The man clacked his tongue like an old woman, shaking his head, and looking into the water. “That’s a mean way,” he said. Suddenly he looked Jay in the eyes: his own were strangely shy. Then he looked again into the brown water, and continued to haul at the line.
“Well, good luck,” he said. “Much obliged,” said Jay.
The wagon grew larger and larger, and now the dark, deeply lined faces of the man and woman became distinct: the sad, deeply lined faces of the profound country which seemed ancient even in early maturity and which always gave Jay a sense of peace. The woman sat high above the mule; the flare of her deep bonnet had the shape of the flare of the wagon’s canopy. The man stood beside his wagon, one clayed boot cocked on the clayed hub. They gazed gravely into the eyes of the men on the ferry, and neither of them moved, or made any sign of salutation, until the craft was made fast.
“Ben here long?” the ferryman asked.
The woman looked at him; after a moment the man, without moving his eyes, nodded.
“Didn’t hear yer holler.”
After a moment the man said, “I hollered.”
The ferryman put out his lantern. He turned to Jay. “Twarn’t rightly a dark crossing, mister. I can’t charge ye but the daytime toll.”
“All right,” Jay said, giving him fifteen cents. “And much obliged to you.” He put out his headlights and stooped to crank the car.
“Hold awn, bud,” the wagoner called. Jay looked up; the man took two quick strides and took control of the mule’s head. The wagoner nodded.
The engine was warm, and started easily; and though with every wrench of the crank a spasm of anguish wrenched the mule, once the engine leveled out the mule stood quietly, merely trembling. Jay put it violently into low to get up the steep mud bank, giving the mule and wagon as wide a berth as possible, nodding his regret of the racket and his friendliness as he passed; their heads turned, the eyes which followed him could not forgive him his noise. At the top he filled his pipe and watched while the mule and wagon descended, the mule held at the head, his hocks sprung uneasily, hoofs prodding and finding base in the treacherous clay, rump bunched high, the wagon tilting, the block-brakes screeching on the broad iron rim.
Poor damn devils, he thought. He was sure they were bound for the Knoxville market. They had probably waited for the ferry as much as a couple of hours. They would be hopelessly late.
He waited out the lovely sight of the water gaping. The ferry took on its peculiar squareness, its look of exquisite silence. He looked at his watch. Not so bad. He lighted his pipe and settled down to drive. He always felt different once he was across the river. This was the real, old, deep country, now. Home country. The cabins looked different to him, a little older and poorer and simpler, a little more homelike; the trees and rocks seemed to come differently out of the ground; the air smelled different. Before long now, he would know the worst; if it was the worst. Quite unconsciously he felt much more deeply at leisure as he watched the flowing, freshly lighted country; and quite unconsciously he drove a little faster than before.
Chapter 4
During the rest of the night, Mary lay in a “white” sleep. She felt as odd, alone in the bed, as if a jaw-tooth had just been pulled, and the whole house seemed larger than it really was, hollow and resonant. The coming of daylight did not bring things back to normal, as she had hoped; the bed and the house in this silence and pallor, seemed even emptier. She would doze a little, wake and listen to the dry silence, doze, wake again sharply, to the thing that troubled her. She thought of her husband, driving down on one of the most solemn errands of his life, and of his father, lying fatally sick, perhaps dying, perhaps dead at this moment (she crossed herself), and she could not bring herself to feel as deeply about it as she felt that she should, for her husband’s sake. She realized that if the situation were reversed, and it was her own father who was dying, Jay would feel much as she felt now and that she could not blame either him or herself, but that did her no good. For she knew that at the bottom of it the trouble was, simply, that she had never really liked the old man.
