road—they showed me. I never saw anything to equal it. Do you know what happened? That auto threw him out on the ground as it careened down into that sort of flat, wide ditch, about five feet down from the road; then it went straight on up an eight-foot embankment. They showed me the marks where it went, almost to the top, and then toppled backward and fell bottom side up right beside him, without even grazing him!”

  “Gracious,” Mary whispered. “Tst,” Hannah clucked.

  “How are they so sure it was—instant, Andrew?” Hannah asked.

  “Because if he’d been conscious they’re sure he wouldn’t have been thrown out of the auto, for one thing. He’d have grabbed the wheel, or the emergency brake, still trying to control it. There wasn’t time for that. There wasn’t any time at all. At the most there must have been just the tiniest fraction of a second when he felt the jolt and the wheel was twisted out of his hand, and he was thrown forward. The doctor says he probably never even knew what hit him—hardly even felt the impact, it was so hard and quick.”

  “He may have just been unconscious,” Mary groaned through her hands. “Or conscious and—paralyzed; unable to speak or even seem to breathe. If only there’d been a doctor, right there, mayb …”

  Andrew reached across his mother and touched her knees. “No, Mary,” he said. “I have the doctor’s word for that. He says the only thing that could have caused death was concussion of the brain. He says that when that—happens to kill, it—does so instantly, or else takes days or weeks. I asked him about it very particularly because—I knew you’d want to be sure just how it was. Of course I wondered the same thing. He said it couldn’t have been even a few seconds of unconsciousness, and then death, because nothing more happened, after that one blow, that could have added to what it did. He said it’s even more sudden than electrocution. Just an enormous shock to the brain. The quickest death there is.” He returned to his mother. “I’m sorry, Mama,” he said. “Mary was saying, perhaps he was only unconscious. That maybe if the doctor had been there right on the spot, he could have been saved. I was telling her, no. Because I asked the doctor everything I could think to, about that. And he said no. He says that when a concussion of the brain—is fatal—it’s the quickest death there is.”

  He looked at each of them in turn. In a light, vindictive voice he told them, “He says it was just a chance in a million.”

  “Good God, Andrew,” his father said.

  “Just that one tiny area, at just a certain angle, and just a certain sharpness of impact. If it had been even a half an inch to one side, he’d be alive this minute.”

  “Shut up, Andrew,” his father said harshly; for with the last few words that Andrew spoke, a sort of dilation had seized Mary, so that she had almost risen from her place, seeming larger than herself, and then had collapsed into a shattering of tears.

  “Oh Mary,” Andrew groaned, and hurried to her, while her mother took her head against her breast. “I’m so sorry. God, what possessed me! I must be out of my mind!” And Hannah and Joel had gotten from their chairs and stood nearby, unable to speak.

  “Just—have a little mercy,” she sobbed. “A little mercy.”

  Andrew could say only, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Mary,” and then he could say nothing.

  “Let her cry,” Joel said quietly to his sister, and she nodded. As if anything on earth could stop her, he said to himself.

  “O God, forgive me,” Mary moaned. “Forgive me! Forgive me! It’s just more than I can bear! Just more than I can bear! Forgive me!” And Joel, with his mouth fallen open, wheeled upon his sister and stared at her; and she avoided his eyes, saying to herself, No, No, and protect her, O God, protect Thy poor child and give her strength; and Andrew, his face locked in a murderer’s grimace, continued the furious and annihilating words which were bursting within him to be spoken, groaned within himself, God, if You exist, come here and let me spit in Your face. Forgive her, indeed!

  Then Hannah moved him aside and stooped before Mary, taking her wrists and talking earnestly into her streaming hands: “Mary, listen to me. Mary. There’s nothing to ask forgiveness for. There’s nothing to ask forgiveness for, Mary. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, Mary?” Mary nodded within her hands. “God would never ask of you not to grieve, not to cry. Do you hear? What you’re doing is absolutely natural, absolutely right. Do you hear! You wouldn’t be human if you did otherwise. Do you hear me, Mary? You’re not human to ask His forgiveness. You’re wrong. You’re terribly mistaken. Do you hear me, my dear? Do you hear me?”

  While she was speaking, Mary, within her hands, now nodded and now shook her head, always in contradiction of what her aunt was saying, and now she said, “It isn’t what you think. I spoke to Him as if He had no mercy!”

  “Andrew? Andrew was ju …”

  “No: to God. As if He were trying to rub it in. Torment me. That’s what I asked forgiveness for.”

  “There, Mary,” her mother said; she could hear virtually nothing of what was said, but she could feel that the extremity of the crying had passed.

