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.

“hello? hello, is this long distance? long distance i want to call ralph follet, ralph, follet, f, o, l, l, e, t, no, central, f, as in father—f, o,—have you got that?—l, l, et. follet. at lafollette, tennessee. no, i haven’t. thank you. i said, thank you.”

“i don’t see how his mother’s going to bear it,” mary said, in a subdued voice. “i said i just don’t see how jay’s mother is going to bear it,” she told her mother.

“her own husband right at death’s door,” she said to hannah, “and now this. he was just the apple of her eye, that’s all.”

“hello?”

“she has a world of grit,” hannah said.

“ralph? is this ralph follet?”

“if she hadn’t she wouldn’t be alive today,” mary said.

“ralph, this is andrew lynch.” they sat very still and made no pretense of not listening.

“yes. andrew. ralph, i have to tell you about jay.” hannah and mary looked at each other. with everything that andrew said, from then on, they realized in a sense which they had failed to before, that it had really happened and that it was final.

“jay died tonight, ralph.

“he’s dead.

“he died in an auto accident, on the way home, out near powell’s station. he was instantly killed.”

mary looked down into the whiskey and began to tremble.

“instantly. i have a doctor’s word for it. he couldn’t even have known what hit him.

“it was concussion of the brain, ralph. concussion—of the brain. just so hard a shock to the brain that it killed him instantly.”

“they mustn’t tell his father,” mary said suddenly. “it’ll just kill his father.”

“i don’t see how they can avoid it,” hannah said. “mary says they mustn’t tell his, jay’s, father,” hannah told her brother. “in his condition the news might kill him. i told her i simply don’t see how they can avoid it. they’ll have to account for coming away to the funeral, after all.”

“just tell him he’s hurt,” joel said.

mary hurried into the hall. “andrew,” she whispered loudly. with a contortion of the face which terrified her he slapped his hand through the air at her as if she had been a mosquito. “just that one place, on the point of the chin,” he was saying. he turned to mary, but the voice held him and he turned away. “he may have driven for miles that way. they don’t know. they looked all around and quite a distance up the road—yes, of course with flashlights—and they couldn’t find it.” again she heard the voice, squirming like a wire. “no, they haven’t any idea. except that there are some very rough stretches in those roads and jay was driving very fast. just a minute, ralph.” he covered the mouthpiece. “what is it, mary?”

she could hear the distraught and squirming voice. like a worm on a hook, she thought. poor nasty fat thing! “tell ralph not to tell his father,” she whispered. “in his condition it might kill him. if they have to say anything, about—coming down—tell him he’s hurt.” andrew nodded.

“ralph,” he said. “go away,” he whispered, for she was lingering. “we just want to remind you, it might be very dangerous to your father” (by now mary heard him through the door; she took her seat) “if he heard this now. of course you and your mother’ll know best but in case you have to explain, when you come away to the funeral, it might be better just to say that jay’s been hurt; not in danger. don’t you think?

“what did you say?

“why no, we …

“he’s at roberts’. i came in with him tonight.

“why i’d suppose that …”

“oh heavens!” mary said, loudly enough that her father jumped. “ralph’s an undertaker!”

“of course, i see your point, ralph.

“no. not yet.

“well the saving of money is not a question in this ...

“look here, ralph, will you just ...

“will you just hold the phone a minute, please? i really think we should leave this up to mary, don’t you?

“of course she does. you too. i ...

“i don’t doubt it at all.

“no, i appreciate it very deeply, ralph, and i know mary will, but just let me consult her wishes on it, please. just wait.”

they heard his rapid walk and he thrust his infuriated face into the room.

“ralph,” he announced, “is an undertaker. i imagine you know what he wants. i told him it was up to you to decide.”

“good—god!” joel exclaimed.

“andrew, you’ll have to tell him—i—just simply can’t.”

“he’s blaming himself for jay’s ... he wants to try to make up for it.”

“how on earth can he blame himself!”

“for phoning jay in the first place.”

