by James Agee
"Not quite so strong as last time, please. Pretty strong, but not so strong as that."
"This all right?"
"A little more whiskey, please."
"Certainly."
"That looks all right."
"You all right, Poll?" her father asked. "Isn't going to your head too much?"
"It isn't going anywhere so far as I can tell."
"Good enough."
"I think perhaps it would be best if we didn't-prolong the discussion any further tonight," Catherine said, in her most genteel manner; and she patted Mary's knee.
They looked at her with astonishment and suddenly Mary and then Andrew began to laugh, and then Hannah began to laugh, and Joel said, "What's up? What's all the hee-hawing about?"
"It's Mama," Andrew shouted joyfully, and he and Hannah explained how she had suggested, in her most ladylike way, that they adjourn the discussion for the evening when all they were discussing was how much whiskey Mary could stand, and it was as if she meant that Mary was much too thirsty to wait out any more of it; and Joel gave a snort of amusement and then was caught into the contagion of this somewhat hysterical laughter, and they all roared, laughing their heads off, while Catherine sat there watching them, disapproving such levity at such a time, and unhappily suspecting that for some reason they were laughing at her; but in courtesy and reproof, and an expectation of hearing the joke, smiling and lifting her trumpet. But they paid no attention to her; they scarcely seemed to know she was there. They would quiet down now and then and moan and breathe deeply, and dry their eyes; then Mary would remember, and mimic, precisely the way her mother had patted her knee with her ringed hand, or Andrew would mimic her precise intonation as she said "prolong," or any of the four of them would roll over silently upon the tongue of the mind some particularly ticklish blend of the absurdity and horror and cruelty and relief, or would merely glance at Catherine with her smile and her trumpet, and would suddenly begin to bubble and then to spout with laughter, and another would be caught into the machinery, and then they would start all over again. Some of the time they deliberately strained for more laughter, or to prolong it, or to revive it if it had died; some of the time they tried just as hard to stop laughing or, having stopped, not to laugh any more. They found that on the whole they laughed even harder if they tried hard not to, so they came to favor that technique. They laughed until they were weak and their bellies ached. Then they were able to realize a little more clearly what a poor joke they had all been laughing at, and the very feebleness of the material and outrageous disproportion of their laughter started them whooping again; but finally they quieted down, because they had no strength for any more, and into this nervous and somewhat aborted silence Catherine spoke, "Well, I have never in my life been so thoroughly shocked and astonished," and it began all over again.
But by now they were really worn out with laughter; moreover, images of the dead body beside the capsized automobile began to dart in their minds, and then to become cold, immense, and immovable; and they began fully to realize, as well, how shamefully they had treated the deaf woman.
"Oh, Mama," Andrew and Mary cried out together, and Mary embraced her and Andrew kissed her on the forehead and on the mouth. "It was awful of us," he said. "You've just got to try to forgive us. We're all just a little bit hysterical, that's all."
"Better tell her, Andrew," his father said.
"Yes, poor thing," Hannah said; and he tried as gently as he could to explain it to her, and that they weren't really laughing at her expense, or even really at the joke, such as it was, because it wasn't really very funny, he must admit, but it had simply been a Godsend to have something to laugh about.
"I see," she said ("I see, said the blindman," Andrew said), and gave her polite, tinkling, baffled little laugh. "But of course it wasn't the-question of spirits that I meant. I just felt that perhaps for poor dear Mary's sake we'd better…"
"Of course," Andrew shouted. "We understand, Mama. But Mary'd rather hear now. She'd already said so."
"Yes, Mama," Mary screamed, leaning across towards her "good" ear.
"Well in that case," Catherine said primly, "I think it would have been kind so to inform me."
"I'm awfully sorry, Mama," Andrew said. "We would have. We really would have. In about another minute."
"Well," Catherine said; "no matter."
"Really we would, Mama," Mary said.
"Very well," Catherine said. "It was just a misfortune, that's all. I know I make it-very difficult, I try not to."
"Oh, Mama, no."
