A Death In The Family by James Agee

lay where they belonged, but strain as he might, he could not descry what lay in the darkest of them.
    The voices relaxed into their original heartlessness.
    He swiftly turned his head and stared through the bars at the head of the crib. He could not see what stood there. He swiftly turned again. Whatever it might be had dodged, yet more swiftly: stood once more, still, forever, beyond and behind his hope of seeing.
    He saw the basin and that it was only itself; but its eye was wicked ice.
    Even the sugar curtains were evil, a senselessly fumbling mouth; and the leaves, wavering, stifled their tree like an infestation.
    Near the window, a stain on the wallpaper, pale brown, a serpent shape.
    Deadly, the opposite window returned his staring.
    The cricket cherished what avaricious secret: patiently sculptured what effigy of dread?
    The voices buzzed, pleased and oblivious as locusts. They cared nothing for him.
     
    He screamed for his father.
     
    And now the voices changed. He heard his father draw a deep breath and lock it against his palate, then let it out harshly against the bones of his nose in a long snort of annoyance. He heard the Morris chair creak as his father stood up and he heard sounds from his mother which meant that she was disturbed by his annoyance and that she would see to him, Jay; his uncle and his aunt made quick, small, attendant noises and took no further part in the discussion and his father’s voice, somewhat less unkind than the snort and the way he had gotten from his chair but still annoyed, saying, “No, he hollered for me, I’ll see to him”; and heard his mastering, tired approach. He was afraid, for he was no longer deeply frightened, he was grateful for the evidence of tears.
    The room opened full of gold, his father stooped through the door and closed it quietly; came quietly to the crib. His face was kind.
    “Wuzza matter?” he asked, teasing gently, his voice at its deepest.
    “Daddy,” the child said thinly. He sucked the phlegm from his nose and swallowed it.
    His voice raised a little. “Why, what’s the trouble with my little boy,” he said and fumbled and got out his handkerchief. “ What’s the trouble! What’s he crine about!” The harsh cloth smelt of tobacco; with his fingertips, his father removed crumbs of tobacco from the child’s damp face.
    “Blow,” he said. “You know your mamma don’t like you to swallah that stuff.” He felt the hand strong beneath his head and a sob overtook him as he blew.
    “Why, what’s wrong?” his father exclaimed; and now his voice was entirely kind. He lifted the child’s head a little more, knelt and looked carefully into his eyes; the child felt the strength of the other hand, covering his chest, patting gently. He endeavored to make a little more of his sobbing than came out, but the moment had departed.
    “Bad dream?”
    He shook his head, no.
    “Then what’s the trouble?”
    He looked at his father.
    “Feared a—fraid of the dark?”
    He nodded; he felt tears on his eyes.
    “Nooooooooo,” his father said, pronouncing it like do . “You’re a big boy now. Big boys don’t get skeered of a little dark. Big boys don’t cry. Where’s the dark that skeered you? Is it over here?” With his head he indicated the darkest corner. The child nodded. He strode over, struck a match on the seat of his pants.
    Nothing there.
    “Nothing there that oughtn’t to be. ... Under here?” He indicated the bureau. The child nodded, and began to suck at his lower lip. He struck another match, and held it under the bureau, then under the washstand.
    Nothing there. There either.
    “Nothing there but an old piece a baby-soap. See?” He held the soap close where the child could smell it; it made him feel much younger. He nodded. “Any place else?”
    The child turned and looked through the head of the crib; his father struck a match. “Why, there’s poor ole Jackie” he said. And sure enough, there he was, deep in the