A Death In The Family (33 page)

“Come here, my darlings,” she said, and smiled, and squatted with her hands out towards them.

Rufus came shyly; Catherine ran. She took one of them in each arm.

“There, my darlings,” she said above them, “there, there, my dear ones. Mother’s here. Mother’s here. Mother has wanted to see you more, these last days; a
lot
more: she just—couldn’t, Rufus and Catherine. Just couldn’t do it.” When she said “couldn’t” she held them very tightly and they knew they were loved. “Little Catherine”—and she held Catherine’s head still more tightly to her—“bless her soul! and Rufus”—she held him away and looked into his eyes—“you both know how much Mother loves you, with all her heart and soul, all her life—you know, don’t you? Don’t you?” Rufus, puzzled but moved, nodded politely, and again she caught him to her. “Of course you do,” she said, as if she were not speaking to them. “Of course you do.

“Now,” she said, after a moment. She stood up and drew them by their hands to the bed. They sat down and she sat in a chair and looked at them for a few seconds without speaking.

“Now,” she said again. “I want to tell you about Daddy, because this morning, soon now, we’re all going down to Grampa’s and Grandma’s, and see him once more, and tell him good-bye.” Catherine’s face brightened; her mother shook her head and placed a quieting hand on Catherine’s knees, saying, “No, Catherine, it won’t be like you think, that’s what I must tell you about him. So listen very carefully, you too, Rufus.”

She waited until she was sure they were listening carefully.

“You both understand what has happened to Daddy, don’t you. That something happened in the auto, and God took him from us, very quickly, without any pain, and took him away to heaven. You understand that, don’t you?”

They nodded.

“And you understand, that when God takes you away to heaven you can never come back?”

“
Never
come back?” Catherine asked.

She stroked Catherine’s hair away from her face. “No, Catherine, not ever, in any way we can see and talk to. Daddy’s soul will always be thinking of us, just as we will always think of him, but we will never see him again, after today.” Catherine looked at her very intently; her face began to redden. “You must learn to believe that and know it, darling Catherine. It’s so.”

She seemed to be about to cry; she swallowed; and Catherine seemed to accept it as true.

“We’ll always remember him,” she told both of them. “
Always
. And he’ll be thinking of us. Every day. He’s waiting for us in heaven. And someday, if we’re good, when God comes for us, He’ll take us to heaven too and we’ll see Daddy there, and all be together again, forever and ever.”

Amen, Rufus almost said; then realized that this was not a prayer.

“But when we see Daddy today, children, his soul won’t be there. It’ll just be Daddy’s body. Very much as you’ve always seen him. But because his soul has been taken away, he will be lying down, and he will lie very still. It will be just as if he were asleep, so you must both be just as quiet as if he were asleep and you didn’t want to wake him. Quieter.”

“But I do,” said Catherine.

“But Catherine, you can’t, dear, you mustn’t even think of trying. Because Daddy is dead now, and when you are dead that means you go to sleep and you never wake up—until God wakes you.”

“Well when
will
He?”

“We don’t know, Rufus, but probably a long, long time from now. Long after we are all dead.”

Rufus wondered what was the good of that, then, but he was sure he should not ask.

“So I don’t want you to wonder about it, children. Daddy may seem very queer to you, because he’s so still, but that’s—just simply the way he’s got to look.”

Suddenly she pressed her lips tightly together and they trembled violently. She clenched her cheekbone against her left shoulder, squeezing their hands with her trembling hands, and tears slipped from her tightly shut eyes. Rufus watched her with awe, Catherine with forlorn worry. She suddenly hissed out, “Just-a-minute,” with her eyes still closed, startling and shocking Catherine, so that she looked as if she were ready to cry. But before Catherine could commit herself to crying, her hands relaxed, pressing them gently, and she raised her head and opened her clear eyes, saying, “Now Mother must get dressed, and I want you to take Catherine downstairs, Rufus, and both of you be very quiet and good till I come down. And don’t make any bother for Aunt Hannah, because she’s been wonderful to all of us and she’s worn out.

“You be good,” she said, smiling and looking at them in turn. “I’ll be down in a little while.”

“Come on, Catherine,” Rufus said.

“I’m coming,” Catherine replied, looking at him as if he had spoken of her unjustly.

