My Brother's Keeper

by Marcia Davenport

  “Seymour!” said Mrs. Holt from the drawing-room doorway.

  “We’re going,” cried Seymour. But he had his arms round his mother and Randall was jumping up and down, waiting his turn.

  Mrs. Holt took a step forward. John Holt moved past Lily and the children and with a slight bow gestured his mother into the drawing-room.

  “The children are to go straight upstairs to Nana,” she said.

  “The children want to kiss their mother first,” said John. Lily, with Randall’s warm arms hugging her and Seymour clinging to her skirts, felt a great lurch of joy. She could scarcely believe this, she was overcome, her legs felt weak beneath her. She buried her face in Randall’s neck to hide the tears that she could not restrain, though she knew that the sight would infuriate Mrs. Holt. Oh, she thought, what does it matter, what can it matter now, when we are so soon to be free. She dried her eyes quickly as she bent over the children, whispering to them to mind their grandmother and run upstairs at once for their naps.

  But in the drawing-room, sitting over after-dinner coffee with John and his mother, in silence as oppressive as the maroon plush draperies and the inlaid ebony furniture, Lily had a frightening thought. Always on Sunday afternoons John took the boys for a walk after their naps. This was an old Chelsea custom which Lily knew he greatly enjoyed. He had often told her of his father and himself, a little boy of five, dressed in their Sunday best, walking sedately west on Twenty-third Street as far as the pleasant green bank of the river, where most of their friends and neighbors also promenaded, taking the air and greeting one another with stately bows and sweeps of their high beaver hats. John had many reasons, Lily knew, for keeping affectionately to this custom; not the least must be, as it had been for his father, the pleasure of an hour’s freedom from the iron regimen of Mrs. Holt; perhaps from Mrs. Holt herself? Lily would have enjoyed her own daring in pursuing such a thought, except that she had become so worried about what was to happen this afternoon. She was afraid to stay alone in the house with Mrs. Holt after John and the boys had gone out. She wished she could go with them. But the weather was bad, grey and lowering, and the streets impossible for her. The pavements were thick with slush and melting snow. John and the boys could wear high cloth-topped galoshes, but Lily could not manage her skirts in such conditions, and did not even own any footgear designed for walking such as no lady would have occasion to do.

  Once again John surprised her. He set down his coffee-cup and broke the silence to say quietly, “Mother, it is so bad underfoot today that I wonder if you would mind my taking the horses and driving out? Then Lily could go with us too.”

  Lily’s heart pumped hard under her tight dove-colored Basque. Mrs. Holt’s nostrils narrowed and she said, barely moving her lips, “This is Reilly’s afternoon off.”

  “I know. I don’t need him. I thought I could hire a buggy at the stables and drive our horses in it myself.”

  Lily watched Mrs. Holt anxiously. She saw that the old lady wanted peremptorily to refuse; yet to do so before Lily would be to put herself in a position so unreasonably disagreeable as to be untenable even for her. She only said, “Well, I suppose …” and rose abruptly to leave the room. John stood up and escorted her to the door; then he returned to stand beside Lily’s chair, looking down at her.

  “Oh, John!” she said, clasping his hands and holding them to her breast, “how sweet of you! You understood!”

  He smiled. His face wore an expression of calm and of something which Lily would later remember as a strength that she had never known in him before. She did not realize how much assurance he had gained in the brief time, not two full days, since he had faced the truths about his mother and his family and himself, and found the determination to act like a man. He had even told Lily last night of his feeling that once he had made the break and established himself independently he would for the first time have won his mother’s real respect, and he believed that she would turn over to him sufficent funds, which were rightly his, to make their new life comfortable. He bent over Lily and said, “I thought we might drive over to Murray Hill and have a look at some of those new houses going up there. We’ll just drive past them today, to get a general idea …”

  She held his hand to her cheek and caressed it. “It’s too wonderful,” she whispered. “Too good to be true. You darling!” She looked up at him with wet eyes. He kissed her and patted her shoulder.

  “I’ll walk over to the stables,” he said, “and be back with the buggy in a little over half an hour. You be downstairs here, all ready with the boys.”

