A Death In The Family (4 page)

“Look here, Ralph,” he said, in a different voice. “I’m talking too much. I ...”

“Yeah, reckon our time must be about up, but what’s a few...”

“Listen here. I’m starting right on up. I ought to be there by—what time is it, do you know?”

“Hit’s two-thirty-seven, Jay. I
knowed
you’d ...”

“I ought to be there by daylight, Ralph, you tell Mother I’m coming right on up just quicks I can get there. Ralph. Is he conscious?”

“Awf an’ on, Jay. He’s been speakin yore name, Jay, hit like to break muh heart. He’ll sure thank his stars that his oldest boy, the one he always thought the most of, that you thought it was worth yer while to ...”

“Cut it out, Ralph. What the hell you think I am? If he gets conscious just let him know I’m comin’. And Ralph ...”

“Yeah?”

But now he did not want to say it. He said it anyway. “I know I got no room to talk, but—try not to drink so much that Mother will notice it. Drink some coffee fore you go back. Huh? Drink it black.”

“Sure, Jay, and don’t think I take offense so easy. I wouldn’t add a mite to her troubles, not at this time, not for this world, Jay. You know that. So Jay, I
thank
you. I
thank
you for calling it to my tention. I don’t take offense. I
thank
you, Jay. I
thank
you.”

“That’s all right, Ralph. Don’t mention it,” he added, feeling hypercritical and a little disgusted again. “Now I’ll be right along. So good-bye.”

“You tell Mary how it is, Jay. Don’t want her thinking bad of me, ringing ...”

“That’s all right. She’ll understand. Good-bye, Ralph.”

“I wouldn’t a rung you up, Jay if ...”

“That’s all right. Thanks for calling. Good-bye.”

Ralph’s voice was unsatisfied. “Well, good-bye,” he said.

Wants babying, Jay realized. Not appreciated enough. He listened. The line was still open. The hell I will, he thought, and hung up. Of all the crybabies, he thought, and went on back to the bedroom.

“Gracious
sake
,” said Mary, under her breath. “I thought he’d talk
forever
!”

“Oh, well,” Jay said, “reckon he can’t help it.” He sat on the bed and felt for his socks.

“It is your father, Jay?”

“Yup,” he said, pulling on one sock.

“Oh, you’re going up,” she said, suddenly realizing what he was doing. She put her hand on him. “Then it’s very grave, Jay,” she said very gently.

He fastened his garter and put his hand over hers. “Lord knows,” he said. “I can’t be sure enough of anything with Ralph, but I can’t afford to take the risk.”

“Of course not.” Her hand moved to pat him; his hand moved on hers. “Has the doctor seen him?” she asked cautiously.

“He says he has a chance, Ralph says.”

“That could mean so many things. It might be all right if you waited till morning. You might hear he was better, then. Not that I mean to ...”

Because, to his shame, he had done the same kinds of wondering himself, he was now exasperated afresh. The thought even flashed across his mind, That’s easy for
you
to say. He’s not
your
father, and besides you’ve always looked down at him. But he drove this thought so well away that he thought ill of himself for having believed it, and said, “Sweetheart, I’d rather wait and see what we hear in the morning, just as much as you would. It may all be a false alarm. I know Ralph goes off his trolley easy. But we just can’t afford to take that chance.”

“Of course not, Jay.” There was a loud stirring as she got from bed.

“What
you
up to?”

“Why, your breakfast,” she said, switching on the light. “Sakes
alive
!” she said, seeing the clock.

“Oh, Mary. Get on back to bed. I can pick up something downtown.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, hurrying into her bathrobe.

“Honest, it would be just as easy,” he said. He liked night lunchrooms, and had not been in one since Rufus was born. He was very faintly disappointed. But still more, he was warmed by the simplicity with which she got up for him, thoroughly awake.

“Why, Jay, that is out of the question!” she said, knotting the bathrobe girdle. She got into her slippers and shuffled quickly to the door. She looked back and said, in a stage whisper, “Bring your
shoes
—to the
kit
chen.”