“Mama”; Rufus stopped near the door. Catherine hesitated, bewildered.

“Yes, Rufus?”

“Are we orphans, now?”

“
Orphans
?”

“Like the Belgians,” he informed her. “French. When you haven’t got any daddy or mamma because they’re killed in the war you’re an orphan and other children send you things and write you letters.”

She must have been unfamiliar with the word, for she seemed to have to think very hard before she answered. Then she said, “Of
course
you’re not orphans, Rufus, and I don’t want you going around saying that you are. Do you hear me? Because it isn’t so. Orphans haven’t got
either
a father
or
a mother, you see, and nobody to take care of them or love them. You see? That’s why other children send things. But you both have your mother. So you aren’t orphans. Do you see? Do you?” He nodded; Catherine nodded because he did. “And Rufus.” She looked at him very searchingly; without quite knowing why, he felt he had been discovered in a discreditable secret. “Don’t be sorry you’re not an orphan.
You be thankful
. Orphans sound lucky to you because they’re far away and everyone talks about them now. But they’re very, very unhappy little children. Because
nobody
loves them. Do you understand?”

He nodded, ashamed of himself and secretly disappointed.

“Now run along,” she said. They left the room. Aunt Hannah met them on the stairs. “Go into the liv—sitting room for a while like good children,” she said. “I’ll be right down.” And as they reached the bottom of the stairs they heard their mother’s door open and close. They sat, looking at their father’s chair, thinking.

Catherine felt more virtuous and less troubled than she had for some time, for she had watched Rufus being scolded, all to himself, and it more than wiped out her unhappiness at his telling her to come along when of course she was coming and he had no right even if she wasn’t. But she couldn’t see how anyone could look as if they were asleep and not wake up, and something else her mother had said—she tried hard to remember what it was—troubled her more deeply than that. And what was a norphan?

Rufus felt that his mother was seriously displeased with him. It was the wrong time to ask her. Maybe he ought not to have asked her at all. But he did want to know. He had not been sure whether or not he was an orphan, or the right kind of orphans. If he claimed he was an orphan in school and it turned out that he was not, people would all laugh at him. But if he really was an orphan he wanted to know, so he would be able to say he was, and get the benefit. What was the good of being an orphan if nobody else knew it? Well, so he was not an orphan. Yet his father was dead. Not his mother, too, though. Only his father. But one was dead. One and one makes two. One-half of two equals one. He was half an orphan, no matter what his mother said. And he had a sister who was half an orphan too. Half and half equals a whole. Together they made a whole orphan. He felt that it was not worth mentioning, that he was half an orphan, although he privately considered it a good deal better than nothing; and that also, he would not volunteer the fact that he and his sister together made a whole orphan. But if anyone teased either of them about not being an orphan at all, then he would certainly speak of that. He decided that Catherine should be warned of this, so that if they were teased, they could back each other up.

“Both of us together is a whole orphan,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Don’t say ‘huh,’ say, ‘What is it, Rufus?’ ”

“I will not!”

“You will so. Mama says to.”

“She does not.”

“She does so. When I say ‘huh’ she says, ‘Don’t say “huh,” say “What is it, Mother?’ ” When you say ‘huh’ she tells you the same thing. So don’t say ‘huh.’ Say, ‘What is it, Rufus?’ ”

“I won’t say it to you.”

“Yes, you will.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will, because Mama said for us to be good. If you don’t I’ll tell her on you.”

“You tell her and I’ll tell on you.”

“Tell on me for what?”

“Listening at the door.”

“No you won’t.”

“I will so.”

“You will not.”

“I will so.”

He thought it over.

“All right,
don’t
say it, and I
won’t
tell on you if you won’t tell on me.”

“I will if you tell on me.”

“I said I won’t, didn’t I? Not if you don’t tell on me.”

“I won’t if you don’t tell on me.”

“All right.”

They glared at each other.

They heard loud feet on the porch, and the doorbell rang. Upstairs they heard their mother cry “Oh, goodness!” They ran to the door. He blocked Catherine away from the knob and opened it.