  The children, pink-cheeked from their naps and blissfully excited at the prospect of the drive, were all dressed to go out, standing at the drawing-room window watching eagerly for their father. Lily hovered behind them, feeling in her own joy and excitement like a child herself. But she must remember to be watchful, there were so many rules to obey, so much to fear … “Darlings,” she whispered, gently placing the boys’ mittened hands close to their sides, “remember not to touch the curtains … don’t press your noses to the glass … you know Grandmama doesn’t like you to look out the front windows …”

  “But we have to watch,” cried Seymour, craning his neck. “We have to watch for Papa.”

  “Watch for Papa,” echoed Randall, standing on tiptoe.

  “Yes of course … yes. He’ll be here in a moment.”

  But Lily looked at the tomb-shaped onyx clock on the mantel. It was fifty minutes since John had left for the stables. He should be here. Perhaps it had taken longer than he expected to arrange for the livery buggy. She was uneasy, but principally, in some gnawing way, about Mrs. Holt. This plan for the afternoon had seemed from the very first too good to be true and Lily was haunted with the fear, until now unrecognized, that somehow Mrs. Holt intended to spoil it. Oh dear, she thought, I mustn’t worry, I must stop worrying. She put an arm round each of the boys and asked them, “Shall we go over to the piano and sing a song while we wait for Papa?”

  Randall clapped his hands but Seymour shook his head. Then Randall, seeing his mistake, shook his curly, capped head too. “No,” they cried, “we have to watch for Papa!”

  The ten minutes to the full hour had flown. Now Lily felt real fear. Where was John? She had been hoping he would arrive and take them out before Mrs. Holt should find some reason for leaving the library at the second floor back, where she sat when she was alone, to come downstairs with some purpose in mind which would prevent their going out after all. As if to confirm her fear, Lily, listening hard for the horses in the street outside, heard instead the heavy, even step of Mrs. Holt upstairs. She heard it pace from the library at the other end of the house, along the second-floor hall. Crouching there with an arm round each of the boys, Lily held her breath and listened in acute suspense. Would she hear the horses, would they come trotting quickly, quickly as she was praying? Would Mrs. Holt by a miracle go along the passage to her bedroom overhead at the front of the house, instead of down here to wreak some malice against Lily?

  No. Lily’s heart lurched sickly as the footsteps attacked the stairs, deliberately, relentlessly. Down they came, one by one, while Lily held the boys, one in each arm, and prayed almost aloud for John to hurry. She strained harder than ever to hear the first sound of the horses trotting up the street. Mrs. Holt was halfway down the stairs, then she was almost at the bottom, when Lily started with a low cry. There was a sound outside in the street, but not the trotting of horses; Lily heard a man running. Mrs. Holt’s footsteps passed before the closed door of the drawing-room and Lily peered sickly through the window to see a youth running all out of breath, as fast as possible, straight to the gate, through the yard, up the high front steps… .

  “What’s that?” cried Randall, and Seymour said, “Where’s Papa?”

  “Sh— sh—” Lily did not know that the children could feel her trembling in monstrous terror. “Sh—” She strained to listen. She heard the heavy front door opened by Mrs. Holt. She heard the br
eathless gasping voice of the man, a flood of something in a heavy brogue. She moved across the room with clumsy, stumbling steps, dragging the children, clutching their shoulders. It was Seymour who reached out and opened the drawing-room door. Lily stood there, gazing at the tall black figure of Mrs. Holt, sharp and solid in the open doorway, with the panting man facing her on the threshold.

  “Accident?” the cold heavy voice of Mrs. Holt was asking. “An accident?”

  “Yes mum. T’was that roan o’ Mr. Duryea’s. Bolted, it did, acrost the yard and Mr. Holt, mum, he tried to stop it.” The man’s voice wavered and broke. “Oh, Mother o’ God, mum!”

  “Control yourself! What happened?” Mrs. Holt’s tone was like a blow in the face.

  “He—he slupped, mum. There’s ice round the trough, he was standin’ there waitin’ while we harnessed, and this roan broke out, ugly like, rearin’ right up in Duryea’s gig … ye see, mum? Ye see how t’was?”

  Lily swayed on her feet, clinging to the children. “Was?” she heard Mrs. Holt say. “You mean. What do you mean? My son?”

