At last he moved out onto the sidewalk and set off again. At the spot on which he had stood she stood for a moment—only a moment, because she did not want to lose him—but she could tell nothing from it. Across the street was a house no different from the other houses, except that the shades were drawn, and in which nothing apparent was going on. She had to run then to catch up.
This time he led her to a place she knew, but his behavior there was no less mysterious, and was more disturbing to her. He went to his parents’ house. There he entered the grounds and she followed. He went to the dog pens, went inside, and spent a quarter of an hour petting the dogs. Then he prowled around the house, looking into the windows. Twice—once outside the den and once outside the drawing room, both of which were lighted—he stood to smoke and watch, and as she watched him a numbing chill of exclusion and neglect passed over her.
At last he bestirred himself and moved on again. He passed out of the grounds, and she followed. But he was not going home. He returned to his first spot. This time it seemed that this was where he intended to stay until 2 a.m., so, after watching for another half hour, she slipped away and went home.
She left the house shortly after he went to work the next morning, this time carrying the baby, and made as straight as she could remember the way for the spot of his vigil. It looked as if someone had emptied an ashtray there. From staring at the house across the street, however, all she could learn was its postal number and the fact that in daytime, too, the shades remained drawn.
How did one learn who lived at a certain street number without making inquiries? Opal could think of only one way, and could think of this only after three days of thinking. That was to read the telephone directory alphabetically until she came to a name beside that address. Unfortunately, they had no telephone, thus no directory. The town directory was not very thick, but thick enough so that beginning at A and reading every name, and having to do it under the increasingly captious eye of the pharmacist in the drugstore which had the nearest public telephone, every morning for five minutes, which was as long as she dared, and not being a very fast reader, Opal was many days getting to Shumway, Fred. She had, in fact, only found it (and having found it, had not known where it got her) just a couple of days before. Then this morning after breakfast, over her second cup of coffee, reading the local paper and not yet attentive to the fact that Theron was going in and out of the bathroom, drawing a bath, shaving, getting dressed, she came across an announcement that Mr. and Mrs. Fred Shumway’s infant son would be christened Sunday, today, in the First Episcopal Church, following regular services. There was a Mrs. Shumway then, one young enough to have just had a baby. Then she noticed his unusual preparations, and then there came to her a new and very different explanation of his celibacy. And then without any explanation or leave-taking, he went to the door. Suddenly she knew who Mrs. Fred Shumway was. She was not Mrs. Shumway the first time Opal saw her. She was the girl who came to the house that day, whom Theron had gone out to see, between whom and him there was a spat, some kind of difference, a scene, upon which she had intruded. She was the bride being married in the courthouse that day she got her decree—and her new proposal and her second husband—who, on seeing the new Mrs. Shumway had turned white as a sheet. There had been a spat between them, but he had not known she would take it as hard as that.
“If you step out that door it’s good-bye,” she said. And yet she did not feel it. To her own amazement she was neither angry nor jealous. What she was, was excited. Dallas! Single! Freedom! $18.63!
He saw that her threat was real, but for him it was no threat. “Where will you go?” he said. It would be Libby’s first public appearance since her confinement, and he was going. He felt a sense of relief. He did not feel beholden to Opal. He did not consider that he had done her any harm. On the contrary, he had not gone near her.
“Where I’ll go is my business,” she said. She saw that he was not daring her. Nor was she daring him when she said, “There’s a bus for Dallas leaving in an hour, and I’ve got my fare.”
“Well,” he said, “I’m going.”
“I won’t be long behind you,” she said.
And they both tried to disguise their joy by seeming to threaten.
He emptied his pockets onto the couch. Two dollar bills and a few pieces of change fell out. “I’ve got money,” she said. “I’ve got plenty of money. Not just my fare.”
He did not pick up the money. There seemed nothing more to do or say. He turned to go, then turned back and extended his hand. “Goodbye, Opal,” he said. She took his hand. Then, flushing, he bent and kissed her cheek. “Will you divorce me?” he said.
