A Death In The Family (34 page)

“Children must not stare at their elders,” he said. “That is ill-bred.”

“Huh?” both of them asked. What’s “stare,” they wondered; “elders”; “ill-bred”?

“Say, ‘Sir,’ or ‘I beg your pardon, Father.’ ”

“Sir?” Rufus said.

“You,” Father Jackson said to Catherine.

“Sir?” Catherine said.

“You must not stare at people—look at them, as you are looking at me.”

“Oh,” Rufus said. Catherine’s face turned red.

“Say, ‘Excuse me, Father.’ ”

“Excuse me, Father.”

“You,” Father Jackson said to Catherine.

Catherine became still redder.

“Excuse me, Father,” Rufus whispered.

“No prompting, please,” Father Jackson broke in, in a voice pitched for a large class. “Come now, little girl, it is never too soon to learn to be little ladies and little gentlemen, is it?”

Catherine said nothing.

“Is it?” Father Jackson asked Rufus.

“I don’t know,” Rufus replied.

“I consider that a thoroughly uncivil answer to a civil question,” said Father Jackson.

“Yes,” Rufus said, beginning to turn cold in the pit of his stomach. What was “uncivil”?

“You agree,” Father Jackson said. “Say, ‘yes, Father.’ ”

“Yes, Father,” Rufus said.

“Then you are aware of your incivility. It is deliberate and calculated,” Father Jackson said.

“No,” Rufus said. He could not understand the words but clearly he was being accused.

Father Jackson leaned back in their father’s chair and closed his eyes and folded his hands. After a moment he opened his eyes and said, “Little boy, little sister” (he nudged his long blue chin towards Catherine), “this is neither the time nor place for reprimands.” His hands unfolded; he leaned forward, tapping his right kneecap with his right forefinger, and frowning fiercely, said in a voice which sounded very gentle but was not, “But I just want to tell ...” They heard Hannah on the stairs. “Children,” he said, rising, “this must wait another time.” He pointed his jaw at Hannah, raising his eyebrows.

“Will you come up, Father?” she asked in a shut voice.

Without looking again at the children, he followed her upstairs.

They looked each other in the eyes; their mouths hung open; they listened. It was as they had begun to expect it would be: the steps of two along the upper hallway, the opening of their mother’s door, their mother’s strangely shrouded voice, the closing of the door: silence.

Taking great care not to creak, they stole up to the middle of the stairs. They could hear no words, only the tilt and shape of voices: their mother’s, still so curiously shrouded, so submissive, so gentle; it seemed to ask questions and to accept answers. The man’s voice was subdued and gentle but rang very strongly with the knowledge that it was right and that no other voice could be quite as right; it seemed to say unpleasant things as if it felt they were kind things to say, or again, as if it did not care whether or not they were kind because in any case they were right, it seemed to make statements, to give information, to counter questions with replies which were beyond argument or even discussion, and to try to give comfort whether what it was saying could give comfort or not. Now and again their mother’s way of questioning sounded to the children as if she wondered whether something could be fair, could possibly be true, could be so cruel, but whenever such tones came into their mother’s voice the man’s voice became still more ringing and overbearing, or still more desirous to comfort, or both; and their mother’s next voice was always very soft. Aunt Hannah’s voice was almost as clear and light as always, but there was now in it also a kind of sweetness and of sorrow they had not heard in it before. Mainly she seemed only to agree with Father Jackson, to add her voice to his, though much more kindly, in this overpowering of their mother. But now and again it seemed to explain more fully, and more gently, something which he had just explained, and twice it questioned almost as their mother questioned, but with more spirit, with an edge almost of bitterness or temper. And on these two occasions Father Jackson’s voice shifted and lost a bit of its vibrancy, and for a moment he talked as rapidly in a circle, seeming to assure them that of course he did not at all mean what they had thought he meant, but only, that (and then the voice would begin to gather assurance) ; they must realize (and now it had almost its old drive); in fact, of course—and now he was back again, and seemed to be saying precisely what he had said before, only with still more authority and still less possibility of disagreement. And then their Aunt Hannah murmured agreement in an oddly cool, remote tone, and their mother’s voice of acceptance was scarcely audible at all.