"No, I'm not hurt. I just suggest that you ignore me now, for everybody's convenience. Joel will tell me, later."
"She means it," Joel said. "She's not hurt any more."
"I know she does," Andrew said. "That's why I'm Goddamned if I'll leave her out. Honestly, Mama," he told her, "just let me tell you. Then we can all hear. Don't you see?"
"Well, if you're sure; of course I'd be most grateful. Thank you." She bowed, smiled, and tilted her trumpet.
It required immediate speech. That trumpet's like a pelican's mouth, he thought. Toss in a fish. "I'm sorry, Mama," he said. "I've got to try to collect my wits."
"That's perfectly all right," his mother said.
What was I-oh. Doctor. Yes.
"I was telling you what the doctor said."
Mary drank.
"Yes," Catherine replied in her clear voice. "You were saying that it was only by merest chance, where the blow was struck, a chance in a million, that…"
"Yes, Mama. It's just unbelievable. But there it is."
"Hyesss," Hannah sighed.
Mary drank.
"It does-beat-all-hell," Joel said. He thought of Thomas Hardy. There's a man, he thought, who knows what it's about. (And she asks God to forgive her!) He snorted.
"What is it, Papa?" Mary asked quietly.
"Nothing," he said, "just the way things go. As flies to wanton boys. That's all."
"What do you mean?"
"As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport."
"No," Mary said; she shook her head. "No, Papa. It's not that way."
He felt within him a surge of boiling acid; he contained himself. If she tries to tell me it's God's inscrutable mercy, he said to himself, I'll have to leave the room. "Ignore it, Poll," he said. "None of us knows one damned thing about it. Myself least of all. So I'll keep my trap shut."
"But I can't bear to have you even think such things, Papa."
Andrew tightened his lips and looked away.
"Mary," Hannah said.
"I'm afraid that's something none of us can ask-or change," her father said.
"Yes, Mary," Hannah said.
"But I can assure you of this, Poll. I have very few thoughts indeed and none of 'em are worth your minding about."
"Is there something perhaps I should be hearing?" Catherine asked.
They were silent a moment. "Nothing, Mama," Andrew said. "Just a digression. I'd tell you if it was important."
"You were about to continue, with what the doctor told you."
"Yes I was. I will. He told me a number of other things and I can-assure-everybody-that such as they are, at least they're some kind of cold comfort."
Mary met his eyes.
"He said that if there had to be such an accident, this was pretty certainly the best way. That with such a thing, a concussion, he might quite possibly have been left a hopeless imbecile."
"Oh, Andrew," Mary burst out.
"The rest of his life, and that could have been another forty years as easily as not. Or maybe only a semi-invalid, laid up just now and then, with terrific recurrent headaches, or spells of amnesia, of feeble-mindedness. Those are the things that didn't happen, Mary," he told her desperately. "I think I'd just better get them over and done with right now."
"Yes," she said through her hands. "Yes, you had. Go on, Andrew. Get it over."
"He pointed out what would have
happened if he'd stayed conscious, if he hadn't been thrown clear of the auto. Going fast, hopelessly out of control, up that eight-foot embankment and then down. He'd have been crushed, Mary. Horribly mangled. If he'd died it would have been slowly and agonizingly. If he'd lived, he'd have probably been a hopeless cripple."
"Dreadful," Catherine cried loudly.
"An idiot, or a cripple, or a paralytic," Andrew said. "Because another thing a concussion can do, Mary, is paralyze. Incurably. Those aren't fates you can prefer for anyone to dying. Least of all a man like Jay, with all his vigor, of body and mind too, his independence, his loathing for being laid up even one day. You remember how impossible it was to keep him quiet enough when his back was strained."
"Yes," she said. "Yes, I do." Her hands were still to her face and she was pressing her fingers tightly against her eyeballs.
