Then his mother had her stroke, and presently the mother’s friends brought to her bed reports of almost exactly the sort of girl which perhaps even the mother might have expected the son to become not only involved with but to marry.
Her name was Amy, daughter of a railroad conductor who had been killed in a wreck. She lived now with an aunt who kept a boarding-house — a vivid, daring girl whose later reputation was due more to folly and the caste handicap of the little Southern town than to badness and which at the last was doubtless more smoke than fire; whose name, though she always had invitations to the more public dances, was a light word, especially among the older women, daughters of decaying old houses like this in which her future husband had been born.
So presently the son had acquired some skill in entering the house and passing the door beyond which his mother lay propped in bed, and mounting the stairs in the dark to his own room. But one night he failed to do so.
When he entered the house the transom above his mother’s door was dark, as usual, and even if it had not been he could not have known that this was the afternoon on which the mother’s friends had called and told her about Amy, and that his mother had lain for five hours, propped bolt upright, in the darkness, watching the invisible door.
He entered quietly as usual, his shoes in his hand, yet he had not even closed the front door when she called his name. Her voice was not raised. She called his name once:
“Howard.”
He opened the door. As he did so the lamp beside her bed came on. It sat on a table beside the bed; beside it sat a clock with a dead face; to stop it had been the first act of his mother when she could move her hands two years ago. He approached the bed from which she watched him — a thick woman with a face the color of tallow and dark eyes apparently both pupil-less and iris-less beneath perfectly white hair. “What?” he said. “Are you sick?”
“Come closer,” she said. He came nearer. They looked at one another. Then he seemed to know; perhaps he had been expecting it.
“I know who’s been talking to you,” he said. “Those damned old buzzards.”
“I’m glad to hear it’s carrion,” she said. “Now I can rest easy that you won’t bring it into our house.”
“Go on. Say, your house.”
“Not necessary. Any house where a lady lives.” They looked at one another in the steady lamp which possessed that stale glow of sickroom lights. “You are a man. I don’t reproach you. I am not even surprised. I just want to warn you before you make yourself ridiculous. Don’t confuse the house with the stable.”
“With the — Hah!” he said. He stepped back and jerked the door open with something of his father’s swaggering theatricalism. “With your permission,” he said. He did not close the door. She lay bolt upright on the pillows and looked into the dark hall and listened to him go to the telephone, call the girl, and ask her to marry him tomorrow. Then he reappeared at the door.
“With your permission,” he said again, with that swaggering reminiscence of his father, closing the door. After a while the mother turned the light off. It was daylight in the room then.
They were not married the next day, however. “I’m scared to,” Amy said. “I’m scared of your mother. What does she say about me?”
“I don’t know. I never talk to her about you.”
“You don’t even tell her you love me?”
“What does it matter? Let’s get married.”
“And live there with her?” They looked at one another. “Will you go to work, get us a house of our own?”
“What for? I have enough money. And it’s a big house.”
“Her house. Her money.”
“It’ll be mine — ours some day. Please.”
“Come on. Let’s try to dance again.” This was in the parlor of the boarding-house, where she was trying to teach him to dance, but without success. The music meant nothing to him; the noise of it or perhaps the touch of her body destroyed what little co-ordination he could have had. But he took her to the Country Club dances; they were known to be engaged. Yet she still staid out dances with other men, in the parked cars about the dark lawn. He tried to argue with her about it, and about drinking.
“Sit out and drink with me, then,” he said.
“We’re engaged. It’s no fun with you.”
“Yes,” he said, with the docility with which he accepted each refusal; then he stopped suddenly and faced her. “What’s no fun with me?” She fell back a little as he gripped her shoulder. “What’s no fun with me?”
“Oh,” she said. “You’re hurting me!”
“I know it. What’s no fun with me?”
Then another couple came up and he let her go. Then an hour later, during an intermission, he dragged her, screaming and struggling, out of a dark car and across the dance floor, empty now and lined with chaperones like a theater audience, and drew out a chair and took her across his lap and spanked her. By daylight they had driven twenty miles to another town and were married.
That morning Amy called Mrs. Boyd “Mother” for the first and (except one, and that perhaps shocked out of her by surprise or perhaps by exultation) last time, though the same day Mrs. Boyd formally presented Amy with the brooch: an ancient, clumsy thing, yet valuable. Amy carried it back to their room, and he watched her stand looking at it, perfectly cold, perfectly inscrutable. Then she put it into a drawer. She held it over the open drawer with two fingers and released it and then drew the two fingers across her thigh.
“You will have to wear it sometimes,” Howard said.
“Oh, I will. I’ll show my gratitude. Don’t worry.” Presently it seemed to him that she took pleasure in wearing it. That is, she began to wear it quite often. Then he realized that it was not pleasure but vindictive incongruity; she wore it for an entire week once on the bosom of a gingham house dress, an apron. But she always wore it where Mrs. Boyd would see it, always when she and Howard had dressed to go out and would stop in the mother’s room to say good night.
They lived upstairs, where, a year later, their child was born. They took the child down for Mrs. Boyd to see it. She turned her head on the pillows and looked at the child once. “Ah,” she said. “I never saw Amy’s father, that I know of. But then, I never travelled on a train a great deal.”
“The old — the old—” Amy cried, shuddering and clinging to Howard. “Why does she hate me so? What have I ever done to her? Let’s move. You can work.”
“No. She won’t live always.”
“Yes, she will. She’ll live forever, just to hate me.”
“No,” Howard said. In the next year the child died. Again Amy tried to get him to move.
“Anywhere. I won’t care how we have to live.”
“No. I can’t leave her helpless on her back. You will have to start going out again. Dance. Then it won’t be so bad.”
“Yes,” she said, quieter. “I’ll have to. I can’t stand this.”
One said “you,” the other, “I.” Neither of them said “we.” So, on Saturday nights Amy would dress and Howard would put on scarf and overcoat, sometimes over his shirt-sleeves, and they would descend the stairs and stop at Mrs. Boyd’s door and then Howard would put Amy into the car and watch her drive away.
Then he would re-enter the house and with his shoes in his hand return up the stairs, as he had used to do before they married, slipping past the lighted transom. Just before midnight, in the overcoat and scarf again, he would slip back down the stairs and past the still lighted transom and be waiting on the porch when Amy drove up. Then they would enter the house and look into Mrs. Boyd’s room and say good night.
One night it was one o’clock before she returned. He had been waiting for an hour in slippers and pajamas on the porch; it was November. The transom above Mrs. Boyd’s door was dark and they did not stop.
“Some jelly beans set the clock back,” she said. She did not look at him, dragging her clothes off, flinging the brooch along with her other jewelry onto the dressing table. “I had hoped you wouldn’t be fool enough to stand out there and wait for me.”
“Maybe next time they set the clock back I won’t.”
She stopped, suddenly and perfectly still, looking at him over her shoulder. “Do you mean that?” she said. He was not looking at her; he heard, felt, her approach and stand beside him. Then she touched his shoulder. “Howard?” she said. He didn’t move. Then she was clinging to him, flung onto his lap, crying wildly: “What’s happening to us?” striking herself against him with a wild abandon: “What is it?
What is it?” He held her quiet, though after they were each in their beds (they already had two of them) he heard and then felt her cross the intervening gap and fling herself against him again with that wild terrified abandon not of a woman but of a