“In my own good time,” she said. “I ain’t thinking of getting married again any time soon. Are you?”
55
The general recollection was that the Shumways had been a clan of camp-meeting Baptists. But Fred meant to rise, to leave the tabernacle for more indoor and respectable congregations. Long-headed even in early adolescence, he had hauled himself discreetly up the first rung of the religio-social ladder while still in high school, which landed him in the Campbellite fold. He had meant from there to ascend in the established order and in the approved time, which would have made a Presbyterian of him next and at about the time when he might expect to be tapped by the Junior Chamber of Commerce. But pride had made him reckless. He knew he risked considerable comeuppance, but he had run the risk and swarmed right to the top of the ladder. He had wanted to be married in church, but there had not been time, so now he was making up for that by having his son and heir christened in the Episcopal Church.
It was—as the People are admonished it is most convenient that it should be administered upon—Sunday: and, the Godparents having given to the Minister knowledge thereof before the beginning of Morning Prayer, the People, with the Child, were ready at the Font.
Stanley and Pearl Benningfield and Willie Carter were the Godparents—come to take upon themselves parts and duties to see that the Infant be taught what a solemn vow, promise, and profession he had there made by them that day. The People were: Fred, who knew he had worked hard at it, but had hardly realized himself that he had so many friends and well-wishers; his widowered father; Mr. and Mrs. Halstead; and Libby, still pale and drawn from her hard delivery and filled with timorous misgivings about this exhibition and this unexpectedly large crowd. She had pled to have the ceremony performed at home. But Fred was determined on a big display and was supported by the Minister’s warning that without great cause and necessity they procure not their child to be baptized at home in their house. The Child was, or was about to be made, Albert (for her father) Terence (for his).
And then the Minister coming to the Font (which was then filled with pure water) and standing there, said:
“Hath this child been already baptized, or no?”
At the Minister’s recommendation Libby had scanned the service beforehand—she could not have been said to have read it, being already in a state of agitation—but now all she heard was a severe and pompous voice issuing from a man attired in robes of authority, in those Biblical-ending verbs vaguely associated with authority and judgment, interrogating her about her baby. She was flustered and frightened, and yet sufficiently aware of her surroundings to flush hot with the consciousness of everyone waiting upon her answer. At last Fred said, “No, sir.”
Then the Minister proceeded as follows, the People all standing:
“Dearly Beloved—”
But just then in trooped a band of Methodists, Lutherans, Baptists, and other backsliders absent from their own congregations this Sabbath morn. The Minister paused and peered over his spectacles, frowning slightly, and everyone turned around to look at the late arrivals. Men and women, there were over a dozen of them, and Libby thought she detected a ribaldry in their faces not even meant to be hidden by their expressions of churchy solemnness. She exchanged a rapid glance with her father, and her misgivings were quickened by the apprehension
in his eyes. But turning back, she found Fred’s face beaming with satisfaction.
The latecomers filed into pews and Reverend Mead resumed:
“Dearly Beloved, forasmuch as all men are conceived and born in sin—”
Such an epidemic of coughing broke out at this point that the Minister had to stop and wait upon it.
“Forasmuch,” the Reverend began again, “as all men are conceived and born in sin—”
“A-men!” came a voice from among those in the rear.
Certain now that they meant mischief, Libby turned sick with dread. Her neck stiffened involuntarily, and a shiver ran down her spine. She stole a glance at Fred. But no flicker of doubt had appeared on his face; he was as happily self-satisfied as ever—a discovery which increased her misery. She shrank backwards a step to be nearer her father.
The Minister continued, “—and our Saviour Christ saith, None can enter into the kingdom of God, except he be regenerate and born anew—”
“A-men!” came from two or three voices this time.