"Instead…" Andrew began; and he remembered his face in death and he remembered him as he lay on the table under the glare. "Instead of that, Mary, he died the quickest and most painless death there is. One instant he was fully alive. Maybe more alive than ever before for that matter, for something had suddenly gone wrong and everything in him was roused up and mad at it and ready to beat it-because you know that of Jay, Mary, probably better than anyone else on earth. He didn't know what fear was. Danger only made him furious-and tremendously alert. It made him every inch of the man he was. And the next instant it was all over. Not even time to know it was hopeless, Mary. Not even one instant of pain, because that kind of blow is much too violent to give pain. Immediate pain. Just an instant of surprise and every faculty at its absolute height, and then just a tremendous blinding shock, and then nothing. You see, Mary?"
She nodded.
"I saw his face, Mary. It just looked startled, and resolute, and mad as hell. Not one trace of fear or pain."
"There wouldn't have been any fear, anyway," she said.
"I saw him-stripped-at the undertaker's," Andrew said. "Mary, there wasn't a mark on his body. Just that little cut on the chin. One little bruise on his lower lip. Not another mark on his body. He had the most magnificent physique I've ever seen in a human being."
Nobody spoke for a long while; then Andrew said, "All I can say is, when my time comes, I only hope I die half as well."
His father nodded; Hannah closed her eyes and bowed her head. Catherine waited, patiently.
"In his strength," Mary said; and took her hands from her face. Her eyes were still closed. "That's how he was taken," she said very tenderly; "in his strength. Singing, probably"-her voice broke on the word-"happy, all alone, racing home because he loved so to go fast and couldn't except when he was alone, and because he didn't want to disappoint his children. And then just as you said, Andrew. Just one moment of trouble, of something that might be danger-and was; it was death itself-and everything in his nature springing to its full height to fight it, to get it under control, not in fear. Just in bravery and nobility and anger and perfect confidence he could. It's how he'd look Death itself in the face. It's how he did! In his strength. Those are the words that are going to be on his gravestone, Andrew."
That's what they're for, epitaphs, Joel suddenly realized. So you can feel you've got some control over the death, you own it, you choose a name for it. The same with wanting to know all you can about how it happened. And trying to imagine it as Mary was. Andrew, too. Any poor subterfuge'll do; and welcome to 'em.
"Don't you think?" Mary asked shyly; for Andrew had not replied.
"Yes I do," he said, and Hannah said, "Yes, Mary," and Joel nodded.
Hannah: I want to know when I die, and not just for religious reasons.
"Mama," Mary called, drawing at her arm. Her mother turned eagerly, thankfully, with her trumpet. "I was telling Andrew," Mary told her, "I think I know the words, the epitaph, that ought to go on Jay's-on the headstone." Her mother tilted her head politely. "In his strength," Mary said. Her mother looked still more polite. "In-his-strength," Mary said, more loudly. Christ, I don't think I can stand this, Andrew thought. "Because that was the way it happened. Mama. Just so suddenly, without any warning, or suffering, or weakness, or illness. Just-instantly. In the very prime of his life. Do you see?"
Her mother patted her knee and took her hand. "Very appropriate, dear," she said.
"I think so," Mary said; she wished she had not spoken of it.
"It is, Mary," Andrew assured her.
"Why didn't you answer when I asked you?"
"I was just thinking about him."
There was a silence; Catherine who had still held her trumpet hopefully extended, turned away.
"He was thirty-six," Mary said. "Just exactly a month and a day ago."
Nobody spoke.
"And last night-great goodness it was only last night! Just think of that. Less than twenty-four hours ago, that awful phone ringing and we sat in the kitchen together-thinking of his father! We both thought it was his father who was at death's door. That's why he went up there. That's why it happened! And that miserable Ralph was so drunk he couldn't even be sure of the need. He just had to go in case. Oh, it's just beyond words!"
She finished her drink and stood up to get more.
"I'll get it," Andrew said quickly, and took her glass.
"Not quite so strong," she said. "Thank you."
"It's like a checkerboard," her father said.
"What is?"
"What you were saying. You think everything bears on one person's dying, and b'God it's another who does. One instant you see the black squares against the red and the next you see the red against the black."
"Yes," Mary said, somewhat in her mother's uncertain tone.
