A Death in the Family - James Agee [77]
“Well if there’s time,” she said vaguely. “Yes if there’s time, Andrew,” she said more distinctly. “Yes, then I’d rather, if you don’t mind. Tomorrow in the morning.” She glanced at the clock. “Goodness this morning,” she exclaimed.
“Of course not,” Andrew said. He turned to his aunt and said in a low voice, as one speaks before an invalid, “Let her sleep if she can. You phone me.”
Hannah nodded.
“Must’ve ...” Joel said, and went into the hall.
“What’s ...” Hannah began.
“Hat I guess. Mine too.” Andrew left the room; in the hall he met his father, carrying his own hat, his wife’s, and Andrew’s.
“Left them in the kitchen,” his father said.
“Thank you, Papa,” Andrew took his hat.
Catherine was standing uneasily in the middle of the room, holding her trumpet and her purse and looking towards the hall door. “Thank you, Joel,” she said. She settled and pinned her hat by touch, a little crooked, and looked at Hannah inquiringly.
“It’s all right, Catherine,” her husband said.
Andrew was watching his sister. It seemed to him that these preparations for departure put her into some kind of silent panic. Maybe we should stay, he thought. All night. I could. But Mary was chiefly watching her mother’s difficulties with the hat. No, it’s the slowness, he corrected himself. Sooner the better.
“Well, Mary,” he said, and stepped to her and put his arms around her. He saw that her eyes were speckled; it was as if the irises had been crushed into many small fragments; and in her eyes and her presence he felt something of the shock and energy which had radiated so strongly from the dead body. She was new; changed. Nothing I can do, he thought.
“Thank you for everything,” she said. “I’m so sorry you had it to do.”
He could not answer or continue to look into her eyes; he embraced her more closely. “Mary,” he said finally.
“I’m all right, Andrew,” she said quietly. “I’ve got to be.”
He nodded sharply.
“You come up in the morning. We’ll—make our plans.”
“Sleep if you can.”
“Just come up first thing because I know there’s an awful lot to do and not much time.”
“All right.”
“Good night, Andrew.”
“Good night, Mary.”
“Bless you,” her mother exploded, almost as if she were cursing; deaf, near-sighted, she caught her daughter in her arms with all her strength and patted her back with both hands, thinking: how young and good she smells!
She wants so to help, Mary realized. To stay! Under her caress she felt the hard, round shoulders, sharp backbone, already hunching with age. Leaning back in her mother’s embrace, she straightened the hat, looked into the trembling face, and kissed her hard on the mouth. Her mother twice returned the kiss, then stood aside, gathering her long skirt for the porch steps.
“Poll,” her father said; she felt the beard against her cheek and heard his whisper: “Good girl. Keep it up.”
She nodded.
“Good night,” Hannah said.
“Good night, Aunt Hannah,” Andrew replied.
“Night, Hannah,” her brother said. He steered Catherine by one elbow, Andrew by the other; they went onto the porch.
“Light!” Mary exclaimed.
“What?” Andrew and Hannah asked, startled.
Mary switched on the porch light. “Tsall right,” her father said in mild annoyance. “Thank you,” her mother chimed, politely. Mary and Hannah stood at the door while they carefully descended the porch steps, and they watched them until they reached the corner and then until they had safely crossed the street. Under the corner lamp, Andrew turned his head and lifted and let fall his hand in something less than a wave. The others did not turn; and now Andrew also had turned away, and they went carefully away along the sidewalk, and Mary switched off the light, and still watched. Hannah could no longer see them now, and after a few moments, gave up pretending to watch them and watched Mary as she looked after them, as intently, Hannah felt, as if it were of more importance than anything else, to see them until the last possible instant. And still Mary could see them, somewhat darker against the darkness and of uneven heights, growing