“what nonsense,” hannah said.

“but jay’s already at ro ...”

“ralph says that’s easily arranged. he can come down first thing tomorrow.”

“well, then we just can’t. we just won’t, no matter what. tell him how very very much i appreciate it and thank him, but i just can’t. tell him i’m prostrated. i don’t care what you tell him, you handle it, andrew.”

“i’ll handle it.” he went back to the phone. “seems downright incestuous,” joel said.

his sister laughed harshly.

“nothing important, mama,” mary said. “just—arrangements about the funeral.”

nothing important! joel thought. people can only get through these things by being blind at least half the time. no: she was just cutting a corner for catherine.

“when will the ceremony be held?”

hannah stifled a laugh and joel did not. mary’s face worked curiously with a smile as she told her mother, “we don’t know yet. this was a question of where. here or lafollette?”

“i would have supposed that his home was knoxville.”

“we think so, too. that’s how it’s settled.”

“that seems as it should be.”

andrew came in. “well,” he said, “it was either ralph or you and i chose you.”

“oh, andrew, you must have hurt him.”

“there wasn’t any way out he just wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“he’s going to make an awful case of it to his mother.”

“well he’ll just have to, then.”

“she’s got sense, mary,” hannah said.

“i’m going to have a drink,” andrew said. “god!” he groaned. “talking to that fool is like trying to put socks on an octopus!”

“why, andrew,” mary laughed; she had never heard the expression. “i’m very grateful to you, dear,” she said. “you must be worn to a frazzle.”

“we all are,” hannah said. “you most of all, mary. we better think about getting some sleep.”

“i suppose we must, but i really don’t feel as if i could sleep. you-all better though.”

“we’re all right,” andrew said. “except maybe mama. and papa, you’d b ...”

“never sleep before two in the morning,” joel said. “you know that.”

“let me fix you a good stiff hot toddy,” hannah said. “it’ll help you sleep.”

“it all just seems to wake me up.”

“hot.”

“maybe just some hot milk. no i won’t, either,” she cried out, with sudden tears; they looked at her and looked away; she soon had control of herself.

“one of the last things jay did for me,” she explained, “way early in the morning before he—went away. he fixed me some hot milk to help me sleep.” she began to cry again. “bless his heart,” she said. “bless his dear heart.”

“you know almost the last thing he said to me?

“he asked me to think what i wanted for my birthday.

“ ‘within reason,’ he said. he was just joking.

“and he said not to wait supper, but he’d—he’d try to be back before the children were asleep, for sure.”

she’d feel better later on if she’d kept a few of these things to herself, joel thought.

or would she. i would. but i’m not poll.

“rufus just—wouldn’t give up. he just wouldn’t go to sleep. he was so proud of that cap, aunt hannah. he wanted so much to show it to his father.”

hannah came over to her and leaned to her, an arm around her shoulder.

“talk if you want to, mary,” she said. “if you think it does you good. but try not to harp on these things.”

“and i was so mad at him, only a few hours ago, for not phoning all day, and because of rufus. i had such a good supper ready, and i did wait it, and ...”

“it wasn’t his fault it was good,” hannah said.

“of course it isn’t his fault and i had no business waiting it but i did, and i was so angry with him—why i even—i even ...”

but this she found she would not tell them. i even thought he was drunk, she said to herself. and if he was, why what in the world of it. let’s hope if he was he really loved being, god bless him always. always.

and then a terrifying thought occurred to her, and she looked at andrew. no, she thought, he wouldn’t lie to me if it were so. no, i won’t even ask it. i won’t even imagine it. i just don’t see how i could bear to live if that were so.

but there he was, all that day, with ralph. he must have. well he probably did. that was no part of the promise. but not really drunk. not so he couldn’t—navigate. drive well.

no.

oh, no.

no i won’t even dishonor his dear memory by asking. not even andrew in secret. no, i won’t.

and she thought with such exactness and with such love of her husband’s face, and of his voice, and of his hands, and of his way of smiling so warmly even though his eyes almost never lost their sadness, that she succeeded in driving the other thought from her mind.

