along laurel, it was much darker; heavy leaves obscured the one near street lamp. andrew could hear only their footsteps; his father and mother, he realized, could hear nothing even of that. how still we see thee lie. yes, and between the treetops; the pale scrolls and porches and dark windows of the homes drifting past their slow walking, and not a light in any home, and so for miles, in every street of home and of business; above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by.
he helped his mother from the curb; this slow and irregular rattling of their little feet.
the stars are tired by now. night’s nearly over.
he helped her to the opposite curb.
upon their faces the air was so marvelously pure, aloof and tender; and the silence of the late night in the city, and the stars, were secret and majestic beyond the wonder of the deepest country. little houses, bigger ones, scrolled and capacious porches, dark windows, leaves of trees already rich with may, homes of rooms which chambered sleep as honey is cherished, drifted past their slow walking and were left behind, and not a light in any home. along laurel avenue it was still darker. the lamp behind them no longer cast their shadows; in the light of the lamp ahead, a small and distant bit of pavement looked scalded with emptiness, a few leaves were touched to acid flame, the spindles and turned posts of one porch were rigidly white. helping his mother along through the darkness, andrew was walking much more slowly than he was used to walking, and all these things entered him calmly and thoroughly. full as his heart was, he found that he was involved at least as deeply in the loveliness and unconcern of the spring night, as in the death. it’s as if i didn’t even care, he reflected, but he didn’t mind. he knew he cared; he felt gratitude towards the night and towards the city he ordinarily cared little for. how still we see thee lie, he heard his mind say. he said the words over, drily within himself, and heard the melody; a child’s voice, his own, sang it in his mind.
hm.
he tried to remember when he had last walked in the open night at such an hour. he wasn’t sure he even ... god, years. seven—about sixteen, when he still thought he was shelley, watching the river. leaning on the bridge rail and literally praying with gratitude for being alive.
instinctively, he turned his head so that his parents could not see his face.
i don’t want to see it, either, he thought.
by that time, jay was trying to teach himself law.
above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by.
the words had always touched him; every year they still brought back christmas to him, for some reason, as nothing else could. now they seemed to him as beautiful as any poetry he had ever known.
he said them over to himself very slowly and calmly: just a statement.
they do indeed, he thought, looking up. they do indeed. and god, how tired they look!
it’s the time of night.
the silent stars go by, he said aloud, not whispering, but so quietly he was sure they would not hear.
his eyes sprang full of tears; his throat, his chest knotted into a deep sob which he subdued, and the tears itched on his cheeks.
yet in thy dark streets shineth, he sang loudly, almost in fury, within himself: the everlasting light! and upon these words a sob leapt up through him which he could not subdue but could only hope to conceal.
they did not notice.
this is crazy, he told himself incredulously. no sense in this at all!
everlasting light!
the hopes and fears, a calm and implacable voice continued within him; he spoke quietly: of all the years.
are met in thee tonight, he whispered: and in the middle of a wide plain, the middle of the dark and silent city, slabbed beneath shadowless light, he saw the dead man, and struck his thigh with his fists with all his strength.
all he could hear in this world was only their footsteps; his father and mother, he realized, could hear nothing even of that.
he helped her from the curb; this slow and irregular rattling of their little feet: and across the space of bitter light.
he helped her to the opposite curb; they followed their absurd shadows until all was once more one shadow.
none of the three of them spoke, throughout their walk; when they came to the corner at which they would turn for home, it was as if all three spoke, accepting the fact: for each man tightened his hand gently at the woman’s elbows and, bowing her head, she pressed their hands against her sides. they turned down the steep hill, walking still more slowly and tightening their knees, and saw the one light which had been left burning, and entered their home, quietly as burglars, by the back way.
they stopped at the foot of the stairs.
“mary,” hannah asked, “is there anything i can do?”
you want to come up with me, mary realized. “i think i just better be alone,” she said. “but thank you. thank you, aunt hannah.”
“just call if you want me. you know how lightly i sleep.”
“i’ll be all right, i really will.”