  “Listen, Mary,” Hannah said, and she bent so
close to her that she could have whispered. “Our Lord on the Cross,” she said, in a voice so low that only Mary and Andrew could hear, “do you remember?”

  “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?”

  “Yes. And then did He ask forgiveness?”

  “He was God. He didn’t have to.”

  “He was human, too. And He didn’t ask it. Nor was it asked of Him to ask it, no more are you. And no more should you. What was it He said, instead? The very next thing He said.”

  “Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,” she said, taking her hands from her face and looking meekly at her aunt.

  “Into Thy hands I commend my spirit,” her aunt said.

  “There, dear,” her mother said, and Mary sat upright and looked straight ahead.

  “Please don’t feel sorry, Andrew,” she said. “You’re right to tell me every last bit you know. I want to know—all of it. It was just—it just overwhelmed me for a minute.”

  “I shouldn’t tell you so much all in a heap.”

  “No, that’s better. Than to keep hearing—horrible little new things, just when you think you’ve heard the worst and are beginning to get used to it.”

  “That’s right, Poll,” her father said.

  “Now just go straight on telling me. Everything there is to tell. And if I do break down, why don’t reproach yourself. Remember I asked you. But I’ll try to not. I think I’ll be all right.”

  “All right, Mary.”

  “Good, Poll,” her father said. They all sat down again.

  “And Andrew, if you’ll get it for me, I think I’d like some more whiskey.”

  “Of course I will.” He had brought the bottle in; he took her glass to the table.

  “Not quite so strong as last time, please. Pretty strong, but not so strong as that.”

  “This all right?”

  “A little more whiskey, please.”

  “Certainly.”

  “That looks all right.”

  “You all right, Poll?” her father asked. “Isn’t going to your head too much?”

  “It isn’t going anywhere so far as I can tell.”

  “Good enough.”

  “I think perhaps it would be best if we didn’t—prolong the discussion any further tonight,” Catherine said, in her most genteel manner; and she patted Mary’s knee.

  They looked at her with astonishment and suddenly Mary and then Andrew began to laugh, and then Hannah began to laugh, and Joel said, “What’s up? What’s all the hee-hawing about?”

  “It’s Mama,” Andrew shouted joyfully, and he and Hannah explained how she had suggested, in her most ladylike way, that they adjourn the discussion for the evening when all they were discussing was how much whiskey Mary could stand, and it was as if she meant that Mary was much too thirsty to wait out any more of it; and Joel gave a snort of amusement and then was caught into the contagion of this somewhat hysterical laughter, and they all roared, laughing their heads off, while Catherine sat there watching them, disapproving such levity at such a time, and unhappily suspecting that for some reason they were laughing at her; but in courtesy and reproof, and an expectation of hearing the joke, smiling and lifting her trumpet. But they paid no attention to her; they scarcely seemed to know she was there. They would quiet down now and then and moan and breathe deeply, and dry their eyes; then Mary would remember, and mimic, precisely the way her mother had patted her knee with her ringed hand, or Andrew would mimic her precise intonation as she said “prolong,” or any of the four of them would roll over silently upon the tongue of the mind some particularly ticklish blend of the absurdity and horror and cruelty and relief, or would merely glance at Catherine with her smile and her trumpet, and would suddenly begin to bubble and then to spout with laughter, and another would be caught into the machinery, and then they would start all over again. Some of the time they deliberately strained for more laughter, or to prolong it, or to revive it if it had died; some of the time they tried just as hard to stop laughing or, having stopped, not to laugh any more. They found that on the whole they laughed even harder if they tried hard not to, so they came to favor that technique. They laughed until they were weak and their bellies ached. Then they were able to realize a little more clearly what a poor joke they had all been laughing at, and the very feebleness of the material and outrageous disproportion of their laughter started them whooping again; but finally they quieted down, because they had no strength for any more, and into this nervous and somewhat aborted silence Catherine spoke, “Well, I have never in my life been so thoroughly shocked and astonished,” and it began all over again.

  But by now they were really worn out with laughter; moreover, images of the dead body beside the capsized automobile began to dart in their minds, and then to become cold, immense, and immovable; and they began fully to realize, as well, how shamefully they had treated the deaf woman.

  “Oh, Mama,” Andrew and Mary cried out together, and Mary embraced her and Andrew kissed her on the forehead and on the mouth. “It was awful of us,” he said. “You’ve just got to try to forgive us. We’re all just a little bit hysterical, that’s all.”

  “Better tell her, Andrew,” his father said.