“hark!” hannah whispered.

“what is it?”

“ssh! listen.”

“what’s up?” joel asked.

“be quiet, joel, please. there’s something.”

they listened most intently.

“i can’t hear anything,” andrew whispered.

“well i do,” hannah said, in a low voice. “hear it or feel it. there’s something.”

and again in silence they listened.

it began to seem to mary, as to hannah, that there was someone in the house other than themselves. she thought of the children; they might have waked up. yet listening as intently as she could, she was not at all sure that there was any sound; and whoever or whatever it might be, she became sure that it was no child, for she felt in it a terrible forcefulness, and concern, and restiveness, which were no part of any child.

“there is something,” andrew whispered

whatever it might be, it was never for an instant at rest in one place. it was in the next room; it was in the kitchen; it was in the dining room.

“i’m going out to see,” andrew said; he got up.

“wait, andrew, don’t, not yet,” mary whispered “no; no”; now it’s going upstairs, she thought; it’s along the—it’s in the children’s room. it’s in our room.

“has somebody come into the house?” catherine inquired in her clear voice.

andrew felt the flesh go cold along his spine. he bent near her. “what made you think so, mama?” he asked quietly.

“it’s right here in the room with us,” mary said in a cold voice.

“why, how very stupid of me, i thought i heard. footsteps.” she gave her short, tinkling laugh. “i must be getting old and dippy.” she laughed again.

“sshh!”

“it’s jay,” mary whispered. “i know it now. i was so wrapped up in wondering what on earth ... jay. darling. dear heart, can you hear me?

“can you tell me if you hear me, dearest?

“can you?

“can’t you?

“oh try your best, my dear. try your very hardest to let me know.

“you can’t, can you? you can’t, no matter how hard.

“but o, do hear me, jay. i do pray god with all my heart you can hear me, i want so to assure you.

“don’t be troubled, dear one. don’t you worry. stay near us if you can. all you can. but let not your heart be troubled. they’re all right, my sweetheart, my husband. i’m going to be all right. don’t you worry. we’ll make out. rest, my dear. just rest. just rest, my heart. don’t ever be troubled again. never again, darling. never, never again.”

“may the souls of the faithful through the mercy of god rest in peace,” hannah whispered. “blessed are the dead.”

“mary!” her brother whispered. he was crying.

“he’s not here any more now,” she said. “we can talk.”

“mary, in god’s name what was it?”

“it was jay, andrew.”

“it was something. i haven’t any doubt of that, but—good god, mary.”

“it was jay, all right. i know! who else would be coming here tonight, so terribly worried, so terribly concerned for us, and restless! besides, andrew, it—it simply felt like jay.”

“you mean ...”

“i just mean it felt like his presence.”

“to me, too,” hannah said.

“i don’t like to interrupt,” joel said, “but would you mind telling me, please, what’s going on here?”

“you felt it too, papa?” mary asked eagerly.

“felt what?”

“you remember when aunt hannah said there was something around, someone or something in the house?”

“yes, and she told me to shut up, so i did.”

“i simply asked you please to be quiet, joel, because we were trying to hear.”

“well, what did you hear?”

“i don’t know’s i heard anything, joel. i’m not a bit sure. i don’t think i did. but i felt something, very distinctly. so did andrew.”

“yes i did, papa.”

“and mary.”

“oh, very much so.”

“what do you mean you felt something?”

“then you didn’t, papa?”

“i got a feeling there was some kind of a strain in the room, something or other was up among you; mary looking as if she’d seen a ghost; all of you ...”

“she did,” andrew said. “that is, she didn’t actually see anything, but she felt it. she knew something was there. she says it was jay.”

“hahh?”

“jay. aunt hannah thinks so too.”

“hannah?”

“yes i do, joel. i’m not as sure as mary, but it did seem like him.”

“what’s ‘it’?”