"None of us know what we're doing, any given moment."
How you manage not to have religious faith, Hannah wanted to tell him, is beyond me. She held her tongue.
"A tale told by an idiot… signifying nothing."
"Signifying something," Andrew said, "but we don't know what."
"Just as likely. Choice between rattlesnake and skunk."
"Jay knows what; now," Mary said.
"I certainly won't swear he doesn't," her father said.
"He does, Mary," her aunt said.
"Of course he does," Mary said.
Child, you'd better believe it, her aunt thought, disturbed by the "of course."
"I wonder," Catherine said; everyone turned towards her. "Mary's suggestion-for-an epitaph-is very lovely and appropriate, but I wonder, whether people will quite-understand it."
"Agh," Joel growled.
"What if they don't?" Andrew said.
Mary leaned across her. "Yes, Mama! What if they don't! We understand it. Jay understands it. What do we care if they don't!"
She was surprised and somewhat hurt by the violence of this attack. "It was merely something to be considered," she said with dignity. "After all, it will be in a public place. Many people will see it besides ourselves. I've always supposed, it was the business of words-to communicate-clearly."
"Oh Mama, don't be mad," Mary cried. "I understand. I appreciate the suggestion. I just can't see that in a-that in this particular case, it's anything to be seriously concerned about. It's Jay we're thinking of. Not other people."
"I see; perhaps you're right. Praps I shouldn't have me…"
"We're very glad you mentioned it, Mama. We appreciate you mentioning it. It hadn't even occurred to me and it ought to. Only now that it does, now that you've told me, why, well, I just still think it's all right as it is. That's all."
"Let it go, Catherine, for God's sake let it go!" Joel was saying in a low voice; but now she nodded and became quiet.
"I hate to hurt Mama's feelings," Mary said, "but really!"
"It's all right, Mary," Andrew said.
"Let it go, Poll," her father said.
"I am," Mary said; she took a drink.
"We've got to let them know," she said. "His mother. We'll have to phone Ralph. Andrew, will you do that?"
&nb
sp; "Of course I will." He got up.
"Just tell them I'm sorry, I couldn't come to the phone. Will you, Andrew? I'm sure they'll understand."
"Of course they will."
"Just tell them-how it happened. Tell Ralph I send his mother all my love." He nodded. "And Andrew. Be sure and ask how Jay's father is." He nodded. "And let them know when-why; why we don't even know, do we? When the-what day he'll-be-the funeral, Andrew!"
"Not for sure. I told them I'd see them in the morning about all that."
"Well you'll just have to tell them we'll let them know as soon as we do. In plenty of time. To get here I mean."
"What's the number, Mary?"
"Number?"
"What is Ralph's telephone number?"
"I-can't remember. I guess I don't know for sure. You'll have to ask Central. It's always Jay who called."
"All right."
"It's LaFollette," she called, as he went into the hall.
"All right, Mary." He went out.
"And, Andrew."
"Yes, Mary?" He put his head in.
"Talk as quietly as you can. We don't want to wake the children."
"Yes, Mary."
"It's queer I don't know," she told the others. "But it was always Jay who called."
"Tell your mother what's up," her father advised, for she was looking inquiring. Mary leaned across her.
"Bathroom?" her mother whispered discreetly.
"No, Mama. He's gone to telephone Jay's brother."
Her mother nodded, and still extended her trumpet, but Mary had nothing to say.
"I hope he will extend all our most-heartfelt-sympathies," her mother said.
Mary nodded conspicuously. "I specially asked him to," she lied.
After a few moments Catherine gave up, and relaxed her trumpet between her withered hands into her lap.
Chapter 12
Andrew had shut the door but they could hear him, trying to talk quietly. He was talking, indeed, very quietly, close to the mouthpiece with his hand around it; even so, Mary and Hannah could hear most of what he said. They did not want to listen, but they couldn't help it.
He said, "I want to make a long-distance call, please," and the quietness of his voice made them listen the more carefully. It was full of covered danger.