during the rest of the night, mary lay in a “white” sleep. she felt as odd, alone in the bed, as if a jaw-tooth had just been pulled, and the whole house seemed larger than it really was, hollow and resonant. the coming of daylight did not bring things back to normal, as she had hoped; the bed and the house in this silence and pallor, seemed even emptier. she would doze a little, wake and listen to the dry silence, doze, wake again sharply, to the thing that troubled her. she thought of her husband, driving down on one of the most solemn errands of his life, and of his father, lying fatally sick, perhaps dying, perhaps dead at this moment (she crossed herself), and she could not bring herself to feel as deeply about it as she felt that she should, for her husband’s sake. she realized that if the situation were reversed, and it was her own father who was dying, jay would feel much as she felt now and that she could not blame either him or herself, but that did her no good. for she knew that at the bottom of it the trouble was, simply, that she had never really liked the old man.

she was sure that she didn’t look down on him, as many of jay’s relatives all but said to her face and as she feared that jay himself occasionally believed; certainly not; but she could not like him, as almost everyone else liked him. she knew that if it was jay’s mother who lay dying, there would be no question of her grief, or inadequacy to her husband; and that was a fair measure of how little she really cared for his father. she wondered why she liked him so little (for to say that she actually disliked him, she earnestly assured herself, would be putting it falsely). she realized that it was mainly because everyone forgave him so much. and liked him so well in spite of his shortcomings, and because he accepted their forgiveness and liking so casually, as if this were his natural due or, worse, as if he didn’t even realize anything about it. and the worst of this, the thing she resented with enduring anger and distaste, was the burden he had constantly imposed on his wife, and her perfect patience with him, as if she didn’t even know it was a burden or that he was taking advantage. it was this unconsciousness in both of them that she could not abide, and if only once jay’s mother had shown one spark of anger, of realization, mary felt she might have begun to be able to like him. but this brought her into a resentment, almost a dislike, of jay’s mother, which she knew was both unjust and untrue to her actual feelings, and which made her uncomfortable; she was shocked also to realize that she was lying awake in the hour which might well be his last, to think ill of him. shame on you, she said to herself, and thought earnestly of all that she knew was good about him.

he was generous for one thing. generous to a fault. and she remembered how, time and again, he had given away, “loaned,” to the first person who asked him the favor, money or food or things which were desperately needed home to keep body and soul together. fault, indeed. yet it was a good fault. it was no wonder people loved him—or pretended to—and took every possible advantage of him. and he was very genuinely kind-hearted. a wonderful virtue. and tolerant. she had never heard him say an unkind or a bitter word of anybody, not even of people who had outrageously abused his generosity—he could not, she realized, bear to believe that they really meant to; and he had never once, of that she was sure, joined with most of the others in their envious, hostile, contemptuous talking about her.

on the other hand she could be equally sure that he had never really stood up for her strongly and bravely, and angrily, against everyone, as his wife had, for he disliked arguments as much as he did unkindness; but she put that out of her mind. he had never, so far as she knew, complained, about his sickness or pain, or his poverty, and chronically, insanely, as he made excuses for others, he had never made excuses for himself. and certainly he had precious little right to complain, or make excuses; but that too she hastened to put out of her mind. she reproached herself by remembering how thoroughly nice and friendly he had always been to her; and if she had to realize that that was not at all for herself but purely because she was “jay’s woman,” as he’d probably say, she certainly couldn’t hold that against him; her own best feelings towards him came out of her recognition of him as jay’s father. you couldn’t like anyone more than you happened to like them; you simply couldn’t. and you couldn’t feel more about them than that amount of liking made possible to you. there was a special kind of basic weakness about him; that was what she could not like, or respect, or even forgive, or resign herself to accepting, for it was a kind of weakness which took advantage, and heaped disadvantage and burden on others, and it was not even ashamed for itself, not even aware. and worse, at the bottom of it all, maybe, jay’s father was the one barrier between them, the one stubborn, unresolved, avoided thing, in their complete mutual understanding of jay’s people, his “background.” even now she could not really like him much, or feel deep concern. her thoughts for him were grave and sad, but only as they would be for any old, tired, suffering human being who had lived long and whose end, it appeared, had come. and even while she thought of him her real mind was on his son’s grief and her inadequacy to it. she had not even until this moment, she realized with dismay, given jay’s mother a thought; she had been absorbed wholly in jay. i must write her, she thought. but of course, perhaps, i’ll see her soon.

