by James Agee
He nodded sharply.
"You come up in the morning. We'll-make our plans."
"Sleep if you can."
"Just come up first thing because I know there's an awful lot to do and not much time."
"All right."
"Good night, Andrew."
"Good night, Mary."
"Bless you," her mother exploded, almost as if she were cursing; deaf, near-sighted, she caught her daughter in her arms with all her strength and patted her back with both hands, thinking: how young and good she smells!
She wants so to help, Mary realized. To stay! Under her caress she felt the hard, round shoulders, sharp backbone, already hunching with age. Leaning back in her mother's embrace, she straightened the hat, looked into the trembling face, and kissed her hard on the mouth. Her mother twice returned the kiss, then stood aside, gathering her long skirt for the porch steps.
"Poll," her father said; she felt the beard against her cheek and heard his whisper: "Good girl. Keep it up."
She nodded.
"Good night," Hannah said.
"Good night, Aunt Hannah," Andrew replied.
"Night, Hannah," her brother said. He steered Catherine by one elbow, Andrew by the other; they went onto the porch.
"Light!" Mary exclaimed.
"What?" Andrew and Hannah asked, startled.
Mary switched on the porch light. "Tsall right," her father said in mild annoyance. "Thank you," her mother chimed, politely. Mary and Hannah stood at the door while they carefully descended the porch steps, and they watched them until they reached the corner and then until they had safely crossed the street. Under the corner lamp, Andrew turned his head and lifted and let fall his hand in something less than a wave. The others did not turn; and now Andrew also had turned away, and they went carefully away along the sidewalk, and Mary switched off the light, and still watched. Hannah could no longer see them now, and after a few moments, gave up pretending to watch them and watched Mary as she looked after them, as intently, Hannah felt, as if it were of more importance than anything else, to see them until the last possible instant. And still Mary could see them, somewhat darker against the darkness and of uneven heights, growing smaller, so that it was not finally the darkness which made them impossible to see, but the corner of the Biddles' house.
When they were gone she continued to look up and down the street as far as she could see. There was the strong carbon light at the corner, and there was the glow of an unseen light at a more distant corner to the west; and of another, still more distant, to the east. There was no sound, and there were no lights on in any of the houses. The air moved mildly on her forehead. She turned, and saw that her aunt was watching her, and looked into her eyes.
"Time to sleep," she said.
She closed the door; they continued to look at each other.
"It was just about this time last night," she said.
Hannah sighed, very low; after a moment she touched Mary's hand. Still they stood and looked at each other.
"Yes, just about," Mary whispered strangely.
Through the silence they began to hear the kitchen clock.
"Let's not even try to talk now," Mary said. "We're both worn out."
"Let me fix you a good hot toddy," Hannah said, as they turned towards the living room. "Help you sleep."
"I honestly don't think I'll need it, Aunt Hannah."
I'll make one and you take it or not as you like, Hannah wanted to say; suddenly she realized: I'm only trying to think I'm useful. She said nothing.
There was an odd kind of shyness or constraint between them, which neither could understand. They stood still again, just inside the living room; the silence was somewhat painful for both of them, each on the other's account. Does she really want me to stay, Hannah wondered; what earthly use am I! Does she think I don't want her to stay, Mary wondered, just because I can't talk? No, she's no talker.
"I just can't talk just now," she said.
"Of course you can't, child."
Hannah felt that she probably ought to take charge of everything, but she felt still more acutely that she should be at the service of Mary's wishes, or lack of them for that matter, she told herself.
I can't stand to send her to bed, Mary thought.
"It's all ready," she said abruptly and, she feared, rather ruthlessly, and walked quickly across to the downstairs bedroom door and opened it. "See?" She walked in and turned on the light and faced her aunt. "I got it ready in case Jay," she said, and absently smoothed the pillow. "Just as well I did."