  “Och, God forgive me, mum, it’s tryin’ I am to tell ye—he’s—he’s—t’was his head, mum, got kicked. He’s—”

  “No!” shrieked Lily. She howled like an animal. “No, oh no. No … No …”

  CHAPTER 2

  It was hot, Seymour thought, walking home from school; as hot as July. It did not seem like May at all. The suffocating heaviness of New York’s summer had already closed in like a hot lid clamped over a stewpot, and Seymour as he trudged along was thinking of freedom and Hare Island. He could smell the good salt air in imagination, and instead of this drooping, dusty yard, his mind’s eye was full of dories, dinghies, masts, barnacled rocks and lobster-pots. His steps lagged as he turned in along the path through the front yard, counting up the weeks and then the days until the fifteenth of June. He had better hurry these last few steps, in order to stay out of trouble; he had turned in at the gate at the stipulated minute of half past three. His grandmother always sat waiting for him in her red satin chair in the bay window of the library at the back of the house, but she knew to the instant when he arrived home. She had Nana or a maid posted to watch for him. The front door always swung open just as he started to climb the high stoop.

  It was out of the question for him to be late, but he would have liked it today. He had spring fever, he felt both listless and restless, and dreadfully disinclined for the daily rite of reporting to his grandmother. He wanted to dawdle and waste time and whack at things with a switch. He would have liked even better to go over with Tom Berry and Willy Dean to the shore of the river where he used to go walking on Sundays with Papa. Some boys teased Seymour for not being allowed to go where he pleased and play as he liked; others advised him to ignore his grandmother.

  “What can she do to you?” asked Willy Dean. “Give you a licking? What do you care, she couldn’t hurt much, an old lady like that. You ought to feel my Pa’s right arm.” The inference was that a boy of thirteen was rather fortunate to be without a father who could exercise his authority in the coal cellar or the wood shed.

  “Aw, no,” Seymour had to reply. “It’s just that—” He could not explain. Sometimes he wanted not to be able to explain to himself. It always came round to Mama and the way it was with her and Grandmama. If Seymour were late from school Grandmama could actually find a way to blame it on Mama. Seymour was wise far beyond his age in ways of keeping the dubious peace. When there were scenes he preferred not to be the cause of them, and once they had started, it was only the course of prudence to prefer to be on Grandmama’s side.

  He dragged his feet, moving up the front walk. He was disgusted at the thought of the afternoon which yawned before him. While he was playing some baby game with Randall in the back yard, with Grandmama watching from her window, Tom and Willy would be wading in the rocky shallows of the river bank, or fishing from Old Rory’s Pier where they were strictly forbidden to go; and when they left the river to start home they would stop at Mickle’s Ice Cream Parlor on Tenth Avenue, also forbidden, and eat three-colored ice cream out of wobbly-footed tin dishes with spoons that even Mama said, shuddering, were probably never washed. And Mama did not often get in a word about such matters.

  Seymour climbed the high steps of the front stoop, watching the door swing open for him. But instead of Nana or Minnie standing behind it, there was Mama peering round the edge of the door with her finger to her lips. She was smiling at Seymour and bending down for his kiss and his hug. But he held back. He had the familiar sensation of creeping uneasiness which presaged some kind of trouble, and he said, as he laid his round school cap on the hall table, “Mama, you mustn’t, you know that. You’d better go back to Randall.” He waved at the open door of the drawing-room, which ought to be closed, with Mama and Randall working at the piano together until Grandmama should give the signal for the boys to go out to play.

  “I only wanted to meet you, darling,” said Lily. Her high voice was more like a child’s than Seymour’s.

  “She doesn’t like it, Mama. If she doesn’t hear the piano—” He thrust his head into the drawing-room and signalled Randall to play and play hard. Then he started for the stairs. Lily stood there, pouting. “But you haven’t kissed me,” she whined. Seymour pecked quickly at her cheek and hurried up the stairs. He did not look behind him, he knew that if he did he would see his mother standing there moping, her eyes full of tears.

  As usual his grandmother was sitting straight and stiff in her chair, with her back turned to the door as Seymour opened it. She said, “Good afternoon, Seymour.”