“the thing, papa, whatever it was. the thing we all felt.”

“what did it feel like?”

“just a ...”

“you think it was jay?”

“no, i had no idea what it was. but i know it was something. mama felt it too.”

“catherine?”

“yes. and it couldn’t have been through us because she didn’t even know what we were doing. all of a sudden she said, ‘has somebody come into the house?’ and when i asked her why she thought so she said she thought she’d heard footsteps.”

“could be thought transference.”

“none of the rest of us thought we heard footsteps.”

“all the same. it can’t be what you think.”

“i don’t know what it was, papa, but there are four of us here independently who are sure there was something.”

“joel, i know that god in a wheelbarrow wouldn’t convince you,” his sister said. “we aren’t even trying to convince you. but while you’re being so rational, why at least please be rational enough to realize that we experienced what we experienced.”

“the least i can do is accept the fact that three people had a hallucination, and honor their belief in it. that i can do, too, i guess. i believe you, for yourself, hannah. all of you. i’d have to have the same hallucination myself to be convinced. and even then i’d have my doubts.”

“what on earth do you mean, doubts, papa, if you had it yourself?”

“i’d suspect it was just a hallucination.”

“oh, good lord! you’ve got it going and coming, haven’t you!”

“is this a dagger that i see before me? wasn’t, you know. but you could never convince macbeth it wasn’t.”

“andrew,” mary broke in, “tell mama. she’s just dying to know what we’re ...” she trailed off. i must be out of my mind, she said to herself. dying! and she began to think with astonishment and disgust of the way they had all been talking—herself most of all. how can we bear to chatter along in normal tones of voice! she thought; how can we even use ordinary words, or say words at all! and now, picking his poor troubled soul to pieces, like so many hens squabbling over—she thought of a worm, and covered her face in sickness. she heard her mother say, “why, andrew, how perfectly extraordinary!” and then she heard andrew question her, had she had any special feeling about what kind of a person or thing it was, that is, was it quiet or active, or young or old, or disturbed or calm, or was it anything: and her mother answered that she had had no particular impression except that there was someone in the house besides themselves, not the children either, somebody mature, some sort of intruder; but that when nobody had troubled to investigate, she had decided that it must be an hallucination—all the more so because, as she’d said, she thought she’d actually heard someone, whereas with her poor old ears (she laughed gracefully) that was simply out of the question, of course. oh, i do wish they’d leave him in peace, she said to herself. a thing so wonderful. such a proof! why can’t we just keep a reverent silence! but andrew was asking his mother, had she, a little later than that, still felt even so that there was somebody? or not. and she said that indeed she had had such an impression. where? why she couldn’t say where, except that the impression was even stronger than before, but, of course, by then she realized it was an hallucination. but they felt it too! why how perfectly uncanny!

“mary thinks it was jay,” andrew told her.

“why, i ...”

“so does aunt hannah.”

“why how—how perfectly extraordinary, andrew!”

“she thinks he was worried about ...”

“oh, andrew!” mary cried. “andrew please let’s don’t talk about it any more! do you mind?”

he looked at her as if he had been slapped. “why, mary, of course not!” he explained to his mother: “mary’d rather we didn’t discuss it any more.”

“oh, it’s not that, andrew. it just—means so much more than anything we can say about it or even think about it. i’d give anything just to sit quiet and think about it a little while! don’t you see? it’s as if we were driving him away when he wants so much to be here among us, with us, and can’t.”

