A Death in the Family

by James Agee

  "And say your prayers," his mother said, looking at him suddenly with so much love that he was bewildered. "You're a big boy now, and you can say them by yourself; can't you?" He nodded. She took him by the shoulders and looked at him almost as if she were threading a needle. As she looked at him, some kind of astonishment and some kind of fear grew in her face. Her face began to shine; she smiled; her mouth twitched and trembled. She took him close to her and her cheek was wet. "God bless my dear little boy," she whispered, "for ever and ever! Amen," and again she held him away; her face looked as if she were moving through space at extraordinary speed. "Good-bye, my darling; oh, good-bye!"

  "Now you keep aholt a my hand," Victoria told him, the sun flashing her lenses as she looked both ways from the curb. Arching his neck and his forelegs, a bright brown horse drew a buggy crisply but sedately past; in the washed black spokes, sunlight twittered. Far down the sunlight, like a bumblebee, a yellow streetcar buzzed. The trees moved. They did not wait.

  " Victoria," he said.

  "Wait, chile," said Victoria, breathing hard. "You wait till we're safe across."

  "Now what is it, honey?" she asked, once they had attained the other curb.

  "Why is your skin so dark?"

  He saw her bright little eyes thrust into him through the little lenses and he felt a strong current of pain or danger. He knew that something was wrong. She did not answer him immediately but peered down at him sharply. Then the current passed and she looked away from him, readjusting her fingers so that she took his hand. Her face looked very far away, and resolute. "Just because, chile," she said in a stern and gentle voice. "Just because that was the way God made me."

  "Is that why you're colored, Victoria?"

  He felt a change in her hand when he said the word "colored." Again she did not answer immediately, nor would she look at him. "Yes," she said at length, "that's why I'm colored."

  He felt deeply sad as they walked along, but he did not know why. She seemed to have no more to say, and he had a feeling that it was not proper for him to say anything either. He watched her great, sad face beneath its brilliant cap, but she did not seem to know that he was watching her or even that he was there. But then he felt the pressure of her hand, and squeezed her hand, and he felt that whatever had been wrong was all right again.

  After quite a little while Victoria said, " Chile, I want to tell you sumpn." He waited: they walked. " Victoria don't pay it no mind, because she knows you. She knows you wouldn't say a mean thing to nobody, not for this world. But dey is lots of other colored folks dat don't know you, honey. And if you say that, you know, about their skins, about their coloh, they goan think you're trying to be mean to em. They goan to feel awful bad and maybe they be mad at you too, when Victoria knows you doan mean nuthin by it, cause they don't know you like Victoria do. Do you understand me, chile?" He looked earnestly up at her. "Don't say nuthin bout skins, or coloh, wheah colored people can heah you. Cause they goana think you're mean to em. So you be careful." And again she squeezed his hand.

  He thought about Victoria while they walked and he wished that she was happy, and he felt that it was because of him that she was not happy. " Victoria," he said.

  "What is it, honey?"

  "I didn't want to be mean to you."

  She stopped abruptly and with creaking and difficulty squatted down in the middle of the sidewalk so that a man who was passing stepped suddenly aside and looked coldly down as he went by. She put both hands on his shoulders and her large, kind face and her kind smell were close to him. "Lord bless you, baby, Victoria knows you didn't! Victoria knows you is de goodest little boy in all dis world! She just had to tell you, you see. Cause colored folks has a hard time in dis world and she knows you wouldn't want to make em feel bad, not even if you didn't mean to."

  "I didn't want to make you feel bad."

  "Bless your little heart. I don't feel bad, not one bit. You make me feel happy, and your mama makes me feel happy, and there's not one thing in the world I wouldn't do for de bole of you, honey, and dat you know. Dat you know," she said again, rocking her head and smiling and patting both his shoulders. "I missed you terrible, honey," she said, but somehow he felt that she was not talking exactly to him. "I couldn't hardly love you more if you was my own baby." A silence opened around them in which he felt at once great space, the space almost of darkness itself, and great peace and comfort; and the whole of this immensity was pervaded by her vague face and by the waving light of leaves. "Now let's git along," she said, creaking upright and smoothing her starched garments. "We don't want to keep your granmaw waitin."