  He did not miss the rasp in her voice.

  “Good afternoon, Grandmama.” He went round to stand before her. There was no nonsense about kisses here. Seymour was pronounced too old for such sloppiness except at bedtime and breakfast time.

  “Why did your mother open the door, Seymour?”

  “I don’t know, Grandmama—she just—”

  “Just. Either she practises with Randall or she doesn’t.”

  It went through Seymour’s mind for the thousandth time that his grandmother ought not to say such things to him, but he knew very well why she did say them. He had only to glance at the plush-covered table to recapture the sensation that he was eavesdropping while she talked to his father, and this felt also as if he were eavesdropping upon himself. His grandmother talked to him with the same mixture of intimacy and command, but she never treated him as her equal any more than she had Papa, a grown man. Seymour stood before her the picture of deference, but his bland expression concealed the thought: she never looks a day older, she’s seventy-six years old and she may live forever. I wonder what would happen if I simply quit obeying her. He knew very well why he was not prepared to quit, though he had never pursued all the reasons, it was really unnecessary. They all led to his mother and Randall.

  “Did you bring home the corrected Latin exercise, Seymour?” There had been trouble about that yesterday.

  “Yes, Grandmama.” He opened his school satchel, and handed her the copy-book. She can’t understand a word of it, he thought. But he had to admire her for acting as if she could. She sat frowning over the pages and, nodding at the teacher’s notations, gave him back the book. Then she looked at her watch while Seymour anticipated each of her actions.

  “It is time for Randall to stop,” she said. “You may go and tell him. Take him out and play at something quiet, in the shade of the ailanthus tree. The sun is hot today.”

  “Very hot.” Seymour wished he dared speak as sourly as he felt.

  His grandmother moved her head slightly, with the upward tilt which was the signal for dismissal. Seymour left the room, torn between relief and the prospective dullness of the hour ahead. He went down to the drawing-room and, without concern for interrupting Randall in the middle of a passage, told him it was time to go out.

  Lily raised her hand to hold Seymour off. Most of the time she acted like a frightened lamb, but cu
riously, when she was practising with Randall she became as determined as Mrs. Holt herself. She motioned Randall to keep on, and Seymour stood there for a moment watching the two. Randall worked willingly; his fingers which should be stiff and grubby like any small boy’s, were agile and clean, and his hands moved silkily up and down the keyboard, their backs motionless, only the fingers working with the fluid facility which was the result of talent and good teaching and hard work. He was working on a passage of Gradus ad Parnassum. Seymour, who had no great opinion of Randall’s capacities in any other respect, who often thought him a tiresome baby, had to admit that Randall already could play the piano better than anyone Seymour had ever heard; and he knew that this was the second of his grandmother’s two reasons for allowing Randall his music lessons and so much of his mother’s time and company. The first lay in the realm of all that Seymour, with shrewdness far beyond his age, did not admit to himself. He stood listening to Randall and watching his mother, lightly poised on the edge of her chair, one hand raised and its forefinger flicking off the first beat of every measure. Seymour wondered how on earth she could keep this up, day after day. He had heard Professor Mundt say that much of Randall’s progress was due to his mother’s exacting supervision of his practising. It seemed to Seymour a great fuss about a lot of nonsense. It always had seemed so; he remembered innumerable moments when sheer boredom had goaded him to interrupt the practice session by some kind of outbreak for which he might expect to be drastically punished. Since, however, all punishments were his grandmother’s absolute dictature, nothing much happened if Seymour broke out in this way. Except the time he burned the piano.

  He ought to yell at them now, he thought. Letting them finish their page wasn’t worth the trouble there would be if Grandmama did not soon see him and Randall going out to play in the back yard. He was just opening his mouth for a real sound-off when he was saved the trouble by a long, startling roll of thunder. It was so dim in the heavily-curtained drawing-room that he had not noticed the sudden darkness which had blanketed the glaring afternoon. Hooray! he thought. He had not counted on such luck as a thunderstorm. His mother jumped up, squealing; she was afraid of storms and horses and water and fire and almost everything else. Randall stopped practising and Lily ran to Seymour and threw her arms round him and buried her face in his neck.