“—of Water and of the Holy Ghost; I beseech you to call upon God the Father—”
“What was the name?” It was a whisper meant to be heard, and was followed by a general snicker that even Fred heard. Tears sprang to Libby’s eyes, and at the same moment she felt the grip of her father’s hand on her arm. Fred, however, had not heard the words but only the commotion.
“—through our Lord Jesus Christ, that of his bounteous mercy he will grant to this Child that which by nature he cannot have—”
“Aaaaa-men!” It was a chorus this time. And this time Fred’s face did darken and he looked around with a scowl, causing Libby to tremble. But what annoyed Fred was having the christening of his son in the very best church in town spoiled by the attendance of any revivalists of the mourners’ bench sort that he had all too good a memory of.
“—that he may be baptized with Water and the Holy Ghost, and received into Christ’s holy Church, and be made a living member of the same.”
Reverend Mead had felt a bit like a concert performer being applauded in inappropriate places, and so he was glad to be able now to intone, “Let us pray.” He heard a noise at the same instant, looked up, and was even gladder. The invocation would halt at the door the new and even larger flock of visitors.
But the prayer was delayed by a scream. It was the baby. Libby had unconsciously hugged him tighter and tighter, and at last had hurt him.
She eased her grasp instantly and rocked him, patting his back and rubbing his cheek with her own. And for a moment then she ceased to care about everything else. She felt her child’s soft warmth and heard his cries abate and change to a contented coo through her attentions, and for a moment felt she could endure anything.
Then the Minister went on with the prayer, and her uneasiness returned. She thought then to take advantage of these moments when all heads would be bowed and eyes closed to exchange a look of mutual comfort with her father. She turned, and found the eyes of the entire congregation upon her, her and the baby. Her father’s was the only head bowed, though not in prayer, she saw even in her fright, but in weariness, defeat. In an impulse of terror and loneliness, she clutched the baby again to her breast, and again it wailed. Her father did look up then, but by then Libby had had to turn back, quailed by all those hard, sly, knowing stares.
She turned back, terrified, and found another trial awaiting her. Fred, too, had thought to avail himself of the moments of prayer and now gave her arm a tender pinch and gave her a proud private matrimonial smile. She smiled sickly in reply.
She did not heat the Gospel according to St. Mark, in which Christ is reported to have said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God,” and she was spared by her distraction the congregation’s loudly whispered gloss upon the text of “O merciful God, grant that the old Adam in this child may be buried, and that a new man may rise up in him.” She was so distraught that when the Minister reached to take the baby from her, she recoiled from him, stared at him. The Minister managed to cover over his astonishment, and in another moment Libby’s senses returned to her. Then the Minister took the baby in his arms and said to the Godparents:
“Name this child.”
The Benningfields, husband and wife, teamed to elect Willie spokesman. Willie, unwilling, and flustered by the gravity of the preacher’s commanding tone and by the solemnity of the entire rite, stammered, whereupon the ribaldry abandoned all pretense. There was a titter at this hitch in the proceedings which caused even mild Mr. Mead to glower in admonishment over the rims of his spectacles.
But Fred thought merely that everybody was amused over Willie’s stage-fright. He smiled sociably at the crowd, and he smiled encouragingly at Willie.
“Albert Terence,” said the Godfather at last. Now, poor Willie was just himself confused; he was one of the few in town harboring no suspicions in the matter. When, then, after a very distinct pause, he prompted himself to add “—Shumway,” he meant to suggest nothing at all. He grew quite red with anger over the muffled hilarity brought on by his backwardness.
Then the Minister began untying the ribbons of the baby’s bonnet, and then for the first time there was a proper church atmosphere. A hush fell upon the entire assembly. Libby felt it, and in another instant understood it and her heart stopped cold. It seemed to her that the Minister held her baby up to satisfy the public gaze. She could feel that gaze upon the back of her neck and she could feel the short hairs on her nape rise up.
