Death In The Family, A - James Agee [13]
“There’s plenty more butter,” she said.
“Got a plenty,” he said, spearing four fragments of pancake and putting them in his mouth. “Thanks.” He chewed them up, swallowed them, and speared four more. “I bet your milk’s warm.” he said, putting down his fork.
But this time she was up before he could prevent her. “You eat,” she said. She poured the white, softly steaming milk into a thick white cup and sat down with it, warming both hands on the cup, and watching him eat. Because of the strangeness of the hour, and the abrupt destruction of sleep, the necessity for action and its interruptive minutiae, the gravity of his errand, and a kind of weary exhilaration, both of them found it peculiarly hard to talk, though both particularly wanted to. He realized that she was watching him, and watched back, his eyes serious yet smiling, his jaws busy. He was glutted, but he thought to himself, I’ll finish up those pancakes if it’s the last thing I do.
“Don’t stuff, Jay,” she said after a silence.
“Hm?”
“Don’t eat more than you’ve appetite for.”
He had thought his imitation of good appetite was successful. “Don’t worry,” he said, spearing some more.
There wasn’t much to finish. She looked at him tenderly when he glanced down to see, and said nothing more about it.
“Mnh,” he said, leaning back.
Now there was nothing to take their eyes from each other; and still, for some reason, they had nothing to say. They were not disturbed by this, but both felt almost the shyness of courtship. Each continued to look into the other’s tired eyes, and their tired eyes sparkled, but not with realizations which reached their hearts very distinctly.
“What would you like to do for your birthday?” he asked.
“Why, Jay.” She was taken very much by surprise. “Why you nice thing! Why—why ...”
“You think it over,” he said. “Whatever you’d like best—within reason, of course,” he joked. “I’ll see we manage it. The children, I mean.” They both remembered at the same time. He said, “That is, of course, if everything goes the way we hope it will, up home.”
“Of course, Jay.” Her eyes lost focus for a moment. “Let’s hope it will,” she said, in a peculiarly abstracted voice.
He watched her. That occasional loss of focus always mystified him and faintly disturbed him. Women, he guessed.
She came back into this world and again they looked at each other. Of course, in a way, they both reflected, there isn’t anything to say, or need for us to say it, anyhow.
He took a slow, deep breath and let it out as slowly.
“Well, Mary,” he said in his gentlest voice. He took her hand. They smiled very seriously, thinking of his father and of each other, and both knew in their hearts, as they had known in their minds, that there was no need to say anything.
They got up.
Now where—ahh,” he said in deep annoyance.
“Coat n vest,” he said, starting for the stairs.
“You wait,” she said, passing him swiftly. “Fraid you’d wake the children,” she whispered over her shoulder.
While she was gone he went into the sitting room, turned on one light, and picked up his pipe and tobacco. In the single quiet light in the enormous quietude of the night, all the little objects in the room looked golden brown and curiously gentle. He was touched, without knowing why.
Home.
He snapped off the light.
She was a little slow coming down; seeing if they’re covered, he thought. He stood by the stove, idly watching the flexions of the dark and light squares in the linoleum. He was glad he’d gotten it down, at last. And Mary had been right. The plain black and white did look better than colors and fancy patterns.
He heard her on the stairs. Sure enough, first thing she said when she came in was, “You know, I was almost tempted to wake them. I suppose I’m silly but they’re so used to—I’m afraid they’re going to be very disappointed you didn’t tell them good-bye.”
“Good night! Really?” He hardly knew whether he was pleased or displeased. Were they getting spoilt maybe?
“I may be mistaken, of course.”
“Be silly to wake em