She was sure that she didn’t look down on him, as many of Jay’s relatives all but said to her face and as she feared that Jay himself occasionally believed; certainly not; but she could not like him, as almost everyone else liked him. She knew that if it was Jay’s mother who lay dying, there would be no question of her grief, or inadequacy to her husband; and that was a fair measure of how little she really cared for his father. She wondered why she liked him so little (for to say that she actually disliked him, she earnestly assured herself, would be putting it falsely). She realized that it was mainly because everyone forgave him so much. and liked him so well in spite of his shortcomings, and because he accepted their forgiveness and liking so casually, as if this were his natural due or, worse, as if he didn’t even realize anything about it. And the worst of this, the thing she resented with enduring anger and distaste, was the burden he had constantly imposed on his wife, and her perfect patience with him, as if she didn’t even know it was a burden or that he was taking advantage. It was this unconsciousness in both of them that she could not abide, and if only once Jay’s mother had shown one spark of anger, of realization, Mary felt she might have begun to be able to like him. But this brought her into a resentment, almost a dislike, of Jay’s mother, which she knew was both unjust and untrue to her actual feelings, and which made her uncomfortable; she was shocked also to realize that she was lying awake in the hour which might well be his last, to think ill of him. Shame on you, she said to herself, and thought earnestly of all that she knew was good about him.
He was generous for one thing. Generous to a fault. And she remembered how, time and again, he had given away, “loaned,” to the first person who asked him the favor, money or food or things which were desperately needed home to keep body and soul together. Fault, indeed. Yet it was a good fault. It was no wonder people loved him—or pretended to—and took every possible advantage of him. And he was very genuinely kind-hearted. A wonderful virtue. And tolerant. She had never heard him say an unkind or a bitter word of anybody, not even of people who had outrageously abused his generosity—he could not, she realized, bear to believe that they really meant to; and he had never once, of that she was sure, joined with most of the others in their envious, hostile, contemptuous talking about her.
On the other hand she could be equally sure that he had never really stood up for her strongly and bravely, and angrily, against everyone, as his wife had, for he disliked arguments as much as he did unkindness; but she put that out of her mind. He had never, so far as she knew, complained, about his sickness or pain, or his poverty, and chronically, insanely, as he made excuses for others, he had never made excuses for himself. And certainly he had precious little right to complain, or make excuses; but that too she hastened to put out of her mind. She reproached herself by remembering how thoroughly nice and friendly he had always been to her; and if she had to realize that that was not at all for herself but purely because she was “Jay’s woman,” as he’d probably say, she certainly couldn’t hold that against him; her own best feelings towards him came out of her recognition of him as Jay’s father. You couldn’t like anyone more than you happened to like them; you simply couldn’t. And you couldn’t feel more about them than that amount of liking made possible to you. There was a special kind of basic weakness about him; that was what she could not like, or respect, or even forgive, or resign herself to accepting, for it was a kind of weakness which took advantage, and heaped disadvantage and burden on others, and it was not even ashamed for itself, not even aware. And worse, at the bottom of it all, maybe, Jay’s father was the one barrier between them, the one stubborn, unresolved, avoided thing, in their complete mutual understanding of Jay’s people, his “background.” Even now she could not really like him much, or feel deep concern. Her thoughts for him were grave and sad, but only as they would be for any old, tired, suffering human being who had lived lon
g and whose end, it appeared, had come. And even while she thought of him her real mind was on his son’s grief and her inadequacy to it. She had not even until this moment, she realized with dismay, given Jay’s mother a thought; she had been absorbed wholly in Jay. I must write her, she thought. But of course, perhaps, I’ll see her soon.
And yet, clearly as she felt that she realized what the bereavement would mean to Jay’s mother, and wrong as she was even to entertain such an idea, she could not help feeling that even more, his death would mean great relief and release. And, it occurred to her. he’ll no longer stand between me and Jay.
At this, her soul stopped in utter coldness. God forgive me, she thought, amazed; I almost wished for his death!
She clasped her hands and stared at a stain on the ceiling.
O Lord, she prayed; forgive me my unspeakable sinful thought. Lord, cleanse my soul of such abominations. Lord, if it be Thy will, spare him long that I may learn to understand and care for him more, with Thy merciful help. Spare him not for me but for himself, Lord.
She closed her eyes.