Once in a while when these voices came to crises in their subdued turmoil Rufus and Catherine looked into each other’s cold, bright eyes which brightened and chilled the more with every intensification of the man’s voice, and every softening and defeat of their mother’s voice. But most of the time they only stared at the knob on their mother’s door, shifting delicately on the stairs whenever they became cramped. They could not conceive of what was being done to their mother, but in his own way each was sure that it was something evil, to which she was submitting almost without a struggle, and by which she was deceived. Rufus repeatedly saw himself flinging open the door and striding in, a big stone in his hand, and saying, “You stop hurting my mother.” Catherine knew only that a tall stranger in black, with a frightening jaw and a queer hat, a man whom she hated and feared, had broken into their house, had been welcomed first by Aunt Hannah and then by her mother herself, had sat in her father’s chair as if he thought he belonged there, talked meanly to her in words she could not understand, and was now doing secret and cruel things to her mother while Aunt Hannah looked on. If Daddy was here he would kill him. She wished Daddy would hurry up and come and kill him and she wanted to see it. But Rufus realized that his Aunt Hannah and even his mother were on Father Jackson’s side and against him, and that they would just put him out of the room and punish him terribly and go right on with whatever awful thing it was they were doing. And Catherine remembered, with a jolt, that Daddy would not come back because he was down at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s and now they would see him again and then they would never see him any more until heaven.

But suddenly there was a kind of creaking and soft thumping and the voices changed. Father Jackson’s voice was even more strongly in charge, now, than before, although it did not seem that he was arguing, or informing, or trying to bring comfort, or even that he was speaking to either of the two women. Most of its theatrical resonance had left it, and all of its dominance. He seemed to be speaking as if to someone at least as much more assured and strong than he was, as he was more assured and strong than their mother was, and his voice had something of their mother’s humbleness. Yet it was a very confident voice, as if it were sure that the person who was being addressed would approve what was said and what was asked, and would not rebuff him as he had rebuffed their mother. And in some way the voice was even more authoritative than before, as if Father Jackson were speaking not for himself but for, as well as to, the person he addressed, and were speaking with the power of that person as well as in manly humility before that person. Clearly, also, the voice loved its own sound, inseparably from its love of the sound and contour of the words it spoke, as naturally as a fine singer delights inseparably in his voice and in the melody he is singing. And clearly, although not one word was audible to the children, the voice was not mistaken in this love. Not a word was distinct from where they stood, but the shapes and rhythms and the inflections were as lovely and as bemusing as any songs they had ever heard. In general rhythm, Rufus began to realize, it was not unlike the prayers that Dr. Whittaker said; and he realized, then, that Father Jackson also was praying. But where Dr. Whittaker gave his words and phrases special emphasis and personal coloring, as though they were matters which required argument and persuasion, Father Jackson spoke almost wholly without emphasis and with only the subtlest coloring, as if the personal emotion, the coloring, were cast against the words from a distance, like echoes. He spoke as if all that he said were in every idea and in every syllable final, finished, perfected beyond disquisition long before he was born; and truth and eternity dwelt like clearest water in the rhythms of his language and in the contours of his voice; his voice accepted and bore this language like the bed of a brook. They looked at each other once more; Rufus could see that Catherine did not understand. “He’s saying his prayers,” he whispered.

