VII
Doctor Gary could waltz with a level glass of water on his head, without spilling a drop. He did not care for the more modern dances, the nervous ones. “All jumping around—like monkeys. Why try to do something a beast can do so much better?” he was wont to say. “But a waltz, now. Can a dog waltz, or a cow?” He was a smallish man, bald and dapper, and women liked him. Such a nice bedside manner. Doctor Gary was much in demand, both professionally and socially. He had also served in a French hospital in ’14, ’15, and ’16. “Like hell,” he described it. “Long alleys of excrement and red paint.”
Doctor Gary, followed by Gilligan, descended nattily from Donald’s room, smoothing the set of his coat, dusting his hands with a silk handkerchief. The rector appeared hugely from his study, saying: “Well, Doctor?”
Doctor Gary rolled a slender cigarette from a cloth sack, returning the sack to its lair in his cuff. When carried in his pocket it made a bulge in the cloth. He struck a match.
“Who feeds him at table?”
The rector, surprised, answered: “Emmy has been giving him his meals—helping him, that is,” he qualified.
“Put it in his mouth for him?”
“No, no. She merely guides his hand. Why do you ask?”
“Who dresses and undresses him?”
“Mr. Gilligan here assists him. But why—”
“Have to dress and undress him like a baby, don’t you?” he turned sharply to Gilligan.
“Kind of,” Gilligan admitted. Mrs. Powers came out of the study and Doctor Gary nodded briefly to her. The rector said:
“But why do you ask, Doctor?”
The doctor looked at him sharply. “Why? Why?” he turned to Gilligan. “Tell him,” he snapped.
The rector gazed at Gilligan. Don’t say it, his eyes seemed to plead. Gilligan’s glance fell. He stood dumbly gazing at his feet and the doctor said abruptly: “Boy’s blind. Been blind three or four days. How you didn’t know it I can’t see.” He settled his coat and took his derby hat. “Why didn’t you tell?” he asked Gilligan. “You knew, didn’t you? Well, no matter. I’ll look in again tomorrow. Good day, madam. Good day.”
Mrs. Powers took the rector’s arm. “I hate that man,” she said. “Damn little snob. But don’t you mind, Uncle Joe. Remember, that Atlanta doctor told us he would lose his sight. But doctors don’t know everything: who knows, perhaps when he gets strong and well he can have his sight restored.”
“Yes, yes,” the rector agreed, clinging to straws. “Let’s get him well and then we can see.”
He turned heavily and reentered his study. She and Gilligan looked at one another a long moment.
“I could weep for him, Joe.”
“So could I—if it would do any good,” he answered sombrely. “But for God’s sake, keep people out today.”
“I intend to. But it’s hard to refuse them: they mean so well, so kind and neighborly.”
“Kind, hell. They are just like that Saunders brat: come to see his scar. Come in and mill around and ask him how he got it and if it hurt. As if he knowed or cared.”
“Yes. But they shan’t come in and stare at his poor head any more. We won’t let them in, Joe. Tell them he is not well, tell them anything.”
She entered the study. The rector sat in his desk, a pen poised above an immaculate sheet, but he was not writing. His face was propped on one great fist and his gaze brooded darkly upon the opposite wall.
She stood beside him, then she touched him. He started like a goaded beast before he recognized her.
“This had to come, you know,” she told him quietly.
“Yes, yes. I have expected it. We all have, have we not?”
“Yes, we all have,” she agreed.
“Poor Cecily. I was just thinking of her. It will be a blow to her, I am afraid. But she really cares for Donald, thank God. Her affection for him is quite pretty. You have noticed it, haven’t you?”
“Yes, yes.”
“It’s too bad she is not strong enough to come every day. But she is quite delicate, as you know, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes. I’m sure she will come when she can.”
“So am I. Thank God, there is one thing which has not failed him.”
His hands were clasped loosely upon the paper before him.
“Oh, you are writing a sermon and I have interrupted you. I didn’t know,” she apologized, withdrawing.
“Not at all. Don’t go, I can do this later.”
“No, you do it now. I will go and sit with Donald. Mr. Gilligan is going to fix a chair for him on the lawn today, it is so nice out.”
“Yes, yes. I will finish my sermon and join you.”
From the door she looked back. But he was not writing. His face was propped on one great fist and his gaze brooded darkly upon the opposite wall.