Lord, open my heart that I may be worthy in realization of this sorrowful thing, if it must happen, and worthy and of use and comfort to others in their sorrow. Lord God, Lord Jesus, melt away my coldness and apathy of heart, descend and fill my emptiness of heart. And Lord, if it be Thy will, preserve him yet a while, and let me learn to bear my burden more lightly, or to know this burden is a blessing. And if he must be taken, if he is already with Thee now (she crossed herself), may he rest in Thy peace (again she crossed herself).
And Lord, if it be Thy will, that this sorrow must come upon my husband, then I most humbly beseech Thee in Thy mercy that through this tribulation Thou openest my husband’s heart, and awake his dear soul, that he may find comfort in Thee that the world cannot give, and see Thee more clearly, and come to Thee. For there, Lord, as Thou knowest, and not in his poor father or my unworthy feelings, is the true, widening gulf between us.
Lord, in Thy mercy, Who can do all things, close this gulf. Make us one in Thee as we are one in earthly wedlock. For Jesus’ sake, Amen.
She lay somewhat comforted, but more profoundly disturbed than comforted. For she had never before so clearly put into words, into visible recognition, their religious difference, or the importance of the difference to her. And how important is it to him, she wondered. And haven’t I terribly exaggerated my feeling of it? A “gulf”? And “widening”? Was it really? Certainly he never said anything that justified her in such a feeling; nor did she feel anything of that largeness. It really was only that both of them said so very little, as if both took care to say very little. But that was just it. That a thing which meant so much to her, so much more, all the time, should be a thing that they could not share, or could not be open about. Where her only close, true intimate was Aunt Hannah, and her chief love and hope had to rest in the children. That was it. That was the way it seemed bound to widen (she folded her hands, and shook her head, frowning): it was the children. She felt sure that he felt none of Andrew’s anger and contempt, and none of her father’s irony, but it was very clear by his special quietness, when instances of it came up, that he was very far away from it and from her, that he did not like it. He kept his distance, that was it. His distance, and some kind of dignity, which she respected in him, much as it hurt her, by this silence and withdrawal. And it would widen, oh, inevitably, because quiet and gentle as she would certainly try to be about it, they were going to be brought up as she knew she must bring them up, as Christian, Catholic children. And this was bound to come into the home, quite as much as in church. It was bound in some ways, unless he changed; it was bound in some important ways, try as hard and be as good about it as she was sure they both would, to set his children apart from him, to set his own wife apart from him. And not by any action or wish of his, but by her own deliberate will. Lord God, she prayed, in anguish. Am I wrong? Show me if I am wrong, I beseech Thee. Show me what I am to do.
But God showed her only what she knew already: that come what might she must, as a Christian woman, as a Catholic, bring up her children thoroughly and devoutly in the Faith, and that it was also her task, more than her husband’s, that the family remain one, that the gulf be closed.
But if I do this, nothing else that I can do will close it, she reflected. Nothing, nothing will avail.
But I must.
I must just: trust in God, she said, almost aloud. Just: do His will, and put all my trust in Him.
A streetcar passed; Catherine cried.
Chapter 5
“Daddy had to go up to see Grandfather Follet,” their mother explained. “He says to kiss both of you for him and he’ll probably see you before you’re asleep tonight.”
“When?” Rufus asked.
“Way, early this morning, before it was light.”
“Why?”
“Grampa Follet is very sick. Uncle Ralph phoned up very late last night, when all of us were asleep. Grampa has had one of his attacks.”
“What’s attack?”
“Eat your cereal, Catherine. Rufus, eat yours. His heart. Like the one he had that time last fall. Only worse, Uncle Ralph says. He wanted very much to see Daddy, just as quick as Daddy could come.”
“Why?”
“Because he loves Daddy and if … Eat, wicker, or it’ll all be nasty and cold, and then you know how you hate to eat it. Because if Daddy didn’t see him soon, Grampa might not get to see Daddy again.”
“Why not?”
