“That way, Mama?” He stared incredulously. “This way!” He pointed to the right. “This way is my school.”
“That’s why you were lost! It’s the other way.”
“O-o-h!” A new wonder dragged him to a halt. “It — it’s turning, Mama! It’s turning round — back.”
“What?” Her tone was amused. “The street?”
“Yes! They stopped! Just now! The school — The school is over there now!”
“So it is. The streets turn, but you — not you! Little God!” Chuckling, she stooped, kissed him. “We must hurry, though! I left no word and it’s dark. If he gets there before we do, he’ll—” She broke off nervously. “Come!”
They crossed the street, turned their backs against the twilight and hurried into darkness. Lamps were already lit, street lamps, windows. They had met almost no one during their entire journey, and now against the wintry vacancy and the dark, David listened with immense gratitude to the click of his mother’s heels that measured the quicker shuffle-tripping of his own. Suppose he were alone? Heard only his own slight footsteps wrenched from the grip of quiet? Suppose his father—? No! He shivered, added the middle finger of his mother’s hand to the two he already held.
They neared the open lot. He knew where he was now, certain of every step. There was a wind that prowled over that area of rock and dead grass, that would spring at them when they passed it. And the wind did. He squinted into it. Beyond the patch of rock and dead grass, a bright rind of moon barely cleared the roof tops. He watched it till the next house overtook it and then looked away. A vague apprehension came over him. An hour ago, had he been by some miracle transplanted to this spot, he would have rushed home screaming for joy. But now, each familiar house that he passed — here was the one with the leaning palings; this was yellow long-boards in daylight and had a railed-in porch, this was brick and had an odd veined transom over the door — each was nearer home. And home — His fears reared up again. And suddenly he wished himself — but with his mother beside him — twice as far away as when they had left the police station.
“After next block, Mama?” He knew perfectly well how far his own house lay.
“Yes.” She was staring ahead eagerly.
“You know where the next street is, Mama?” He motioned to the side. “Over this way?”
“Yes.”
“I saw the — that box and those carriages.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. Are they going to — to move out now — You think?”
“I don’t know, darling. Perhaps they own the house. Why do you ask?”
He was silent a moment and then, “Is Papa home?”
“I hope not.”
“You — you — are you going to say — tell him?”
“What? Where you’ve been? Why of course!”
“Aaaaa!” His head dropped resentfully.
“What’s the matter?” She tugged his arm gently. “Don’t you want me to?”
“I–I thought you wouldn’t tell if — if we came home first — just before.”
“Why no, I was worried about Albert, that’s all. Are you afraid about having him know?”
“I–I was in a- a p’lice station — that’s why.”
“Well, what if you were? You’ve done nothing. Oh, you silly child! Being lost is no crime. Though I could blame others if I chose!”
There was a tight sound of restrained anger in her voice though David knew it was not directed against him.
“You won’t let him h-hit me?”
“Tt! Darling, I’ll never let him strike you again — neither he nor anyone if I can help it. There, are you satisfied? Now don’t be afraid any longer!”
David walked in silence awhile, mind reassured, heart not yet free from doubt.
“Mr. Luter— Mr. Luter isn’t going to come?”
“To-night? No.” Her pace slackened slightly. “What makes you think of that?”
“Will he come here, Mama? Come here anymore?”
“Why — Well— I don’t—” From confusion her voice condensed into suddenness. “Why do you ask?”
“I–I don’t like him. That’s why.”
“Oh, is that it?” She was silent a moment. And though they had entered their own block, her pace instead of quickening, slackened even more. When she spoke again, her voice was strangely cautious. “Did — did anyone else frighten you, beloved? Anyone else beside those bad boys?”
“N-no.” He felt his mind sharpen now, watchful. “No. Nobody else.”
“You’re sure? You — you saw nobody? Nothing that would frighten you?”
“I–I only saw the boys. And Yussie told them, and then they all began to — to chase me.”
“Of course. I’m glad there was nothing else. God knows that was enough!”
Her pace quickened again. Without eagerness, David singled out his own house among the dark ones. It struck him as odd that he should only have noticed now and at night that his house had a flat and not a gabled roof. They lived under the roof then, Yussie and Annie. Suppose Annie had looked out of the window when he made his mother look out in the police station. Suppose she was there now watching him! He shuddered, looked away.
“In our block, the first stores, Mama — the first stores begin.”
“Yes … And tell me, will I still have to stand in the hallway when you go down? Or have you seen how little there is to fear in cellars?”
“No!” Fear lunged within him. “No, Mama! You’ll have to wait — always!”
“How desperate you sound!”
“And I’m not going to play with — with anybody! Any more!”
“You’re not?”
“No! Never!”
He could feel his lips pouting despite himself, stretching out as if to loosen the tears. Another moment and he would have wept, but the hallway door was before him now, and now his mother pressed it open. Imperious terror dispersed his tears. He entered — thrust of warmth of the gaslit hallway, stagnant air suffused with the dusty, torpid odor of carpets. The cellar door was brown — closed again. For an instant he wondered whether he or another had shut it, but could not recall. Fear printed on his back and breast the cold, metallic squares of a wiry net. He shrank against his mother, clung to her till they mounted the carpeted stairs. She seemed not to have noticed.
“If he’s in,” she murmured aloud, “he’ll be distraught! After what I said to him last night! Hurry! He’ll think I’ve— But why not?” She appeared suddenly to remember. “Why won’t you play?”
“I don’t—” He faltered dully, evasively. “I don’t want to.” It no longer mattered.
She hurried up the stairs, tarried a moment at the landing till he reached her and then tried the door. Unlocked, it yielded — gave upon darkness. Alarm tightened her features. She entered.
“Albert!”
There was no answer … Only the soft shifting of embers in the stove. For a weird, spinning instant, David, lingering on the threshold, visualized his father gone, miraculously, forever gone.
“Albert!” She was groping toward the wall where the match-safe hung. “Albert!”
“Unh!” His startled groan came from the bedroom. “You? Genya!” For once his voice was stripped of harshness, stripped of pride, power, was nothing but a cry such as David might have uttered, alone in the dark, despairing. “Genya!”
“Oh! Thank God, you’re here!”
“Yes…” And the harshness returned and the inflexible pride, and the voice was again his father’s, awakened, surly. “Hmph! Where else would I be?”
She had struck a match and now she lit the mantle-light.
“I tried so hard to get back before you arrived! Were you worried?”
“I?” Deliberate, again, sardonic. “No … And so you decided to return did you? Even the fixed word wavers, eh? In the cold? In the empty streets at ni—”