"You go straight to bed, Mary," Hannah said. "Let me help if I…"
Mary went into the kitchen; then Hannah could hear her in the hall; after a moment she came back. "Here's a clean nightgown," she said, "and a wrapper," putting them across her aunt's embarrassed hands. "It'll be big, I'm afraid, the wrapper, it's-was-it's Jay's, but if you'll turn up the sleeves it'll do in a pinch, I guess." She went past Hannah into the living room.
"I'll see to that, Mary," Hannah hurried after her; she was already gathering tumblers towards the tray.
"Great-goodness!" Mary exclaimed. She lifted the bottle. "Do you mean to say I drank all that?" It was three-quarters empty.
"No. Andrew had some, so did I, so did J-your father."
"But-just one apiece, Aunt Hannah. I must have. Nearly all of it."
"It hasn't had any effect."
"How on earth!" She held the low whiskey close to her eyes and looked at it as if she were threading a needle. "Well I most certainly don't need a hot toddy," she said.
"I never heard of such a thing!" she exclaimed quietly.
"Aspirin, perhaps."
"Aspirin?"
"You might wake up with a headache."
"It must just, Papa, Papa says, he said it sometimes doesn't, in a state of shock or things… Aunt Hannah?" She called more loudly. "Aunt Hannah?" Mustn't wake them, she remembered. She waited. Her aunt came in from the hall with a glass of water and two aspirins.
"Here," she said, "you take these."
"But I…"
"Just swallow them. You don't want to wake up with a headache and they'll help you sleep, too."
She took them docilely; Hannah loaded and lifted the tray.
Chapter 13
Along Laurel, it was much darker; heavy leaves obscured the one near street lamp. Andrew could hear only their footsteps; his father and mother, he realized, could hear nothing even of that. How still we see thee lie. Yes, and between the treetops; the pale scrolls and porches and dark windows of the homes drifting past their slow walking, and not a light in any home, and so for miles, in every street of home and of business; above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by.
He helped his mother from the curb; this slow and irregular rattling of their little feet.
The stars are tired by now. Night's nearly over.
He helped her to the opposite curb.
Upon their faces the air was so marvelously pure, aloof and tender; and the silence of the late night in the city, and the stars, were secret and majestic beyond the wonder of the deepest country. Little houses, bigger ones, scrolled and capacious porches, dark windows, leaves of trees already rich with May, homes of rooms which chambered sleep as honey is cherished, drifted past their slow walking and were left behind, and not a light in any home. Along Laurel Avenue it was still darker. The lamp behind them no longer cast their shadows; in the light of the lamp ahead, a small and distant bit of pavement looked scalded with emptiness, a few leaves were touched to acid flame, the spindles and turned posts of one porch were rigidly white. Helping his mother along through the darkness, Andrew was walking much more slowly than he was used to walking, and all these things entered him calmly and thoroughly. Full as his heart was, he found that he was involved at least as deeply in the loveliness and unconcern of the spring night, as in the death. It's as if I didn't even care, he reflected, but he didn't mind. He knew he cared; he felt gratitude towards the night and t
owards the city he ordinarily cared little for. How still we see thee lie, he heard his mind say. He said the words over, drily within himself, and heard the melody; a child's voice, his own, sang it in his mind.
Hm.
He tried to remember when he had last walked in the open night at such an hour. He wasn't sure he even… God, years. Seven-about sixteen, when he still thought he was Shelley, watching the river. Leaning on the bridge rail and literally praying with gratitude for being alive.
Instinctively, he turned his head so that his parents could not see his face.
I don't want to see it, either, he thought.
By that time, Jay was trying to teach himself law.
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by.
The words had always touched him; every year they still brought back Christmas to him, for some reason, as nothing else could. Now they seemed to him as beautiful as any poetry he had ever known.
He said them over to himself very slowly and calmly: just a statement.
They do indeed, he thought, looking up. They do indeed. And God, how tired they look!
It's the time of night.
The silent stars go by, he said aloud, not whispering, but so quietly he was sure they would not hear.
His eyes sprang full of tears; his throat, his chest knotted into a deep sob which he subdued, and the tears itched on his cheeks.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth, he sang loudly, almost in fury, within himself: the everlasting light! and upon these words a sob leapt up through him which he could not subdue but could only hope to conceal.