He watched her disappear, wondering what in hell she meant by that, and was suddenly taken with a snort of silent amusement. She had looked so deadly serious, about the shoes. God, the ten thousand little things every day that a woman kept thinking of, on account of children. Hardly even thinking, he thought to himself, as he pulled on his other sock. Practically automatic. Like breathing.

And most of the time, he thought, as he stripped, they’re dead right. Course they’re so much in the habit of it (he stepped into his drawers) that sometimes they overdo it. But most of the time if you think even a second before you get annoyed (he buttoned his undershirt), there is good common sense behind it.

He shook out his trousers. His moment of reflection and light-heartedness was overtaken by shadow, and he felt a little foolish, for he couldn’t be sure there was anything to worry about yet, much less feel solemn about. That Ralph, he thought, hoisting the trousers and buttoning the top button. And he stood a moment looking at the window, polished with light, a deep blue-black beyond. The hour and the beauty of the night moved in him; he heard the flickering of the clock, and it sounded alien and mysterious as a rat in a wall. He felt a deep sense of solemn adventure, whether or not there was anything to feel solemn about. He sighed, and thought of his father as he could first remember him: beak-nosed, handsome, with a great, proud scowl of black mustache. He had known from away back that his father was sort of useless without ever meaning to be; the amount of burden he left to Jay’s mother used to drive him to fury, even when he was a boy. And yet he couldn’t get around it: he was so naturally gay and so deeply kind-hearted that you couldn’t help loving him. And he never meant her any harm. He meant so well. That thought used particularly to enrage Jay, and even now it occurred to him with a certain sourness. But now he reflected also: well, but damn it, he did. He may have traded on it, but he never tried to, never knew it gained him anything. He meant the best in the world. And for a moment as he looked at the window he had no mental image of his father nor any thought of him, nor did he hear the clock. He only saw the window, tenderly alight within, and the infinite dark leaning like water against its outer surface, and even the window was not a window, but only something extraordinarily vivid and senseless which for the moment occupied the universe. A sense of enormous distance stole over him, and changed into a moment of insupportable wonder and sadness.

Well, he thought: we’ve all got to go sometime.

Then life came back into focus.

Clean shirt, he thought.

He unbuttoned the top buttons of his trousers and spread his knees, squatting slightly, to hold them up. Fool thing to do, he reflected. Do it every time. (He tucked in the deep tails and settled them; the tails of this shirt were particularly long, and this always, for some reason, still made him feel particularly masculine.) If I put on the shirt first, wouldn’t have to do that fool squat. (He finished buttoning his fly.) Well (he braced his right shoulder) there’s habit for you (he braced his left shoulder and slightly squatted again, readjusting).

He sat on the bed and reached for one shoe.

Oh.

Yup.

He took his shoes, a tie, a collar and collar buttons, and started from the room. He saw the rumpled bed. Well, he thought, I can do something for her. He put his things on the floor, smoothed the sheets, and punched the pillows. The sheets were still warm on her side. He drew the covers up to keep the warmth, then laid them open a few inches, so it would look inviting to get into. She’ll be glad of that, he thought, very well pleased with the looks of it. He gathered up his shoes, collar, tie and buttons, and made for the kitchen, taking special care as he passed the children’s door, which was slightly ajar.

She was just turning the eggs. “Ready in a second,” he told her, and dodged into the bathroom. Ought to get this upstairs, he reflected for perhaps the five hundredth time.

He thrust his chin at the mirror. Not so bad, he thought, and decided just to wash. Then he reflected: after all, why had he worn a clean shirt? He could hope to God not, all he liked, but the chances were this was going to be a very solemn occasion. I’d do it for a funeral, wouldn’t I? he reflected, annoyed at his laziness. He got out his razor and stropped it rapidly.

Mary heard this lavish noise of leather, and with a small spasm of impatience shoved the eggs to the back of the stove.

Ordinarily he took a good deal of time shaving, not because he enjoyed it (he loathed it) but because if it had to be done he wanted to do it well, and because he hated to cut himself. This time, because he was in a hurry, he gave a special cold glance at the lump of chin before he leaned forward and got to work. But to his surprise, everything worked like a charm; he even had less trouble than usual at the roots of his nostrils, and with his chin, and there were no patches left. He felt so well gratified that he dabbed each cheekbone with lather and took off the little half-moons of fuzz. Still no complaints. He cleaned up the basin and flushed the lathery, hairy bits of toilet paper down the water closet. Do I? he wondered, as the water closet gargled. Nope. He reached for the collar buttons.

