Saint Maybe - Anne Tyler [42]
“Yes, he told me.”
Agatha turned a page of her book. Ian’s father crossed to the barometer on the wall and tapped the glass.
“Ian, dear,” his mother said, “would you mind very much if I toddled off to bed?”
“No, go ahead,” Ian said, although he did feel a bit hurt. After all, this was his first visit home.
“It’s been such a long day, I’m just beat. The older two are sleeping in Danny’s room, and I’ve set up the Port-a-Crib in your room. I hope Daphne won’t disturb you.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“He looks downright domestic, in fact,” his father said, and he gave a snort of laughter. Doug belonged to an era when the sight of a man holding a baby was considered humorous. He liked to say he’d changed a diaper only once in all his life, back when Bee had the flu and Claudia was an infant. The experience had made him throw up. Everyone always chuckled when he told this story, but now Ian wondered why. He felt irked to see his father drift behind Bee toward the stairs, although his knees were not arthritic and he might easily have stayed to help. “Night, son,” he said, lifting an arm.
“Good night,” Ian said shortly.
He sat on the couch next to Thomas. Daphne instantly made a chipped sound of protest, and he stood up and started walking again.
“Ian,” Agatha said, “will you read us a story?”
“I can’t right now. Daphne won’t let me sit down.”
“She will if you sit in a rocking chair,” Agatha said.
He tried it. Daphne stirred, but as soon as he began rocking she went limp again. He wondered why his mother hadn’t thought of this—or why Agatha hadn’t informed her.
Agatha was pulling up a footstool so she could sit next to him. Her eyes were lowered and her plain white disk of a face seemed complete in itself, ungiving. “Get a chair, Thomas,” she ordered. Thomas slid off the couch and dragged over the miniature rocker from the hearth. It took him awhile because he never let go of Dulcimer.
The book Agatha placed on Ian’s lap dated from his childhood. The Sad Little Bunny, it was called. It told about a rabbit who got lost on a picnic and couldn’t find his mother. Ian wondered about reading this story under these particular circumstances, but both children listened stolidly—Thomas sucking his thumb, Agatha turning the pages without comment. First the rabbit went home with a friendly robin and tried to live in a tree, but he got dizzy. Then he went home with a beaver and tried to live in a dam, but he got wet. Ian had never realized what a repetitive book this was. He swallowed a yawn. Tears of boredom filled his eyes. The effort of reading while rocking made him slightly motion-sick.
On the last page, the little rabbit said, “Oh, Mama, I’m so glad to be back in my own home!” The picture showed him in a cozy, chintz-lined burrow, hugging an aproned mother rabbit. Reading out the words, Ian noticed how loud they sounded—like something tactless dropped into a shocked silence. But Agatha said, “Again.”
“It’s bedtime.”
“No, it’s not! What time is it?”
“Tell you what,” he said. “You get into your beds, and then I’ll read it once more.”
“Twice,” Agatha said.
“Once.”
What did this remind him of? The boredom, the yawns … It was the evening of Danny’s death, revisited. He felt he was traveling a treadmill, stuck with these querulous children night after night after night.
In the morning the minister came to discuss the funeral service. He was an elderly, stiff, formal man, and Bee seemed flustered when Ian led him into the kitchen. “Oh, don’t look at all this mess!” she said, untying her apron. “Let’s go into the living room. Ian can feed the children.”
But Dr. Prescott said, “Nonsense,” and sat down in a kitchen chair. “Where’s Mr. Bedloe?” he asked.
Bee said, “Well, I know it sounds heartless, but he had to take the day off yesterday and of course tomorrow’s the funeral so … he went to work.”
“Is that good?” Dr. Prescott asked Daphne. She was squirting a piece of banana between her fingers