A man stood there, almost as tall as Daddy. He had a black glaring collar like Dr. Whittaker but wore a purple vest. He wore a long shallow hat and he had a long, sharp, bluish chin almost like a plow. He carried a small, shining black suitcase. He seemed to be as disconcerted and displeased as they were. He said, “Oh, good morning,” in a voice that had echoes in it and, frowning, glanced once again at the number along the side of the door. “Of course,” he said, with a smile they did not understand. “You’re Rufus and Catherine. May I come in?” And without waiting for their assent or withdrawal (for they were blocking the door) he strode forward, parting them with firm hands and saying “Isn’t Miss L ...”

They heard Aunt Hannah’s voice behind them on the stairs, and turned. “Father?” she said, peering against the door’s light. “Come right in.” And she came up as he quickly removed his oddly shaped hat, and they shook hands. “This is Father Jackson, Rufus and Catherine,” she said. “He has come specially from Chattanooga. Father, this is Rufus, and this is Catherine.”

“Yes, we’ve already introduced ourselves,” said Father Jackson, as if he thought it was funny. That’s a lie, Rufus reflected. Father Jackson left one hand at rest for a moment on Catherine, then removed it as if he had forgotten her. “And where is Mrs. Follet?” he asked, almost whispering “Mrs. Follet.”

“If you’ll just wait a moment, Father, she isn’t quite ready.”

“Of course.” He leaned towards Aunt Hannah and said, in a grinding, scarcely audible voice, “Is she—chuff-chuff-chuff?”

“Oh yes,” Hannah replied.

“But does she Whehf-wheff-whehf-whef-tized?”

“I’m afraid not, Father,” said Hannah, gravely. “I wasn’t quite sure enough, myself, to tell her. I’m sorry to burden you with it but I felt I should leave that to you.”

“You were right, Miss Lynch. Absolutely.” He looked around, his head gliding, his hat in his hand. “Now little man,” he said, “if you’ll kindly relieve me of my hat.”

“Rufus,” said Hannah. “Take Father’s hat to the hat rack.”

Bewildered, he did so. The hat rack was in plain sight.

“Now Father, if you won’t mind waiting just a moment,” Hannah said, showing him in to the sitting room. “Rufus: Catherine: sit here with Father. Excuse me,” she added, and she hastened upstairs.

Father Jackson strode efficiently across the room, sat in their father’s chair, crossed his knees narrowly, and looked, frowning, at the carefully polished toe of his right shoe. They watched him, and Rufus wondered whether to tell him whose chair it was. Father Jackson held his long, heavily veined right hand palm outward, at arm’s length, and, frowning, examined his nails. He certainly wouldn’t have sat in it, Rufus felt, if he had known whose chair it was, so it would be mean not to tell him. But if he was told now, it would make him feel bad, Rufus thought. Catherine noticed, with interest, that outside the purple vest he wore a thin gold chain; on the chain was a small gold crucifix. Father Jackson changed knees and, frowning, examined the carefully polished toe of his left shoe. Better not tell him, Rufus thought; it would be mean. How do you get such a blue face, Catherine wondered; I wish my face was blue, not red. Father Jackson, frowning, looked all around the room and smiled, faintly, as his gaze came to rest on some point above and beyond the heads of the children. Both turned to see what he was smiling at, but there was nothing there except the picture of Jesus when Jesus was a little boy, staying up late in his nightgown and talking to all the wise men in the temple. “Oh,” Rufus realized; “that’s why.”

When they turned Father Jackson was frowning again and looking at them just as he had looked at his nails. He quickly smiled, though not as nicely as he had smiled at Jesus, and changed his way of looking so that it did not seem that he was curious whether they were really clean. But he still looked as if he were displeased about something. They both looked back, wondering what he was displeased about. Was Catherine wetting her panties, Rufus wondered; he looked at her but she looked all right to him. What was Rufus doing that the man looked so unpleasant, Catherine wondered. She looked at him, but all he was doing was looking at the man. They both looked at him, wishing that if he was displeased with them he would tell them why instead of looking like that, and wishing that he would sit in some other chair. He looked at both of them, feeling that their rude staring was undermining his gaze and his silence, by which he had intended to impress them into a sufficiently solemn and receptive state for the things he intended to say to them; and wondering whether or no he should reprimand them. Surely, he decided, if they lack manners even at such a time as this, this is the time to speak of it.