“Because Grampa is getting old, and when you get old, you can be sick and not get well again. And if you can’t get well again, then God lets you go to sleep and you can’t see people any more.”
“Don’t you ever wake up again?”
“You wake up right away, in heaven, but people on earth can’t see you any more, and you can’t see them.”
“Oh.”
“Eat,” their mother whispered, making a big, nodding mouth and chewing vigorously on air. They ate.
“Mama,” Rufus said, “when Oliver went to sleep did he wake up in heaven too?”
“I don’t know. I imagine he woke up in a part of heaven God keeps specially for cats.”
“Did the rabbits wake up?”
“I’m sure they did if Oliver did.”
“All bloody like they were?”
“No, Rufus, that was only their poor little bodies. God wouldn’t let them wake up all hurt and bloody, poor things.”
“Why did God let the dogs get in?”
“We don’t know, Rufus, but it must be a part of His plan we will understand someday.”
“What good would it do Him?”
“Children, don’t dawdle. It’s almost school time.”
“What good would it do Him, Mama, to let the dogs in?”
“I don’t know, but someday we’ll understand, Rufus, if we’re very patient. We mustn’t trouble ourselves with these things we can’t understand. We just have to be sure that God knows best.”
“I bet they sneaked in when He wasn’t looking,” Rufus said eagerly. “Cause He sure wouldn’t have let them if He’d been there. Didn’t they, Mama? Didn’t they?”
Their mother hesitated, and then said carefully, “No, Rufus, we believe that God is everywhere and knows everything and nothing can happen without His knowing. But the Devil is everywhere too—everywhere except heaven, that is—and he is always tempting us. When we do what he tempts us to do, then God lets us do it.”
“What’s tempt?”
“Tempt is, well, the Devil tempts us when there is something we want to do, but we know it is bad.”
“Why does God let us do bad things?”
“Because He wants us to make up our own minds.”
“Even to do bad things, right under His nose?”
“He doesn’t want us to do bad things, but to know good from bad and be good of our own free choice.”
“Why?”
“Because He loves us and wa
nts us to love Him, but if He just made us be good, we couldn’t really love Him enough. You can’t love to do what you are made to do, and you couldn’t love God if He made you.”
“But if God can do anything, why can’t He do that?”
“Because He doesn’t want to,” their mother said, rather impatiently.
“Why doesn’t He want to?” Rufus said. “It would be so much easier for Him.”
“God—doesn’t—believe—in—the—easy—way,” she said, with a certain triumph, spacing the words and giving them full emphasis. “Not for us, not for anything or anybody, not even for Himself. God wants us to come to Him, to find Him, the best we can.”
“Like hide-and-go-seek,” said Catherine.
“What was that?” their mother asked rather anxiously.
“Like hide …”
“Aw, it isn’t a bit like hide-and-seek, is it, Mama?” Rufus cut in. “Hidenseek’s just a game, just a game. God doesn’t fool around playing games, does He, Mama! Does He! Does He!”
“Shame on you, Rufus,” his mother said warmly, and not without relief. “Why, shame on you!” For Catherine’s face had swollen and her mouth had bunched tight, and she glared from her brother to her mother and back again with scalding hot eyes.
“Well He doesn’t,” Rufus insisted, angry and bewildered at the turn the discussion had taken.
“That’s enough, Rufus,” his mother whipped out sternly, and leaned across and patted Catherine’s hand, which made Catherine’s chin tremble and her tears overflow. “That’s all right, little wicker! That’s all right! He doesn’t play games. Rufus is right about that, but it is, someways it is like hide-and-seek. You’re ab-so-lootly right!”
But with this, Catherine was dissolved, and Rufus sat aghast, less at her crying, which made him angry and jealous, than at his sudden solitude. But her crying was so miserable that, angry and jealous as he was, he became ashamed, then sorry for her, and was trying, helplessly, to find a way of showing that he was sorry when his mother glanced up at him fiercely and said, “Now you march and get ready for school. I ought to tell Daddy, you’re a bad boy!”