"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 towards 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.