— Snow it was, grey snow. Tiny bits of paper, floating from the window, that day. Confetti, a boy said. Confetti, he said. They threw it down on those two who were going to be married. The man in the tall, black shiny hat, hurrying. The lady in white laughing, leaning against him, dodging the confetti, winking it out of her eyes. Carriages waiting. Confetti on the step, on the horses. Funny. Then they got inside, both laughing. Confetti. Carriages.
— Carriages!
— The same!
— This afternoon! When the box came out! Carriages.
— Same!
— Carriages—!
“Dear God!” exclaimed his mother. “You startled me! What makes you leap that way in your chair? This is the second time today!”
“They were the same,” he said in a voice of awe. It was solved now. He saw it clearly. Everything belonged to the same dark. Confetti and coffins.
“What were the same?”
“The carriages!”
“Oh, child!” she cried with amused desperation. “God alone knows what you’re dreaming about now!” She rose from her chair, went over to the wall where the matchbox hung, “I had better light these candles before you see an angel.”
The match rasped on the sandpaper, flared up, making David aware of how dark it had become.
One by one she lit the candles. The flame crept tipsily up the wick, steadied, mellowed the steadfast brass below, glowed on each knot of the crisp golden braid of the bread on the napkin. Twilight vanished, the kitchen gleamed. Day that had begun in labor and disquiet, blossomed now in candlelight and sabbath.
With a little, deprecating laugh, his mother stood before the candles, and bowing her head before them, murmured through the hands she spread before her face the ancient prayer for the Sabbath …
The hushed hour, the hour of tawny beatitude …
X
HIS mother rose, lit the gas lamp. Sudden, blue light condensed the candle flames to irrelevant kernels of yellow. He eyed them sadly, wishing that she hadn’t lit the lamp.
“They will be coming soon,” she said.
They! He started in dismay. They were coming! Luter. His father. They! Oh! The lull of peace was over. He could feel dread rising within him like a cloud — as though his mother’s words had been a stone flung on dusty ground. The hush and the joy were leaving him! Why did Luter have to come? David would be ashamed to look at him, could not look at him. Even thinking of Luter made him feel as he felt that day in school when the boy in the next seat picked his nose and rolled the snot between his fingers, then peered round with a vacant grin and wiped it off under the seat. It made his toes curl in disgust. He shouldn’t have seen him, shouldn’t have known.
“Is Mr. Luter going to come here too?”
“Of course.” She turned to look at him. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. I just thought — I–I thought maybe he didn’t like the way you cooked.”
“The way I—? Oh! I see!” She reddened faintly. “I didn’t know you could remember so well.” She looked about as though she had forgotten something and then went up the stairs into the frontroom.
He stared out of the window into the dark. Rain still beat down. They must be hurrying toward him now in the rain, hurrying because it was raining. If only he could get away before they came, hide till Luter was gone, never come back till Luter had gone away forever. How could he go? He caught his breath. If he ran away now before his mother came back — stole out through the door silently. Like that! Opened the door, crept down the stairs. The cellar! Run by and run away, leaving upstairs an empty kitchen. She would look about, under the table, in the hall; she would call — David! David! Where are you? David! He’d be gone—
In the frontroom, the sound of a window opening, shutting again. His mother came in, bearing a grey covered pot between her hands. Rain drops on its sides, water in the hollow of the lid.
“A fearful night.” She emptied the overflowing lid into the sink. “The fish is frozen.”
Too late now.
He must stay here now, till the end, till Luter had come and gone. But perhaps his mother was wrong and perhaps Luter wouldn’t come, if only he never came again. Why should he come here again? He was here yesterday and there was nobody home. Don’t come here, his mind whispered to itself again and again. Please, Mr. Luter, don’t come here! Don’t come here any more.
The minutes passed, and just at that moment when it seemed to David that he had forgotten about Luter, the familiar tread of feet scraped through the hallway below. Voices on the stair! Luter had come. With one look at his mother’s pursed, attentive face, he sidled toward the frontroom, sneaked up the stairs and into the dark. He stood at the window, listening to the sounds behind him. The door was opened. He heard their greetings, Luter’s voice and slow speech. They must be taking their coats off now. If only they would forget about him. If only it were possible. But—
“Where’s the prayer?” he heard his father ask.
A pause and his mother’s voice. “He’s in the frontroom I think. David!”
“Yes, mama.” A wave of anger and frustration shook him.
“He’s there.”
Satisfied that he was there, they seemed to forget him for a little while, but again his father and this time with the dangerous accent of annoyance.
“Well, why doesn’t he come in? David!”
There could be no more delay. He must go in. Eyes fixed before his feet, he came out of the frontroom, shuffled to his seat and sat down, conscious all the time that the others were gazing at him curiously.
“What’s the matter with him?” asked his father sharply.
“I don’t quite know. Perhaps his stomach. He has eaten very little today.”
“Well, he’ll eat now,” said his father warningly. “You feed him too many trifles.”
“A doubtful stomach is a sad thing,” said Luter condoningly, and David hated him for his sympathy.
“Ach,” exclaimed his father, “it isn’t his stomach, Joe, it’s his palate — jaded with delicacies.”
His mother set the soup before him. “This will taste good,” she coaxed.
He dared not refuse, though the very thought of eating sickened him. Steeling himself against the first mouthful, he dipped the spoon into the shimmering red liquid, lifted it to his lips. Instead of reaching his mouth, the spoon reached only his chin, struck against the hollow under his lower lip, scalded it, fell from his nerveless fingers into the plate. A red fountain splashed out in all directions, staining his blouse, staining the white table cloth. With a feeling of terror David watched the crimson splotches on the cloth widen till they met each other.
His father lowered his spoon angrily into his plate. “Lame as a Turk!” he snapped, rapping the table with his knuckles. “Will you lift your head, or do you want that in the plate too?”
He raised frightened eyes. Luter glanced at him sidewise, sucking his teeth in wary disapproval.
“It’s nothing!” exclaimed his mother comfortingly. “That’s what table cloths were made for.”
“To splash soup on, eh?” retorted her husband sarcastically. “And that’s what shirts were made for too! Very fine. Why not the whole plate while he’s at it.”
Luter chuckled.
Without answering, his mother reached over and stroked his brow with her palm. “Go on and eat, child.”
“What are you doing now,” demanded his father, “sounding his brow for fever? Child! There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the brat, except your pampering him!” He shook his finger at David ominously. “Now you swill your soup like a man, or I’ll ladle you out something else instead.”
David whimpered, eyed his plate in cowed rebellion.