Death In The Family, A - James Agee [63]
“Good God, Andrew,” his father said.
“Just that one tiny area, at just a certain angle, and just a certain sharpness of impact. If it had been even a half an inch to one side, he’d be alive this minute.”
“Shut up, Andrew,” his father said harshly; for with the last few words that Andrew spoke, a sort of dilation had seized Mary, so that she had almost risen from her place, seeming larger than herself, and then had collapsed into a shattering of tears.
“Oh Mary,” Andrew groaned, and hurried to her, while her mother took her head against her breast. “I’m so sorry. God, what possessed me! I must be out of my mind!” And Hannah and Joel had gotten from their chairs and stood nearby, unable to speak.
“Just—have a little mercy,” she sobbed. “A little mercy.”
Andrew could say only, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Mary,” and then he could say nothing.
“Let her cry,” Joel said quietly to his sister, and she nodded. As if anything on earth could stop her, he said to himself.
“O God, forgive me,” Mary moaned. “Forgive me! Forgive me! It’s just more than I can bear! Just more than I can bear! Forgive me!” And Joel, with his mouth fallen open, wheeled upon his sister and stared at her; and she avoided his eyes, saying to herself, No, No, and protect her, O God, protect Thy poor child and give her strength; and Andrew, his face locked in a murderer’s grimace, continued the furious and annihilating words which were bursting within him to be spoken, groaned within himself, God, if You exist, come here and let me spit in Your face. Forgive her, indeed!
Then Hannah moved him aside and stooped before Mary, taking her wrists and talking earnestly into her streaming hands: “Mary, listen to me. Mary. There’s nothing to ask forgiveness for. There’s nothing to ask forgiveness for, Mary. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, Mary?” Mary nodded within her hands. “God would never ask of you not to grieve, not to cry. Do you hear? What you’re doing is absolutely natural, absolutely right. Do you hear! You wouldn’t be human if you did otherwise. Do you hear me, Mary? You’re not human to ask His forgiveness. You’re wrong. You’re terribly mistaken. Do you hear me, my dear? Do you hear me?”
While she was speaking, Mary, within her hands, now nodded and now shook her head, always in contradiction of what her aunt was saying, and now she said, “It isn’t what you think. I spoke to Him as if He had no mercy!”
“Andrew? Andrew was ju ...”
“No: to God. As if He were trying to rub it in. Torment me. That’s what I asked forgiveness for.”
“There, Mary,” her mother said; she could hear virtually nothing of what was said, but she could feel that the extremity of the crying had passed.
“Listen, Mary,” Hannah said, and she bent so close to her that she could have whispered. “Our Lord on the Cross,” she said, in a voice so low that only Mary and Andrew could hear, “do you remember?”
“My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?”
“Yes. And then did He ask forgiveness?”
“He was God. He didn’t have to.”
“He was human, too. And He didn’t ask it. Nor was it asked of Him to ask it, no more are you. And no more should you. What was it He said, instead? The very next thing He said.”
“Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,” she said, taking her hands from her face and looking meekly at her aunt.
“Into Thy hands I commend my spirit,” her aunt said.
“There, dear,” her mother said, and Mary sat upright and looked straight ahead.
“Please don’t feel sorry, Andrew,” she said. “You’re right to tell me every last bit you know. I want to know—all of it. It was just—it just overwhelmed me for a minute.”
“I shouldn’t tell you so much all in a heap.”
“No, that’s better. Than to keep hearing—horrible little new things, just when you think you’ve heard the worst and are beginning to get used to it.”
“That’s right, Poll,” her father said.
“Now just go straight on telling me. Everything there is to tell. And if I do break down, why don’t reproach yourself. Remember I asked you. But I’ll try to not. I think I’ll be