Mahon sat in a deck chair. He wore blue glasses and a soft, limp hat concealed his brow. He liked to be read to, though no one could tell whether or not the words meant anything to him. Perhaps it was the sound of the voice that he liked. This time it was Gibbons’ History of Rome, and Gilligan wallowed atrociously among polysyllabic words when Mrs. Powers joined them. He had brought a chair for her, and she sat, neither hearing nor not hearing, letting Gilligan’s droning voice sooth her as it did Mahon. The leaves above her head stirred faintly, agitated upon the ineffable sky, dappling her dress with shadow. Clover was again thrusting above the recently mown grass and bees broke it; bees were humming golden arrows tipped or untipped with honey and from the church spire pigeons were remote and unemphatic as sleep.
A noise aroused her and Gilligan ceased reading. Mahon sat motionless, hopeless as Time, as across the grass came an old negro woman, followed by a strapping young negro in a private’s uniform. They came straight toward the sitting group and the woman’s voice rose upon the slumbrous afternoon.
“Hush yo’ mouf, Loosh,” she was saying, “it’ll be a po’ day in de mawnin’ when my baby don’t wanter see his ole Cal’line. Donald, Mist’ Donald honey, here Callie come ter you, honey; here yo’ mammy come ter you.” She completed the last steps in a shuffling lope. Gilligan rose, intercepting her.
“Hold up, Aunty. He’s asleep. Don’t bother him.”
“Naw, suh! He don’t wanter sleep when his own folks comes ter see him.” Her voice rose again and Donald moved in his chair. “Whut I tell you? he wake: look at ’im. Mist’ Donald, honey!”
Gilligan held her withered arm while she strained like a leashed hound.
“Bless de Lawd, done sont you back ter yo’ mammy. Yes, Jesus! Ev’y day I prayed, and de Lawd heard me.” She turned to Gilligan. “Lemme go, please, suh.”
“Let her go, Joe,” Mrs. Powers seconded, and Gilligan released her. She knelt beside Donald’s chair, putting her hands on his face. Loosh stood diffidently in the background.
“Donald, baby, look at me. Don’t you know who dis is? Dis yo’ Callie whut use ter put you ter bed, honey. Look here at me. Lawd, de white folks done ruint you, but nummine, yo’ mammy gwine look after her baby. You, Loosh!” still kneeling, she turned and called to her grandson. “Come up here and speak ter Mist’ Donald. Here whar he kin see you. Donald, honey, here dis triflin’ nigger talking ter you. Look at him, in dem soldier clothes.”
Loosh took two paces and came smartly to attention, saluting. “If de lootenant please, Co’pul Nelson glad to see—Co’pul Nelson glad to see de lootenant looking so well.”
“Don’t you stand dar wavin’ yo’ arm at yo’ Mist’ Donald, nigger boy. Come up here and speak ter him like you been raised to.”
Loosh lost his military bearing and he became again that same boy who had known Mahon long ago, before the world went crazy. He came up diffidently and took Mahon’s hand in his kind, rough black one. “Mist’ Donald?” he said.
“Dat’s it,” his grandmother commended. “Mist’ Donald, dat Loosh talkin’ ter you. Mist’ Donald?”
Mahon stirred in his chair and Gilligan forcibly lifted the old woman to her feet. “Now, Aunty. That’s enough for one time. You come back tomorrow.”
“Lawd! ter hear de day when white man tell me Mist’ Donald don’t wanter see me!”
“He’s sick, Aunty,” Mrs. Powers explained. “Of course, he wants to see you. When he is better you and Loosh must come every day.”
“Yes, ma’am! Dey ain’t enough water in de sevum seas to keep me from my baby. I’m coming back, honey. I gwine to look after you.”
“Get her away, Loosh,” Mrs. Powers whispered to the negro. “He’s sick, you know.”
“Yessum. He one sick man in dis world. Ef you wants me fer anything, any black man kin tell you whar I’m at, ma’am.” He took his grandmother’s arm. “Come on here, mammy. Us got to be goin’.”
“I’m a-comin’ back, Donald, honey. I ain’t gwine to leave you.” They retreated and her voice died away. Mahon said:
“Joe.”
“Whatcher say, Loot?”
“When am I going to get out?”
“Out of what, Loot?”
But he was silent, and Gilligan and Mrs. Powers stared at each other tensely. At last he spoke again:
“I’ve got to go home, Joe.” He raised his hand, fumbling, striking his glasses and they fell from his face. Gilligan replaced them.
“Whatcher wanta go home for, Loot?”
But he had lost his thought. Then:
“Who was that talking, Joe?”
Gilligan told him and he sat slowly plaiting the corner of his jacket (the suit Gilligan had got for him) in his fingers. Then he said: “Carry on, Joe.”
Gilligan picked up the book again and soon his voice resumed its soporific drone. Mahon became still in his chair. After a while Gilligan ceased, Mahon did not move, and he rose and peered over the blue glasses.
“You never can tell when he’s asleep and when he ain’t,” he said fretfully.