“i’m awfully sorry, mary. just awfully sorry. yes, of course i do see. it’s a kind of sacrilege.”

so they sat quietly and in the silence they began to listen again. at first there was nothing, but after a few minutes hannah whispered, “he’s there,” and andrew whispered, “where?” and mary said quietly, “with the children,” and quietly and quickly left the room.

when she came through the door of the children’s room she could feel his presence as strongly throughout the room as if she had opened a furnace door: the presence of his strength, of virility, of helplessness, and of pure calm. she fell down on her knees in the middle of the floor and whispered, “jay. my dear. my dear one. you’re all right now, darling. you’re not troubled any more, are you, my darling? not any more. not ever any more, dearest. i can feel how it is with you. i know, my dearest. it’s terrible to go. you don’t want to. of course you don’t. but you’ve got to. and you know they’re going to be all right. everything is going to be all right, my darling. god take you. god keep you, my own beloved. god make his light shine upon you.” and even while she whispered, his presence became faint, and in a moment of terrible dread she cried out “jay!” and hurried to her daughter’s crib. “stay with me one minute,” she whispered, “just one minute, my dearest”; and in some force he did return; she felt him with her, watching his child. catherine was sleeping with all her might and her thumb was deep in her mouth; she was scowling fiercely. “mercy, child,” mary whispered, smiling, and touched her hot forehead to smooth it, and she growled. “god bless you, god keep you,” her mother whispered, and came silently to her son’s bed. there was the cap in its tissue paper, beside him on the floor; he slept less deeply than his sister, with his chin lifted, and his forehead flung back; he looked grave, serene and expectant.

“be with us all you can,” she whispered. “this is good-bye.” and again she went to her knees. good-bye, she said again, within herself; but she was unable to feel much of anything. “god help me to realize it,” she whispered, and clasped her hands before her face: but she could realize only that he was fading, and that it was indeed good-bye, and that she was at that moment unable to be particularly sensitive to the fact.

and now he was gone entirely from the room, from the house, and from this world.

“soon, jay. soon, dear,” she whispered; but she knew that it would not be soon. she knew that a long life lay ahead of her, for the children were to be brought up, and god alone could know what change and chance might work upon them all, before they met once more. she felt at once calm and annihilating emptiness, and a cold and overwhelming fullness.

“god help us all,” she whispered. “may god in his loving mercy keep us all.”

she signed herself with the cross and left the room.

she looks as she does when she has just received, hannah thought as she came in and took her old place on the sofa; for mary was trying, successfully, to hide her desolation; and as she sat among them in their quietness it was somewhat diminished. after all, she told herself, he was there. more strongly even than when he was here in the room with me. anyhow. and she was grateful for their silence.

finally andrew said, “aunt hannah has an idea about it, mary.?

“maybe you’d prefer not to talk about it,” hannah said.

“no; it’s all right; i guess i’d rather.” and with mild surprise she found that this was true.

“well, it’s simply that i thought of all the old tales and beliefs about the souls of people who die sudden deaths, or violent deaths. or as joel would prefer it, not souls. just their life force. their consciousness. their life itself.”

“can’t get around that,” joel said. “hannah was saying that everything of any importance leaves the body then. i certainly have to agree with that.”

“and that even whether you believe or not in life after death,” mary said, “in the soul, as a living, immortal thing, creature, why it’s certainly very believable that for a little while afterwards, this force, this life, stays on. hovers around.”

“sounds highly unlikely to me, but i suppose it’s conceivable.”

“like looking at a light and then shutting your eyes. no, not like that but—but it does stay on. specially when it’s someone very strong, very vital, who hasn’t been worn down by old age, or a long illness or something.”

“that’s exactly it,” andrew said. “something that comes out whole, because it’s so quick.”

“why they’re as old as the hills, those old beliefs.”

“i should imagine they’re as old as life and death,” andrew said.

“the thing i mean is, they aren’t taken straight to god,” hannah said. “they’ve had such violence done them, such a shock, it takes a while to get their wits together.”

“that’s why it took him so long to come,” mary said. “as if his very soul had been struck unconscious.”

“i should think maybe.”

“and above all with someone like jay, young, and with children and a wife, and not even dreaming of such a thing coming on him, no time to adjust his mind and feelings, or prepare for it.”

“that’s just it,” andrew said; hannah nodded.

“why he’d feel, ‘i’m worried. this came too fast without warning. there are all kinds of things i’ve got to tend to. i can’t just leave them like this.’ wouldn’t he! and that’s just how he was, how we felt he was. so anxious. so awfully concerned, and disturbed. why yes, it’s just exactly the way it was!