When Mary came to the door he was flinging over and noosing the four-in-hand, his chin stretched and tilted as it always was during this operation, with the look of an impatient horse.

“Jay,” she said softly, a little quelled by this impatient look, “I don’t mean to hurry you, but things’ll get cold.”

“I’ll be right out.” He set the knot carefully above the button, glaring into his reflected eyes, made an unusually scrupulous part in his hair, and hurried to the kitchen table.

“Aw,
darling
!” There were the bacon and eggs and the coffee, all ready, and she was making pancakes as well.

“Well you got to
eat
, Jay. It’ll still be chilly for hours.” She spoke as if in a church or library, because of the sleeping children, unconsciously, because of the time of night.

“Sweetheart.” He caught her shoulders where she stood at the stove. She turned, her eyes hard with wakefulness, and smiled. He kissed her.

“Eat your eggs,” she said. “They’re getting cold.”

He sat down and started eating. She turned the pancakes. “How many can you eat?” she asked.

“Gee, I don’t know,” he said, getting the egg down (don’t talk with your mouth full) before he answered. He was not yet quite awake enough to be very hungry, but he was touched, and determined to eat a big breakfast. “Better hold it after the first two, three.”

She covered the Pancake to keep it hot and poured another.

He noticed that she had peppered the eggs more heavily than usual. “Good eggs,” he said.

She was pleased. Not more than half consciously, she had done this because within a few hours he would doubtless eat again, at home. For the same reason she had made the coffee unusually strong. And for the same reason she felt pleasure in standing at the stove while he ate, as mountain women did.

“Good
coffee
,” he said. “Now that’s more
like
it.” She turned the pancake. She supposed she really ought to make two pots always, one that she could stand to drink and one the way he liked it, new water and a few fresh grounds put in, without ever throwing out the old ones until the pot was choked full of old grounds. But she couldn’t stand it; she would as soon watch him drink so much sulfuric acid.

“Don’t you worry,” she smiled at him. “You won’t get any from me that’s
all
the way like it!”

He frowned at her.

“Come on sit down, sweetheart,” he said.

“In a minute ...”

“Come on. I imagine two are gonna be enough.”

“You think so?”

“If it won’t I’ll make the third one.” He took her hand and drew her towards her chair. “You’ll
sit
here.” She sat down. “How about you?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“I know what.” He got up and went to the icebox.

“What are you—oh. No, Jay. Well. Thanks.”

For before she could prevent him he had poured milk into a saucepan, and now that he put it on the stove she knew she would like it.

“Want some toast?”

“No, thank you, darling. The milk, just by itself, will be just perfect.”

He finished off the eggs. She got half out of her chair. He pressed down on her shoulder as he got up. He brought back the pancakes.

“They’ll be soggy by now. Let me ...” She started up again; again he put a hand on her shoulder. “You stay
put
,” he said in a mockery of sternness. “They’re fine. Couldn’t be better.”

He plastered on butter, poured on molasses, sliced the pancakes in parallels, gave them a twist with knife and fork and sliced them crosswise.

“There’s plenty more butter,” she said.

“Got a plenty,” he said, spearing four fragments of pancake and putting them in his mouth. “Thanks.” He chewed them up, swallowed them, and speared four more. “I bet your milk’s warm.” he said, putting down his fork.

But this time she was up before he could prevent her. “You eat,” she said. She poured the white, softly steaming milk into a thick white cup and sat down with it, warming both hands on the cup, and watching him eat. Because of the strangeness of the hour, and the abrupt destruction of sleep, the necessity for action and its interruptive minutiae, the gravity of his errand, and a kind of weary exhilaration, both of them found it peculiarly hard to talk, though both particularly wanted to. He realized that she was watching him, and watched back, his eyes serious yet smiling, his jaws busy. He was glutted, but he thought to himself, I’ll finish up those pancakes if it’s the last thing I do.