  And there was the dusty ivy on the wall, the small glasshouse in front, and on the porch, Aunt Amelia and his grandma. Even when they were still across the street he saw his Aunt Amelia wave and Victoria waved gaily back, chuckling and croaking, "Hello," and he waved too; and Amelia leaned towards his grandmother who sought out and tilted her little trumpet and Amelia leaned close to it and then they both turned to look and Grandma got up and he could hear her high, "Hello," and they were at the front steps, and Grandma came cautiously down the steps from the porch, and they all met on the brick walk in the shade of the magnolia, while Aunt Amelia came up smiling from behind her mother. And soon Victoria left; she disappeared around a corner, a few blocks up the street, handsomely and gradually as a sailboat.

  PART II

  Chapter 8

  A few minutes before ten, the phone rang. Mary hurried to quiet it. "Hello?"

  The voice was a man's, wiry and faint, a country voice. It was asking a question, but she could not hear it clearly.

  "Hello?" she asked again. "Will you please talk a little louder? I can't hear… I said I can't hear you! Will you talk a little louder please? Thank you."

  Now, straining and impatient, she could hear, though the voice seemed still to come from a great distance.

  "Is this Miz Jay Follet?"

  "Yes; what is it?" (for there was a silence); "yes, this is she."

  After further silence the voice said, "There's been a slight-your husband has been in a accident."

  His head! she told herself.

  "Yes," she said, in a caved-in voice. At the same moment the voice said, "A serious accident."

  "Yes," Mary said more clearly.

  "What I wanted to ask, is there a man in his family, some kin, could come out? We'd appreciate if you could send a man out here, right away."

  "Yes; yes, there's my brother. Where should he come to?"

  "I'm out at Powell Station, at Brannick's Blacksmith Shop, bout twelve miles out the Ball Camp Pike."

  "Brannick's bl-"

  "B-r-a-n-n-i-c-k. It's right on the left of the Pike comin out just a little way this side, Knoxvul side of Bell's Bridge." She heard muttering, and another muttering voice. "Tell him he can't miss it. We'll keep the light on and a lantern out in front."

  "Do you have a doctor?"

  "How's that again, ma'am?"

  "A doctor, do you have one? Should I send a doctor?"

  "That's all right, ma'am. Just some man that's kin."

  "He'll come right out just as fast as he can." Walter's auto, she thought. "Thank you very much for calling."

  "That's all right, ma'am. I sure do hate to give you bad news."

  "Good night."

  "Good-bye, ma'am."

  She found she was scarcely standing, she was all but hanging from the telephone. She stiffened her knees, leaned against the wall, and rang.

  "Andrew?"

  "Mary?"

  She drew a deep breath.

  "Mary."

  She drew another deep breath; she felt as if her lungs were not large enough.

  "Mary?"

  Dizzy, seeing gray, trying to control her shaking voice, she said, "Andrew, there's been an-a man just phoned, from Powell's Station, about twelve miles out towards LaFollette, and he says-he says Jay-has met with a very serious accident. He wants…"

  "Oh, my God, Mary!"

&nbs
p; "He said they want some man of his family to come out just as soon as possible and, help bring him in, I guess."

  "I'll call Walter, he'll take me out."

  "Yes do, will you, Andrew?"

  "Of course I will. Just a minute."

  "What?"

  "Aunt Hannah."

  "May I speak to her when you're through?"

  "Certainly. Where is he hurt, Mary?"

  "He didn't say."

  "Well, didn't you-no matter."

  "No I didn't," she said, now realizing with surprise that she had not, "I guess because I was so sure. Sure it's his head, that is."

  "Do they-shall I get Dr. Dekalb?"

  "He says no; just you."

  "I guess there's already a doctor there."

  "I guess."

  "I'll call Wa-wait, here's Aunt Hannah."

  "Mary."