“and only when they feel convinced you know they care, and everything’s going to be taken good care of, just the very best possible, it’s only then they can stop being anxious and begin to rest.”

they nodded and for a minute they were all quiet.

then mary said tenderly, “how awful, pitiful, beyond words it must be, to be so terribly anxious for others, for others’ good, and not be able to do anything, even to say so. not even to help. poor things.

“oh, they do need reassuring. they do need rest. i’m so grateful i could assure him. it’s so good he can rest at last. i’m so glad.” and her heart was restored from its desolation, into warmth and love and almost into wholeness.

again they were all thoughtfully silent, and into this silence joel spoke quietly and slowly, “i don’t—know. i just—don’t—know. every bit of gumption i’ve got tells me it’s impossible, but if this kind of thing is so, it isn’t with gumption that you see it is. i just—don’t—know.

“if you’re right, and i’m wrong, then chances are you’re right about the whole business, god, and the whole crew. and in that case i’m just a plain damned fool.

“but if i can’t trust my common sense—i know it’s nothing much, poll, but it’s all i’ve got. if i can’t trust that, what in hell can i trust!

“god, you’n hannah’d say. far’s i’m concerned, it’s out of the question.”

“why, joel?”

“it doesn’t seem to embarrass your idea of common sense, or poll’s, and for that matter i’m making no reflections. you’ve got plenty of gumption. but how you can reconcile the two, i can’t see.”

“it takes faith, papa,” mary said gently.

“that’s the word. that’s the one makes a mess of everything, far’s i’m concerned. bounces up like a jack-in-the-box. solves everything.

“well it doesn’t solve anything for me, for i haven’t got any.

“wouldn’t hurt it if i had. don’t believe in it.

“not for me.

“for you, for anyone that can manage it, all right. more power to you. might be glad if i could myself. but i can’t.

“i’m not exactly an atheist, you know. least i don’t suppose i am. seems as unfounded to me to say there isn’t a god as to say there is. you can’t prove it either way. but that’s it: i’ve got to have proof. and on anything can’t be proved, be damned if i’ll jump either way. all i can say is, i hope you’re wrong but i just don’t know.”

“i don’t, either,” andrew said. “but i hope it’s so.”

he saw mary and hannah look at him hopefully.

“i don’t mean the whole business,” he said. “i don’t know anything about that. i just mean tonight.”

can’t eat your cake and have it, his father thought.

like slapping a child in the face, andrew thought; he had been rougher than he had intended.

“but, andrew dear,” mary was about to say, but she caught herself. what a thing to argue about, she thought; and what a time to be wrangling about it!

each of them realized that the others felt something of this; for a little while none of them had anything to say. finally andrew said, “i’m sorry.”

“never mind,” his sister said. “it’s all right, andrew.”

“we just each believe what we’re able,” hannah said, after a moment.

“even you, joel. you have faith in your mind. your reason.”

“not very much: all i’ve got, that’s all. all i can be sure of.”

“that’s all i mean.”

“let’s not talk about it any more,” mary said. “tonight,” she added, trying to make her request seem less peremptory.

the word was a reproach upon them all, much more grave, they were sure, than mary had intended, so that to spare her regret they all hastened to say, kindly and as if somewhat callously, “no, let’s not.”

in the embarrassment of having spoken all at once they sat helpless and sad, sure only that silence, however painful to them all and to mary, was less mistaken than trying to speak. mary wished that she might ease them; her continued silence, she was sure, intensified their self-reproach; but she felt, as they did, that an attempt to speak would be worse than quietness.

in this quietness their mother sat, and smiled nervously and politely, and tilted her trumpet in a generalized way towards all of them. she realized that nobody was speaking and it was at such times, ordinarily, that she felt sure that she could speak without interrupting anyone, but she feared that anything that she might say might brutally or even absurdly disrupt a weaving of thought and feeling whose motions within the room she could most faintly apprehend.