“you rest in the morning. i’ll take care of the children.”
mary looked at her with brightened eyes, and said, “aunt hannah, i’ll have to tell them.”
hannah nodded, and sighed: “yesss. good night then,” she said, and kissed her niece. “god bless you,” she said, in a broken voice.
mary looked at her carefully and said, “god help us all.”
she turned and went up the stairs, and leaned, smiling, just before she disappeared, and whispered, “good night.”
“good night, mary,” hannah whispered.
she turned off the hall light and the light in the living room and went into the lighted bedroom and pulled down the shade and shut the doors to the kitchen and the living room. she took off her dress and laid it over the back of a chair and sat on the edge of the bed to unlace her shoes, and hesitated, until she was certain that she remembered, clearly, putting out the lights in the kitchen and bathroom. she put on the nightgown except for the sleeves and finished undressing under the nightgown; it was rather large for her and she gathered and lifted it about her. she knelt beside the bed and said an our father and a hail mary, and found that her heart and mind were empty of further prayer or even of feeling. may the souls of the faithful, she tried; she clamped her teeth and, after a moment, prayed angrily: may the souls of everyone who has ever had to live and die, in the faith or outside it, rest in peace. and especially his!
strike me down, she thought. visit upon me thy lightnings. i don’t care. i can’t care.
forgive me if i’m wrong, she thought. if you can. if you will. but that’s how i feel, and that’s all there is to it.
again her heart and mind were empty; even now, feeling the breath of the abyss, she could not feel otherwise, or even care of fear.
lord, i believe. help thou mine unbelief.
but i don’t really knows i do.
i can’t pray, god. not now. try to forgive me. i’m just too tired and too appalled.
thirty-six years old.
thirty-six.
well, why not? why one time worse than another? god knows it’s no picnic or ever was intended as such.
into thy hands i commend my spirit.
she made the sign of the cross, raised the shade, opened the window, and got into bed. as her bare feet slid along the cold, clean linen and she felt its cold, clean blandness beneath her and above her, she was taken briefly by trembling and by loneliness, and remembered touching her dead mother’s cheek.
oh, why am i alive!
she took off her glasses and laid them carefully in reach at the foot of the lamp, and turned out the light. she straightened formally on her back, folded her hands upon her breast, and shut her eyes.
i can’t worry any more about anything tonight, she said to herself. he’ll just have to take care of it.
till morning.
mary did not bother to turn on the light; she could see well enough by the windows. she put on her nightgown and undressed beneath it, and saw to it that the door was left ajar for the children, and climbed into bed before she realized that these were the same sheets and before it occurred to her that she had not said her prayers; and for such a while now she had felt that if only she could be alone, only for that!
it’s all right, she whispered to herself; it’s all right, she whispered aloud. she had meant that she was sure that god would understand and forgive her inability to pray, but she found that she meant too that it really was all right, everything, the whole thing, really all right. thy will be done. all right. truly all right. she lay straight on her back with her hands open, upward at her sides and could just make out, in the subtly diminished darkness, a familiar stain which at various times had seemed to resemble a crag, a galleon, a fish, a brooding head. tonight it was just itself, with one meaningless eye. it seemed to her that she was falling backward and downward, prostrate, through eternity; she felt no concern. without concern she heard a voice speak within her: out of the deep have i called unto thee, o lord; lord, hear my voice, she joined in. o let thine ears consider well the voice of my complaint. and now the first voice said no more and, aware of its silent presence, mary continued, whispering aloud: if thou, lord, wilt be extreme to mark what is done amiss o lord, who may abide it? and with these last words she began to cry freely and quietly, her hands turned downward and moved wide on the bed.
oh, jay! jay!
under the lid of the large kettle the low water was lukewarm; one by one, along the curved firmament, the last of the bubbles broke and vanished.
hannah lay straight on her back with her hands folded: in their deep sockets, beneath lids as frail as membranes, her eyeballs were true spheres. no lines were left in her face; she might have been a young woman. her lips were parted, and each breath was a light sigh.
mary lay watching the ceiling: who may abide it, she whispered.
silently.
one by one, million by million, in the prescience of dawn, every leaf in that part of the world was moved.