  “Yes, poor thing,” Hannah said; and he tried as gently as he could to explain it to her, and that they weren’t really laughing at her expense, or even really at the joke, such as it was, because it wasn’t really very funny, he must admit, but it had simply been a Godsend to have something to laugh about.

  “I see,” she said (“I see, said the blindman,” Andrew said), and gave her polite, tinkling, baffled little laugh. “But of course it wasn’t the—question of spirits that I meant. I just felt that perhaps for poor dear Mary’s sake we’d better …”

  “Of course,” Andrew shouted. “We understand, Mama. But Mary’d rather hear now. She’d already said so.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Mary screamed, leaning across towards her “good” ear.

  “Well in that case,” Catherine said primly, “I think it would have been kind so to inform me.”

  “I’m awfully sorry, Mama,” Andrew said. “We would have. We really would have. In about another minute.”

  “Well,” Catherine said; “no matter.”

  “Really we would, Mama,” Mary said.

  “Very well,” Catherine said. “It was just a misfortune, that’s all. I know I make it—very difficult, I try not to.”

  “Oh, Mama, no.”

  “No, I’m not hurt. I just suggest that you ignore me now, for everybody’s convenience. Joel will tell me, later.”

  “She means it,” Joel said. “She’s not hurt any more.”

  “I know she does,” Andrew said. “That’s why I’m Goddamned if I’ll leave her out. Honestly, Mama,” he told her, “just let me tell you. Then we can all hear. Don’t you see?”

  “Well, if you’re sure; of course I’d be most grateful. Thank you.” She bowed, smiled, and tilted her trumpet.

  It required immediate speech. That trumpet’s like a pelican’s mouth, he thought. Toss in a fish. “I’m sorry, Mama,” he said. “I’ve got to try to collect my wits.”

  “That’s perfectly all right,” his mother said.

  What was I—oh. Doctor. Yes.

  “I was telling you what the doctor said.”

  Mary drank.

  “Yes,” Catherine replied in her clear voice. “You were saying that it was only by merest chance, where the blow was struck, a chance in a million, that …”

  “Yes, Mama. It’s just unbelievable. But there it is.”

  “Hyesss,” Hannah sighed.

  Mary drank.

  “It does—beat—all—hell,” Joel said. He thought of Thomas Hardy. There’s a man, he thought, who knows what it’s about. (And she asks God to forgive her!) He snorted.

  “What is it, Papa?” Mary asked quietly.

  “Nothing,” he said, “just the way things go. As flies to wanton boys. That’s all.”

  “What do
you mean?”

  “As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.”

  “No,” Mary said; she shook her head. “No, Papa. It’s not that way.”

  He felt within him a surge of boiling acid; he contained himself. If she tries to tell me it’s God’s inscrutable mercy, he said to himself, I’ll have to leave the room. “Ignore it, Poll,” he said. “None of us knows one damned thing about it. Myself least of all. So I’ll keep my trap shut.”

  “But I can’t bear to have you even think such things, Papa.”

  Andrew tightened his lips and looked away.

  “Mary,” Hannah said.

  “I’m afraid that’s something none of us can ask—or change,” her father said.

  “Yes, Mary,” Hannah said.

  “But I can assure you of this, Poll. I have very few thoughts indeed and none of ’em are worth your minding about.”

  “Is there something perhaps I should be hearing?” Catherine asked.

  They were silent a moment. “Nothing, Mama,” Andrew said. “Just a digression. I’d tell you if it was important.”

  “You were about to continue, with what the doctor told you.”

  “Yes I was. I will. He told me a number of other things and I can—assure—everybody—that such as they are, at least they’re some kind of cold comfort.”

  Mary met his eyes.

  “He said that if there had to be such an accident, this was pretty certainly the best way. That with such a thing, a concussion, he might quite possibly have been left a hopeless imbecile.”

  “Oh, Andrew,” Mary burst out.

  “The rest of his life, and that could have been another forty years as easily as not. Or maybe only a semi-invalid, laid up just now and then, with terrific recurrent headaches, or spells of amnesia, of feeble-mindedness. Those are the things that didn’t happen, Mary,” he told her desperately. “I think I’d just better get them over and done with right now.”

  “Yes,” she said through her hands. “Yes, you had. Go on, Andrew. Get it over.”

  “He pointed out what would have happened if he’d stayed conscious, if he hadn’t been thrown clear of the auto. Going fast, hopelessly out of control, up that eight-foot embankment and then down. He’d have been crushed, Mary. Horribly mangled. If he’d died it would have been slowly and agonizingly. If he’d lived, he’d have probably been a hopeless cripple.”