Death In The Family, A - James Agee [56]
“Sit with us, Andrew,” Mary said, a little more loudly; he was already bringing a third chair and now he sat, and put his hands upon theirs, and, feeling the convulsing of her hands, thought, Christ, it’s as if she were in labor. And she is. Thus they sat in silence a few moments while he thought: now I’ve got to tell them how it happened. In God’s name, how can I begin!
“I want whiskey,” Mary said, in a small, cold voice, and tried to get up.
“I’ll get it,” Andrew said, standing.
“You don’t know where it is,” she said, continuing to put aside their hands even after they were withdrawn. She got up and they stood as if respectfully aside and she walked between them and went into the hall; they heard her rummaging in the closet, and looked at each other. “She needs it,” Hannah said.
He nodded. He had been surprised, because of Jay, that there was whiskey in the house; and he was sick with self-disgust to have thought of it. “We all do,” he said.
Without looking at them Mary went to the kitchen closet and brought a thick tumbler to the table. The bottle was almost full. She poured the tumbler full while they watched her, feeling they must not interfere, and took a deep gulp and choked on it, and swallowed most of it.
“Dilute it,” Hannah said, slapping her hard between the shoulders and drying her lips and her chin with a dish towel. “It’s much too strong, that way.”
“I will,” Mary croaked, and cleared her throat, “I will,” she said more clearly.
“Just sit down, Mary,” Andrew and Hannah said at the same moment, and Andrew brought her a glass of water and Hannah helped her to her chair.
“I’m going to have some, too,” Andrew said.
“Goodness, do!” said Mary.
“Let me fix us a good strong toddy,” Hannah said. “It’ll help you to sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep,” Mary said; she sipped at her whiskey and took plenty of the water. “I’ve got to learn how it happened.”
“Aunt Hannah,” Andrew asked quietly, motioning towards the bottle.
“Please.”
While he broke ice and brought glasses and a pitcher of water, none of them spoke; Mary sat in a distorted kind of helplessness at once meek and curiously sullen, waiting. Months later, seeing a horse which had fallen in the street, Andrew was to remember her; and he was to remember it wasn’t drunkenness, either. It was just the flat of the hand of Death.
“Let me pour my own,” Mary said. “Because,” she added with deliberation while she poured, “I want it just as strong as I can stand it.” She tasted the dark drink, added a little more whiskey, tasted again, and put the bottle aside. Hannah watched her with acute concern, thinking, if she gets drunk tonight, and if her mother sees her drunk, she’ll half die of shame, and thinking, nonsense. It’s the most sensible thing she could do.
“Drink it very slowly, Mary,” Andrew said gently. “You aren’t used to it.”
“I’ll take care,” Mary said.
“It’s just the thing for shock,” Hannah said.
Andrew poured two small straight drinks and gave one to his aunt; they drank them off quickly and took water, and he prepared two pale highballs.
“Now, Andrew, I want to hear all about it,” Mary said.
He looked at Hannah.
“Mary,” he said. “Mama and Papa’ll be here any minute. You’d just have to hear it all over again. I’ll tell you, of course, if you prefer, right away but—could you wait?”
But even as he was speaking she was nodding, and Hannah was saying, “Yes, child,” as all three thought of the confusions and repetitions which were, at best, inevitable. Now after a moment Mary said, “Anyway, you say he didn’t have to suffer. Instantly, you said.”
He nodded, and said, “Mary, I saw him—at Roberts’. There was just one mark on his body.”
She looked at him. “His head.”
“Right at the exact point of the chin, a small bruise. A cut so small