A Death in the Family - James Agee [33]
Darkness said:
Under my sheltering: in my great sheltering.
In the corner, not quite possible to detach from the darkness, a creature increased, which watched him.
Darkness said:
You hear the man you call your father: how can you ever fear?
Under the washstand, carefully, something moved.
You hear the woman who thinks you are her child.
Beneath his prostrate head, eternity opened.
Hear how he laughs at you; in what amusement she agrees.
The curtain sighed as powers unspeakable passed through it.
Darkness purred with delight and said:
What is this change your eye betrays?
Only a moment ago, I was your friend, or so you claimed; why this sudden loss of love?
Only a moment ago you were all eagerness to know my secrets; where is your hunger now?
Only be steadfast: for now, my dear, my darling, the moment comes when hunger and love will be forever satisfied.
And darkness, smiling, leaned ever more intimately inward upon him, laid open the huge, ragged mouth—
Ahhhhh ... !
Child, child, why do you betray me so?
Come near. Come very near.
Ohhhhhh ... !
Must you be naughty? It would grieve me terribly to have to force you.
You know that you can never get away: you don’t even want to get away.
But with that, the child was torn into two creatures, of whom one cried out for his father.
The shadows lay where they belonged, and he lay shaken in his tears. He saw the window; waited.
Still the cricket struck his chisel; the voices persisted, placid as bran.
But behind his head, in that tall shadow which his eyes could never reach, who could dare dream what abode its moment?
The voices chafed, untroubled: grumble and babble.
He cried out again more fiercely for his father.
There seemed a hollowing in the voices, as if they crossed a high trestle.
Serenely the curtain dilated, serenely failed.
The shadows lay where they belonged, but strain as he might, he could not descry what lay in the darkest of them.
The voices relaxed into their original heartlessness.
He swiftly turned his head and stared through the bars at the head of the crib. He could not see what stood there. He swiftly turned again.
Whatever it might be had dodged, yet more swiftly: stood once more, still, forever, beyond and behind his hope of seeing.
He saw the basin and that was only itself; but its eye was wicked ice.
Even the sugar curtains were evil, a senselessly fumbling mouth; and the leaves, wavering, stifled their tree like an infestation.
Near the window, a stain on the wallpaper, pale brown, a serpent shape.
Deadly, the opposite window returned his staring.
The cricket cherished what avaricious secret: patiently sculptured what effigy of dread?
The voices buzzed, pleased and oblivious as locusts. They cared nothing for him.
He screamed for his father.
And now the voices changed. He heard his father draw a deep breath and lock it against his palate, then let it out harshly against the bones of his nose in a long snort of annoyance. He heard the Morris chair creak as his father stood up and he heard sounds from his mother which meant that she was disturbed by his annoyance and that she would see to him, Jay; his uncle and his aunt made quick, small, attendant noises and took no further part in the discussion and his father’s voice, somewhat less unkind than the snort and the way he had gotten from his chair but still annoyed, saying, “No, he hollered for me, I’ll see to him”; and heard his mastering, tired approach. He was afraid, for he was no longer deeply frightened; he was grateful for the evidence of tears.
The room opened full of gold, his father stooped through the door and closed it quietly; came quietly to the crib. His face was kind.
“Wuzza matter?” he asked, teasing gently, his voice at its deepest.
“Daddy,” the child said thinly. He sucked the phlegm from his nose and swallowed it.
His voice raised a little. “Why, what’s the trouble with my little boy,” he said and fumbled and got out his handkerchief. “What’s the trouble! What