They did not notice.
This is crazy, he told himself incredulously. No sense in this at all!
Everlasting light!
The hopes and fears, a calm and implacable voice continued within him; he spoke quietly: Of all the years.
Are met in thee tonight, he whispered: and in the middle of a wide plain, the middle of the dark and silent city, slabbed beneath shadowless light, he saw the dead man, and struck his thigh with his fists with all his strength.
All he could hear in this world was only their footsteps; his father and mother, he realized, could hear nothing even of that.
He helped her from the curb; this slow and irregular rattling of their little feet: and across the space of bitter light.
He helped her to the opposite curb; they followed their absurd shadows until all was once more one shadow.
None of the three of them spoke, throughout their walk; when they came to the corner at which they would turn for home, it was as if all three spoke, accepting the fact: for each man tightened his hand gently at the woman's elbows and, bowing her head, she pressed their hands against her sides. They turned down the steep hill, walking still more slowly and tightening their knees, and saw the one light which had been left burning, and entered their home, quietly as burglars, by the back way.
They stopped at the foot of the stairs.
"Mary," Hannah asked, "is there anything I can do?"
You want to come up with me, Mary realized. "I think I just better be alone," she said. "But thank you. Thank you, Aunt Hannah."
"Just call if you want me. You know how lightly I sleep."
"I'll be all right, I really will."
"You rest in the morning. I'll take care of the children."
Mary looked at her with brightened eyes, and said, "Aunt Hannah, I'll have to tell them."
Hannah nodded, and sighed: "Yesss. Good night then," she said, and kissed her niece. "God bless you," she said, in a broken voice.
Mary looked at her carefully and said, "God help us all."
She turned and went up the stairs, and leaned, smiling, just before she disappeared, and whispered, "Good night."
"Good night, Mary," Hannah whispered.
She turned off the hall light and the light in the living room and went into the lighted bedroom and pulled down the shade and shut the doors to the kitchen and the living room. She took off her dress and laid it over the back of a chair and sat on the edge of the bed to unlace her shoes, and hesitated, until she was certain that she remembered, clearly, putting out the lights in the kitchen and bathroom. She put on the nightgown except for the sleeves and finished undressing under the nightgown; it was rather large for her and she gathered and lifted it about her. She knelt beside the bed and said an Our Father and a Hail Mary, and found that her heart and mind were empty of further prayer or even of feeling. May the souls of the faithful, she tried; she clamped her teeth and, after a moment, prayed angrily: May the souls of everyone who has ever had to live and die, in the Faith or outside it, rest in peace. And especially his!
Strike me down, she thought. Visit upon me Thy lightnings. I don't care. I can't care.
Forgive me if I'm wrong, she thought. If You can. If You will. But that's how I feel, and that's all there is to it.
Again her heart and mind were empty; even now, feeling the breath of the abyss, she could not feel otherwise, or even care of fear.
Lord, I believe. Help Thou mine unbelief.
But I don't really knows I do.
I can't pray, God. Not now. Try to forgive me. I'm just too tired and too appalled.
Thirty-six years old.
Thirty-six.
Well, why not? Why one time worse than another? God knows it's no picnic or ever was intended as such.
Into Thy hands I commend my spirit.
She made the sign of the Cross, raised the shade, opened the window, and got into bed. As her bare feet slid along the cold, clean linen and she felt its cold, clean blandness beneath her and above her, she was taken briefly by trembling and by loneliness, and remembered touching her dead mother's cheek.
Oh, why am I alive!
She took off her glasses and laid them carefully in reach at the foot of the lamp, and turned out the light. She straightened formally on her back, folded her hands upon her breast, and shut her eyes.
I can't worry any more about anything tonight, she said to herself. He'll just have to take care of it.
Till morning.
Mary did not bother to turn on the light; she could see well enough by the windows. She put on her nightgown and undressed beneath it, and saw to it that the door was left ajar for the children, and climbed into bed before she realized that these were the same sheets and before it occurred to her that she had not said her prayers; and for such a while now she had felt that if only she could be alone, only for that!
