"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.