after a little while it occurred to her that even to hold out her trumpet might seem to require something of them; she held it in her lap. but lest any of them should feel that this was in any sense a reproach, or should in the least feel sorry for her, she kept her little smile, thinking, how foolish, how very foolish, to smile.

smiling at grief, joel thought. he wondered whether his sister and his son and his daughter, if they were thinking of it at all, understood the smile as he was sure he did. he wished that he could pat her hand. by god, they’d better, he thought.

andrew could not get out of his mind the image of his brother-in-law as he had first seen him that night. by the mere shy, inactive way the men stood who, as he and walter first came up, stood between them and jay, he had realized, instantly, before anyone spoke, “he’s dead.” somebody had murmured something embarrassed about identification and he had answered sharply that they’d managed to phone the family, hadn’t they?, and again they had murmured embarrassedly, and ashamed of his sharpness he had assented, and there in the light of the one bulb one of the men had gently turned down the sheet (for he gathered a little later that the blacksmith’s wife, finding him covered with a reeking horse blanket, had hurried to bring this sheet); and there he was; and andrew nodded, and made himself say, “yes,” and he heard walter’s deep, quiet breathing at his shoulder and heard him say, “yes,” and he stood a little aside in order that walter might have room, and together they stood silent and looked at the uncovered head. the strong frown was still in the forehead but, even as they watched, it seemed to be fading very slowly; already the flesh had settled somewhat along the bones of the prostrate skull; the temples, the forehead and the sockets of the eyes were more subtly molded than they had been in life and the nose was more finely arched; the chin was thrust upward as if proudly and impatiently, and the small cut at its point was as neat and bloodless as if it had been made by a chisel in soft wood. they watched him with the wonder which is felt in the presence of anything which is great and new, and, for a little while, in any place where violence has recently occurred; they were aware, as they gazed at the still head, of a prodigious kind of energy in the air. without turning his head, andrew became aware that tears were running down walter’s cheeks; he himself was cold, awed, embittered beyond tears. after perhaps a half minute he said coldly, “yes, that’s he,” and covered the face himself and turned quickly away; walter was drying his face and his glasses; aware of some obstacle, andrew glanced quickly down upon a horned, bruised anvil; and laid his hand flat against the cold, wheemed iron; and it was as if its forehead gave his hand the stunning shadow of every blow it had ever received.

now these images manifolded upon each other with great rapidity, at their constant center, the proud, cut chin, and could be driven from his mind’s eye only by two others, jay as he felt he had seen him, the contact after the accident, lying, they had told him, so straight and unblemished beside the car, the dead eyes shining with starlight and the hand still as if ready to seize and wrestle; and as he had last actually seen him, naked on the naked table, a block beneath his nape.

somebody sighed, from the heart; he looked up; it was hannah. they were all looking downward and sidelong. his sister’s face had altered strangely among this silence; it had become thin, shy and somehow almost bridal. he remembered her wedding in panama; yes, it was much the same face. he looked away.

“aunt hannah, will you please stay with me here tonight?” mary asked.

mama, andrew thought, and his heart went out to her as he looked at her deaf, set smile.

“why certainly, mary.”

joel decided not to look at his watch. andrew covertly glanced at the mantel clock. it was ...

“i hope mama won’t mind too much. i hope she’ll understand. poor thing. mama,” she suddenly called, and put her hand on her mother’s hand and on the trumpet. her mother eagerly tilted it. “i think it’s about time we all tried to get some sleep.” her mother nodded, and seemed to be about to speak; mary pressed her hand for silence and continued, “mama, i’ve asked aunt hannah if she’ll stay here tonight with me.” her mother nodded and again seemed to be about to speak. again mary pressed her hand: “i’d love it if you could, but i know how it would disrupt things at eleven-fifteen,”—“hahh,” her father exclaimed—“and i just ...”

“tell her, poll!”