She neither understood him nor believed him but she realized. with puzzlement, that now the man was being nice, though she did not even want him to be nice to her mother, she did not want him to be anything, to anybody, anywhere. But it was clear to both of them that things were better now than they had been before; they could hear it in his voice, which at once enchanted and obscurely disturbed them, and they could hear it in the voices of the two women, which now and again, when he seemed to pause for breath, chimed in with a short word or two, a few times with whole sentences. Both their voices were more tender, more alive, and more inhuman, than they had ever heard them before; and this remoteness from humanity troubled them. They realized that there was something to which their mother and their great-aunt were devoted, something which gave their voices peculiar vitality and charm, which was beyond and outside any love that was felt for them; and they felt that this meant even more to their mother and their great-aunt than they did, or than anyone else in the world did. They realized, fairly clearly, that the object of this devotion was not this man whom they mistrusted, but they felt that he was altogether too deeply involved in it. And they felt that although everything was better for their mother than it had been a few minutes before, it was far worse in one way. For before, she had at least been questioning, however gently. But now she was wholly defeated and entranced, and the transition to prayer was the moment and mark of her surrender. They stared so long and so gloomily at the doorknob, turning over such unhappy and uncertain intuitions in their souls, that the staring, round white knot became all that they saw in the universe except a subtly beating haze pervaded with magnificent quiet sound; so that when the doorbell rang they were so frightened that their hearts contracted.

Then, with almost equal terror, they realized that they would be caught on the stairs. They started down, in haste as desperate as their efforts to be silent. The door burst open above them. She can’t see, they realized (for it was Hannah who came out), and in the same instant they realized: but she can hear better than anybody. A stair creaked loudly; terror struck them; against it, they continued. “Yes,” Hannah called sharply; she was already on the stairs. The doorbell rang again. On the last stair, they were hideously noisy; they wanted only to disappear in time. They ducked through the sitting-room door and watched her pass; they were as insane with excitement as if they could still dare hope they had not been discovered, and solemnly paralyzed in the inevitability of dreadful reprimand and of physical pain.

Hannah didn’t even glance back at them: she went straight to the door.

It was Mr. Starr. Usually he wore suits as brown and hairy as his mustache, but this morning he wore a dark blue suit and a black tie. In his hand he carried a black derby.

“Walter,” Aunt Hannah said, “you know what all you’re doing means to us.”

“Aw now,” Walter said.

“Come in,” she said. “Mary’ll be right down. Children, you know Mr. Starr ...”

“Course we do,” Mr. Starr said, smiling at them with his warm brown eyes through the lenses. He put the hand holding the derby on Rufus’ shoulder and the other on Catherine’s cheek. “You come on in and sit with me, will you, till your mother’s ready.”

He walked straight for their father’s chair, veered unhappily, and sat on a chair next the wall.

“Well, so you’re coming down and visit us,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Coming down,” Walter said. “Or ma—did your mama say anything about maybe you were coming down sometime, and pay us a visit?”

“Huh-uh.”

“Oh, well, there’s lots of time. Did you ever hear a gramophone?”

“She can’t hardly hear when she does.”

“Eigh?” He seemed extremely puzzled.

“Uncle Andrew says she’s crazy even to try.”

“Who?”

“Why, Granma.” Mr. Starr had never before seemed stupid, but now Rufus began to think his memory was as bad as those of the boys at the corner. Could he be teasing? It would be very queer if Mr. Starr would tease. He decided he should trust him. “You know, when she phones, like you said.”

Mr. Starr thought that over for a moment and then he seemed to understand. But almost the moment he understood he started to laugh, so he must have been teasing, after all. Rufus was deeply hurt. Then almost immediately he stopped laughing as if he were shocked at himself.

“Well now,” he said. “I begin to see how we both got a bit in a muddle. You’d never heard of the thing I was talking about, and it sounds mighty like grandma phone, did you ever hear grandmaphone. Of course. Naturally. But what I was talking about was a nice box that music comes out of. Did you ever hear music come out of a box?”

“Huh-uh.”

“Well down home, believe it or not, we got a box that music comes out of. Would you like to hear it sometime?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. We’ll see if that can’t be arranged. Soon. Now would you like to know what they call this box?”

“Uh-huh.”

“A gram-o-phone. See? It sounds very much like grandma phone, but it’s just a little different. Gram-o-phone. Can you say it?”

“Gram-uh-phone.”

“That’s right. Can Baby Sister say it, I wonder?”

“Catherine? He means you.”

“Gran-muh-phone.”

“Gra
mm
-uh-phone.”

“Gra
mm
-muh-phone.”