  "Aunt Hannah, Jay is in a serious accident, Andrew has to go out. Would you come up and wait with me and get things ready just in case? Just in case he's well enough to be brought home and not the hospital?"

  "Certainly, Mary. Of course I will."

  "And will you tell Mama and Papa not to worry, not to come out, give them my love. We might as well just be calm as we can, till we know."

  "Of course we must. I'll be right up."

  "Thank you, Aunt Hannah."

  She went into the kitchen and built a quick fire and put on a large kettle of water and a small kettle, for tea. The phone rang.

  "Mary! Where do I go?"

  "Why, Powell's Station, out the Pike towards…"

  "I know, but exactly where? Didn't he say?"

  "He said Brannick's blacksmith shop. B-r-a-n-n-i-c-k. Do you hear?"

  "Yes. Brannick."

  "He said they'll keep the lights on and you can't miss it. It's just to the left of the Pike just this side of Bell 's Bridge. Just a little way this side."

  "All right, Mary, Walter will come by here and we'll bring Aunt Hannah on our way."

  "All right. Thank you, Andrew."

  She put on more kindling and hurried into the downstairs bedroom. How do I know, she thought; he didn't even say; I didn't even ask. By the way he talks he may be-she whipped off the coverlet, folded it, and smoothed the pad. I'm just simply not going to think about it until I know more, she told herself. She hurried to the linen closet and brought clean sheets and pillowcases. He didn't say whether there was a doctor there or not. She spread a sheet, folded it under the foot of the mattress, pulled it smooth, and folded it under all around. Then she spread her palms along it; it was cold and smooth beneath her hands and it brought her great hope. Oh God, let him be well enough to come home where I can take care of him, where I can take good care of him. How good to rest! That's all right, ma'am. Just some man that's kin. She spread the top sheet. That's all right, ma'am. That can mean anything. It can mean there's a doctor there and although it's serious he has it in hand, under control, it isn't so dreadfully bad, although he did say it's serious or it can… A light blanket, this weather. Two, case it turns cool. She hurried and got them, unaware whether she was making such noise as might wake the children and unaware that even in this swiftness she was moving, by force of habit, almost silently. Just some man that's kin. That means it's bad, or he'd ask for me. No, I'd have to stay with the children. But he doesn't know there are children. My place'd be home anyhow, getting things ready, he knows that. He didn't suggest getting anything ready. He knew I'd know. He is a man, wouldn't occur to him. She took the end of a pillow between her teeth and pulled the slip on and plumped it and put it in place. She took the end of the second pillow between her teeth and bit it so hard the roots of her teeth ached, and pulled the slip on and plumped it. Then she set the first pillow up on edge and set the second pillow on edge against it and plumped them both and smoothed them and stood away and looked at them with her head on one side, and for a moment she saw him sitting up in bed with a tray on his knees as he had sat when he strained his back, and he looked at her, almost but not quite smiling, and she could hear his voice, grouchy, pretending to be for the fun of it. If it's his head, she remembered, perhaps he'll have to lie very flat.

  How do I know? How do I know?

  She left the pillows as they were, and turned down the bed on that side, next to the window, and smoothed it. She carefully refolded the second blanket and laid it on the lower foot of the bed, no, it would bother his poor feet. She hung it over the footboard. She stood looking at the carefully made bed, and, for a few seconds, she was not sure where she was or why she was doing this. Then she remembered and said, "oh," in a small, stupefied, soft voice. She opened the window, top and bottom, and when the curtains billowed she tied them back more tightly. She went to the hall closet and brought out the bedpan and rinsed and dried it and put it under the bed. She went to the medicine chest and took out the thermometer, shook it, washed it in cool water, dried it, and put it beside the bed in a tumbler of water. She saw that the hand towel which covered this table was dusty, and threw it into the dirty-clothes hamper, and replaced it with a fresh one, and replaced that with a dainty linen guest towel upon the border of which pansies and violets were embroidered. She saw that the front pillow had sagged a little, and set it right. She pulled down the shade. She turned out the light and dropped to her knees, facing the bed, and closed her eyes. She touched her forehead, her breastbone, her left shoulder and her right shoulder, and clasped her hands.