“also, mama. also it’s just—i hope you’ll understand and not mind, mama dear—it’s just it would be so very hard for us to talk, quietly, and with the children and all, why i just sort of think ...”

“why certainly, mary,” her mother interrupted, in her somewhat ringing voice. “i absolutely agree with you. i think it’s so nice that hannah can stay!” she added, almost as if mary and hannah were little girls.

“i hope you know, mama, how very much!—i hope you don’t mind. i just appreciate it so much, i ...”

her mother patted her hand rapidly. “it’s perfectly all right, mary. it’s very sensible.” she smiled.

mary put an arm around her and hugged her; she turned her aging face and smiled very brightly and mary could see the tears in her eyes. she was speechless and her head was shaking in her effort to convey her love and the entirety of her feeling. “anything i can do, dear child,” she said after a few moments. “anything!”

“bless you, mama!”

“beg pardon?”

“i said bless you, dear!”

catherine patted her hand on the back and smiled even more tightly.

i love you so much! mary exclaimed within herself.

“praps the children,” catherine said. “i could take care, if—it would be more, convenient ...”

“oh, i don’t think we should wake them up!” mary said.

“she doesn’t mean ...” andrew began.

“tomorrow,” her mother said. “just, perhaps, during the—interim ...”

“that’s wonderful, mama, that may turn out to be just the thing and if it is i most certainly will. most gratefully. it’s just, i’m in such a spin it’s just too soon to quite know yet, make any plans. anything. tomorrow.”

“tomorrow then.”

“thank you, mama.”

“not at all.”

“thank you all the same.”

her mother smiled and shook her head.

joel and his sister stood up.

“mary, before we go,” andrew said.

“?”

“it’s much to late, mary, you’re much too tired.”

“not if it’s important, andrew.”

“let’s let it go till morning.”

“what is it, andrew?”

“just—various things we’ll have to discuss pretty soon.” he took a deep breath and said in a loud voice. “getting a plot, making arrangements about the funeral; seeing about a headstone. let’s wait till morning.”

earth, stone, a coffin. the ugly craft of undertakers became real and tangible to her, but as if she touched them with frozen hands. she looked at him with glazed eyes.

“that’ll be plenty of time, mary,” she heard her aunt say.

“of course it will,” andrew said. “it was foolish of me to even speak of it tonight.”

“well if there’s time,” she said vaguely. “yes if there’s time, andrew,” she said more distinctly. “yes, then i’d rather, if you don’t mind. tomorrow in the morning.” she glanced at the clock. “goodness this morning,” she exclaimed.

“of course not,” andrew said. he turned to his aunt and said in a low voice, as one speaks before an invalid, “let her sleep if she can. you phone me.”

hannah nodded.

“must’ve ...” joel said, and went into the hall.

“what’s ...” hannah began.

“hat i guess. mine too.” andrew left the room; in the hall he met his father, carrying his own hat, his wife’s, and andrew’s.

“left them in the kitchen,” his father said.

“thank you, papa,” andrew took his hat.

catherine was standing uneasily in the middle of the room, holding her trumpet and her purse and looking towards the hall door. “thank you, joel,” she said. she settled and pinned her hat by touch, a little crooked, and looked at hannah inquiringly.

it’s all right, catherine,” her husband said.

andrew was watching his sister. it seemed to him that these preparations for departure put her into some kind of silent panic. maybe we should stay, he thought. all night. i could. but mary was chiefly watching her mother’s difficulties with the hat. no, it’s the slowness, he corrected himself. sooner the better.

“well, mary,” he said, and stepped to her and put his arms around her. he saw that her eyes were speckled; it was as if the irises had been crushed into many small fragments; and in her eyes and her presence he felt something of the shock and energy which had radiated so strongly from the dead body. she was new; changed. nothing i can do, he thought.

“thank you for everything,” she said. “i’m so sorry you had it to do.”

he could not answer or continue to look into her eyes; he embraced her more closely. “mary,” he said finally.

“i’m all right, andrew,” she said quietly. “i’ve got to be.”

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.