Death In The Family, A - James Agee [102]
“What-is-it?” she said and turned her lowered head, peering. “Why, Rufus!” she exclaimed, in such a tone that he wondered what he had done. “You’re not going to school,” she said, and now he realized that she was not mad at him.
“I can stay out of school?”
“Of course you can. You must. Today and tomorrow as well and—for a sufficient time. A few days. Now put up your things, and stay right in this house, child.”
He looked at her and said to himself: but then they can’t see me; but he knew there was no use begging her; already she was busy with the dishes again.
He went back along the hall towards the hat rack. In the first moment he had been only surprised and exhilarated not to have to go to school, and something of this sense of privilege remained, but almost immediately he was also disappointed. He could now see vividly how they would all look up when he came into the schoolroom and how the teacher would say something nice about his father and about him, and he knew that on this day everybody would treat him well, and even look up to him, for something had happened to him today which had not happened to any other boy in school, any other boy in town. They might even give him part of their lunches.
He felt even more profoundly empty and idle than before.
He laid down his satchel on the seat of the hat rack, but he kept his hat on. She’ll spank me, he thought. Even worse, he could foresee her particular, crackling kind of anger. I won’t let her find out, he told himself. Taking great care to be silent, he let himself out the front door.
The air was cool and gray and here and there along the street, shapeless and watery sunlight strayed and vanished. Now that he was in this outdoor air he felt even more listless and powerful; he was alone, and the silent, invisible energy. was everywhere. He stood on the porch and supposed that everyone he saw passing knew of an event so famous. A man was walking quickly up the street and as Rufus watched him, and waited for the man to meet his eyes, he felt a great quiet lifting within him of pride and of shyness, and he felt his face break into a smile, and then an uncontrollable grin, which he knew he must try to make sober again; but the man walked past without looking at him, and so did the next man who walked past in the other direction. Two schoolboys passed whose faces he knew, so he knew that they must know his, but they did not even seem to see him. Arthur and Alvin Tripp came down their front steps and along the far sidewalk and now he was sure, and came down his own front steps and halfway out to the sidewalk, but then he stopped, for now, although both of them looked across into his eyes, and he into theirs, they did not cross the street to him or even say hello, but kept on their way, still looking into his eyes with a kind of shy curiosity, even when their heads were turned almost backwards on their necks, and he turned his own head slowly, watching them go by, but when he saw that they were not going to speak he took care not to speak either.
What’s the matter with them, he wondered, and still watched them; and even now, far down the street, Arthur kept turning his head, and for several steps Alvin walked backwards.
What are they mad about?
Now they no longer looked around, and now he watched them vanish under the hill.
Maybe they don’t know, he thought. Maybe the others don’t know, either.
He came out to the sidewalk.
Maybe everybody knew. Or maybe he knew something of great importance which nobody else knew. The alternatives were not at all distinct in his mind; he was puzzled, but no less proud and expectant than before. My daddy’s dead, he said to himself slowly, and then, shyly, he said it aloud: “My daddy’s dead.” Nobody in sight seemed to have heard; he had said it to nobody in particular. “My