A Death in the Family - James Agee [51]
“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen,” Mary said in a low voice.
“Amen,” Hannah trailed.
They were silent and they could hear the ticking of the clock, the shuffling of fire, and the yammering of the big kettle.
God is not here, Hannah said to herself; and made a small cross upon her breastbone, against her blasphemy.
“O God,” Mary whispered, “strengthen me to accept Thy will, whatever it may be.” Then she stayed silent.
God hear her, Hannah said to herself. God forgive me. God forgive me.
What can I know of the proper time for her, she said to herself. God forgive me.
Yet she could not rid herself: something mistaken, unbearably piteous, infinitely malign was at large within that faithfulness; she was helpless to forfend it or even to know its nature.
Suddenly there opened within her a chasm of infinite depth and from it flowed the paralyzing breath of eternal darkness.
I believe nothing. Nothing whatever.
“Our Father,” she heard herself say, in a strange voice; and Mary, innocent of her terror, joined in the prayer. And as they continued, and Hannah heard more and more clearly than her own the young, warm, earnest, faithful, heartsick voice, her moment of terrifying unbelief became a remembrance, a temptation successfully resisted through God’s grace.
Deliver us from evil, she repeated silently, several times after their prayer was finished. But the malign was still there, as well as the mercifulness.
They got to their feet.
As it became with every minute and then with every flickering of the clock more and more clear that Andrew had had far more than enough time to get out there, and to telephone, Mary and her aunt talked less and less. For a little while after their prayer, in relief, Mary had talked quite volubly of matters largely irrelevant to the event; she had even made little jokes and had even laughed at them, without more than a small undertone of hysteria; and in all this, Hannah had thought it best (and, for that matter, the only thing possible), to follow suit; but that soon faded away; nor was it to return; now they merely sat in quietness, each on her side of the kitchen table, their eyes cast away from each other, drinking tea for which they had no desire. Mary made a full fresh pot of tea, and they conversed a little about that, and the heated water with which to dilute it, they discussed that briefly; but such little exchanges wore quickly down into silence. Mary, whispering, “Excuse me,” retired to the bathroom, affronted and humbled that one should have to obey such a call at such a time; she felt for a few moments as stupid and enslaved as a baby on its potty, and far more ungainly and vulgar; then, with her wet hands planted in the basin of cold water she stared incredulously into her numb, reflected face, which seemed hardly real to her until, with shame, she realized that at this of all moments she was mirror gazing. Hannah, left alone, was grateful that we are animals; it was this silly, strenuous, good, humble cluttering of animal needs which saw us through sane, fully as much as prayer; and towards the end of these moments of solitude, with her mind free from the subtle deceptions of concern, she indulged herself in whispering, aloud, “He’s dead. There’s no longer the slightest doubt of it”; and began to sign herself with the Cross in prayer for the dead, but sharply remembering we do not know, and feeling as if she had been on the verge of exercising malign power against him, deflected the intention of the gesture towards God’s mercy upon him, in whatsoever condition he might now be. When Mary returned, she put more wood on the fire, looked into the big