and yet, clearly as she felt that she realized what the bereavement would mean to jay’s mother, and wrong as she was even to entertain such an idea, she could not help feeling that even more, his death would mean great relief and release. and, it occurred to her. he’ll no longer stand between me and jay.

at this, her soul stopped in utter coldness. god forgive me, she thought, amazed; i almost wished for his death!

she clasped her hands and stared at a stain on the ceiling.

o lord, she prayed; forgive me my unspeakable sinful thought. lord, cleanse my soul of such abominations. lord, if it be thy will, spare him long that i may learn to understand and care for him more, with thy merciful help. spare him not for me but for himself, lord.

she closed her eyes.

lord, open my heart that i may be worthy in realization of this sorrowful thing, if it must happen, and worthy and of use and comfort to others in their sorrow. lord god, lord jesus, melt away my coldness and apathy of heart, descend and fill my emptiness of heart. and lord, if it be thy will, preserve him yet a while, and let me learn to bear my burden more lightly, or to know this burden is a blessing. and if he must be taken, if he is already with thee now (she crossed herself), may he rest in thy peace (again she crossed herself).

and lord, if it be thy will, that this sorrow must come upon my husband, then i most humbly beseech thee in thy mercy that through this tribulation thou openest my husband’s heart, and awake his dear soul, that he may find comfort in thee that the world cannot give, and see thee more clearly, and come to thee. for there, lord, as thou knowest, and not in his poor father or my unworthy feelings, is the true, widening gulf between us.

lord, in thy mercy, who can do all things, close this gulf. make us one in thee as we are one in earthly wedlock. for jesus’ sake, amen.

she lay somewhat comforted, but more profoundly disturbed than comforted. for she had never before so clearly put into words, into visible recognition, their religious difference, or the importance of the difference to her. and how important is it to him, she wondered. and haven’t i terribly exaggerated my feeling of it? a “gulf”? and “widening”? was it really? certainly he never said anything that justified her in such a feeling; nor did she feel anything of that largeness. it really was only that both of them said so very little, as if both took care to say very little. but that was just it. that a thing which meant so much to her, so much more, all the time, should be a thing that they could not share, or could not be open about. where her only close, true intimate was aunt hannah, and her chief love and hope had to rest in the children. that was it. that was the way it seemed bound to widen (she folded her hands, and shook her head, frowning): it was the children. she felt sure that he felt none of andrew’s anger and contempt, and none of her father’s irony, but it was very clear by his special quietness, when instances of it came up, that he was very far away from it and from her, that he did not like it. he kept his distance, that was it. his distance, and some kind of dignity, which she respected in him, much as it hurt her, by this silence and withdrawal. and it would widen, oh, inevitably, because quiet and gentle as she would certainly try to be about it, they were going to be brought up as she knew she must bring them up, as christian, catholic children. and this was bound to come into the home, quite as much as in church. it was bound in some ways, unless he changed; it was bound in some important ways, try as hard and be as good about it as she was sure they both would, to set his children apart from him, to set his own wife apart from him. and not by any action or wish of his, but by her own deliberate will. lord god, she prayed, in anguish. am i wrong? show me if i am wrong, i beseech thee. show me what i am to do.

but god showed her only what she knew already: that come what might she must, as a christian woman, as a catholic, bring up her children thoroughly and devoutly in the faith, and that it was also her task, more than her husband’s, that the family remain one, that the gulf be closed.

but if i do this, nothing else that i can do will close it, she reflected. nothing, nothing will avail.

but i must.

i must just: trust in god, she said, almost aloud. just: do his will, and put all my trust in him.

a streetcar passed; catherine cried.