  "O God, if it be Thy will," she whispered. She could not think of anything more. She made the sign of the Cross again, slowly, deeply, and widely upon herself, and she felt something of the shape of the Cross; strength and quiet.

  Thy will be done. And again she could think of nothing more. She got from her knees and without turning on the light or glancing towards the bed, went into the kitchen. The water for tea had almost boiled away. The water in the large kettle was scarcely tepid. The fire was almost out. While she was putting in more kindling, she heard them on the porch.

  Hannah came in with her hands stretched out and Mary extended her own hands and took them and kissed her cheek while at the same instant they said, "Mary" and, "my dear"; then Hannah hurried to put her hat on the rack. Andrew stayed at the open door and did not speak but merely kept looking into her eyes; his own eyes were as hard and bright as those of a bird and they spoke to her of a cold and bitter incredulity, as if he were accusing something or someone (even perhaps his sister) which it was useless beyond words to accuse. She felt that he was saying, "And you can still believe in that idiotic God of yours?" Walter Starr stayed back in the darkness; Mary could just see the large lenses of his glasses, and the darkness of his mustache and of his heavy shoulders.

  "Come in, Walter," she said, and her voice was as overwarm as if she were coaxing a shy child.

  "We can't stop," Andrew said sharply.

  Walter came forward and took her hand, and gently touched her wrist with his other hand. "We shan't be long," he said.

  "Bless you," Mary murmured, and so pressed his hand that her arm trembled.

  He patted her trembling wrist four times rapidly, turned away saying, "Better be off, Andrew," and went towards his automobile. She could hear that he had left the engine running, and now she realized all the more clearly how grave matters were.

  "Everything's ready here in case-you know-he's-well enough to be brought home," Mary told Andrew.

  "Good. I'll phone, the minute I know. Anything."

  "Yes, dear."

  His eyes changed, and abruptly his hand reached out and caught her shoulder. "Mary, I'm so sorry," he said, almost crying.

  "Yes, dear," she said again, and felt that it was a vacuous reply; but by the time this occurred to her, Andrew was getting into the automobile. She stood and watched until it had vanished and, turning to go in, found that Hannah was at her elbow.

  "Let's have some tea," she said. "I've hot water all ready," she said over her shoulder as she hurried down the hall.

  Let her, Hannah th
ought, following. By all means. "Goodness no, it's boiled away! Sit down, Aunt Hannah, it'll be ready in a jiff." She hustled to the sink.

  "Let me…" Hannah began; then knew better, and hoped that Mary had not heard.

  "What?" She was drawing the water.

  "Just let me know, if there's anything I can help with."

  "Not a thing, thank you." She put the water on the stove. "Goodness, sit down." Hannah took a chair by the table. "Everything is ready that I can think of," Mary said. "That we can know about, yet." She sat at the opposite side of the table. "I've made up the downstairs bedroom" (she waved vaguely towards it), "where he stayed when his poor back was sprained, you remember." (Of course I do, Hannah thought; let her talk.) "It's better than upstairs. Near the kitchen and bathroom both and no stairs to climb and of course if need be, that is, if he needs a nurse, night nursing, we can put her in the dining room and eat in the kitchen, or even set up a cot right in the room with him; put up a screen; or if she minds that, why she can just sleep on the living-room davenport and keep the door open between. Don't you think?"

  "Certainly," Hannah said.

  "I think I'll see if I can possibly get Celia, Celia Gunn, if she's available, or if she's on a case she can possibly leave, it'll be so much nicer for everyone to have someone around who is an old friend, really one of the family, rather than just a complete stranger, don't you think?"

  Hannah nodded.

  "Even though of course Jay doesn't specially, of course she's really an old friend of mine, rather than Jay's, still, I think it would be more, well, harmonious, don't you think?"

  "Yes indeed."

  "But I guess it's just as well to wait till we hear from Andrew, not-create any needless disturbance, I guess. After all, it's very possible he'll have to be taken straight to a hospital. The man did say it was serious, after all."