The town had heard young Albert Terence described more than once in the past two weeks, but this was the first view of him for most. He had been first described by the proud father, and Fred’s satisfaction in the almost nine pounds at birth of a child who yet he claimed for form’s sake to be two months premature (and two months hardly stretched far enough to cover the barest necessity) seemed, if vulgar, at least to have been earned by his subsequent action in making the girl his lawful wife. Supplementary descriptions of his offspring had, however, aroused quite different, even more interesting, expectations. Now all strained forward for a look.
The Minister removed the bonnet, revealing the baby’s black, hairy little head. Necks slowly and sagaciously resumed the perpendicular, and a collective breath was exhaled.
Then the Minister poured on the water, saying, “I baptize thee in the name…,” while the baby howled. And while the baby howled everyone in the crowd managed to exchange at least one satisfied long look with everyone else.
The Minister said then, “We receive this Child into the congregation of Christ’s flock and do (here he made a cross upon the baby’s forehead) so sign him with the sign of the Cross.”
It was precisely the conviction that her child was marked that had been growing on Libby. Now the preacher’s fulfillment of the ritual, his gesture of drawing his wet forefinger in an X across the baby’s forehead, gave her a start, chilled her with superstitious dread. She reached out, .and before the Minister was quite prepared to relinquish him, grabbed him and hugged him to her.
There followed then the kneeling and the Lord’s Prayer and the concluding exhortation to the Godparents. Then, while Fred and her father stayed behind to receive congratulations, the walk down the aisle, and the ceremony was over.
56
“I God, he’s done it again!”
These were the first words spoken and they were spoken by a dozen men at once. They were spoken time and again by each of them in a kind of refrain throughout all that followed.
“Did you-all see that baby?”
“Why, it was him to the life.”
“The spitting image.”
“Like two peas in a pod.”
“And just wait till his eyes turn!”
“Tell me, what color eyes does Fred have?”
“What color does a bat have?”
“Hush. Here he comes.”
“Well, well, the proud father. Congratulations, Fred.
”
“Congratulations.”
“Congratulations, Fred. A mighty fine looking boy.”
“Men.”
“Mighty fine looking boy, Fred.”
“Men, thank you all. Thank you for coming.”
“A mighty fine looking boy—must take after his mama.”
This remark made about as much sense as if the baby had been said to resemble Fred, and it was greeted with appropriate mirth. To Fred—as they saw to their delight—it passed for what it seemed, the conventional ribbing. Fred enjoyed it. He liked being put through the customary initiatory humor by these old-hand married men and fathers. “Well,” said Fred, “that’s all right. I don’t try to claim any credit for it,” whereupon everyone nearly collapsed with laughter. “The wife (that was a phrase he loved) has the looks in the family,” he said.
“Well, we all know who has the brains.”
“Come on, you’re joshing me now,” said Fred, beaming.
“Wouldn’t for the world.”
“Well, men, I’ve got to circulate. You-all take care. And thanks again.”
“Look at him go. Happy as a pig in clover.”
“He wouldn’t believe you if you told him.”
“He wouldn’t do nothing if you did, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, I don’t know. The Captain ain’t the man he was.”
“He was some nine-odd months ago.”
“Still, he ain’t been the same since that argument on the street with Albert Halstead.”
And from there they went on to recall all the signs that had accumulated towards today’s revelations. Something had been going on, all right, and they claimed to have known it all along. It wasn’t like the Captain to take anything from any man, much less a man like Albert Halstead, not without he found himself in a pretty awkward position. And then the circumstances of Libby’s return home were rehearsed, in which the phrase by night figured often and with deep significance. By night, and in the middle of the school term. And then that sudden marriage with Fred, a most improbable choice for such a pretty and popular girl and one whose father had set his sights so high for her. Then the baby, which even Fred acknowledged to be ahead of decent schedule, though he was pleased to think that he himself was the nigger in the woodpile. And what a baby! Nine pounds! And a boy! (For poor Fred was not allowed even that likelihood on his own.) And the looks of that boy! I God, the Captain had gone and done it again!
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