It's all right, she whispered to herself; it's all right, she whispered aloud. She had meant that she was sure that God would understand and forgive her inability to pray, but she found that she meant too that it really was all right, everything, the whole thing, really all right. Thy will be done. All right. Truly all right. She lay straight on her back with her hands open, upward at her sides and could just make out, in the subtly diminished darkness, a familiar stain which at various times had seemed to resemble a crag, a galleon, a fish, a brooding head. Tonight it was just itself, with one meaningless eye. It seemed to her that she was falling backward and downward, prostrate, through eternity; she felt no concern. Without concern she heard a voice speak within her: Out of the deep have I called unto Thee, O Lord; Lord, hear my voice, she joined in. O let Thine ears consider well the voice of my complaint. And now the first voice said no more and, aware of its silent presence, Mary continued, whispering aloud: If Thou, Lord, wilt be extreme to mark what is done amiss O Lord, who may abide it? And with these last words she began to cry freely and quietly, her hands turned downward and moved wide on the bed.
Oh, Jay! Jay!
Under the lid of the large kettle the low water was lukewarm; one by one, along the curved firmament, the last of the bubbles broke and vanished.
Hannah lay straight on her back with her hands folded: in their deep sockets, beneath lids as frail as membranes, her eyeballs were true spheres. No lines were left in her face; she might have been a young woman. Her lips were parted, and each breath was a
light sigh.
Mary lay watching the ceiling: Who may abide it, she whispered.
Silently.
One by one, million by million, in the prescience of dawn, every leaf in that part of the world was moved.
Chapter […]
Rufus' house was on the way to school for a considerable neighborhood, and within a few minutes after his father had waved for the last time and disappeared, the walks were filled with another exciting thing to look at as the boys and girls who were old enough for school came by. At first he was content to watch them through the front window; they were creatures of an all but unimaginable world; he personally knew nobody who was big enough even for kindergarten. Later he felt more kinship with them, more curiosity, great envy, and considerable awe. It did not yet occur to him that he could ever grow up to be one of them, but he began to feel that in any case they were somehow of the same race. He wandered out into the yard, even to the sidewalk, even, at length, to the corner, where he could see them coming from three ways at once. He was fascinated by the way they looked, the boys so powerfully dressed and the girls almost as prettily as if they were going to a party. Nearly all of them walked in two's and three's, and members of these groups often called to others of the groups. You could see how well they all knew each other; any number of people; a whole world. And they all carried books of different colors and thicknesses, and lunches done up in packages or boxes, and pencils in still other boxes; or carried all these things together in a satchel. He loved the way they carried these things, it seemed to give them wonderful dignity and purpose, to be the mark that set them apart in their privileged world. He particularly admired and envied the way the boys who carried their books in brown canvas straps could swing them, except when they swung them at his head. Then he was at the same time frightened and very much surprised, and the boy who had pretended he meant to hit him, and anyone else who saw, would laugh to see that look of fear and surprise on his face, and he felt puzzled and unhappy because they laughed.
But that did not happen often enough to discourage him, and going to the corner at the time they went to school, and at the time they could be expected back again, became quite a habit with him, almost as happy and exciting, in its way, as watching for the first glimpse of his father, late in the afternoon. Sometimes when he caught an eye he would even say, "Hello," as much out of embarrassment as eagerness to communicate. Of course he was very seldom answered; the boys would merely stare at him for a second or so, with the stare turning hot or more often cold, and the girls, depending on age or disposition, either giggled in a way that made him look quickly away, or pretended that they had not even seen or heard him. But since he did not, after all, expect any answer, it was wonderfully pleasant when, occasionally, a much older boy would smile and say, "Hello there"; a few times they even reached out and mussed up his hair. Once, too, when he had said hello to some much older girls, one of them cried out in the strange, sticky voice he had heard grown women use, "Ooh, just look at the darlin little boy!"