unsheeted in the heat, only the bare, withered calves showing, and the bruised-looking skeletal feet; the shirt-sleeved back of my father bent forward in his chair, obscuring my mother’s face, his tense arms seeming to be suspended in the act of a frantic embrace; Miss Slocum gazing from the other side of the bed with a look of pensive dreaminess, unperturbed, the light glinting from the starched cap resting like a white tiara upon the crest of her permanent wave. Behind all, the massed flowers—gladioli, white and yellow roses, tulips, bunched arrangements in wicker baskets with wicker handles. And an electric fan on a stand sweeping a dread stench from the room: overripe blossoms and acrid medicine. Florence and I listened, turned to glance at each other, listened again, heard nothing but the katydids shrilling in the darkness. The night was fecund and sweet-smelling with clematis. “You know, Paul,” Florence said finally, “I heered tell of many folks got well from what yo’ mama got, worse off dan her. Yes, many folks. Dere was dis white lady in Suffolk who was jest as sick as yo' mama. I heered tell of her not long ago. She was a long, long time in bed and sufferin’ and takin’ mo’phine and all, and suddenly she got well. One night she was layin’ there in dis great pain and de peoples was givin’ her mo’phine an’ all, and she just began to speak and she rose up on her feet and walked. And she was all well. From den on she was well and jest as healthy as you an’ me. It was de spirit of God dat saved dat woman. It was de grace of Jesus Christ an’ his salvation.”
“That would be wonderful,” I began. I had for a moment the oddest stir of hope, a flutter in my chest. Then it vanished. “I don’t think I believe in all that. I mean the woman getting well—maybe she did. But the salvation part, I really don’t think so. I think Jesus is okay, but—” I broke off.
“Den how come you go to church?”
“Well, you know, we don’t go to church all that regularly. I haven’t been to Sunday school in two or three months, or church either.”
“Den how come yo’ daddy goes?”
“I’ve told you all that before, Flo. Papa goes because of tradition and because he loves the beauty of the Scriptures and the ethical values of Christianity. He once told me that he went and made me go because I might absorb some of the teachings of Christ having to do with justice. Mostly it’s for me, I guess.”
“Does yo’ daddy believe, you think, Paul? Believe in de Holy Spirit an’ de power of de blood and prayer?”
I hesitated for a long time, then said: “I don’t know, Flo. I don’t think so. He gets awfully mad at religion sometimes. He says he’s a skeptic.” After another pause, I went on: “Once Papa told me that whenever there was a long prayer in church he spoke to himself lines from Rilke, who is a German poet.”
In the shadows I sensed Florence slowly shaking her head back and forth. “Po-et Dat is some sad shame.” In a moment she said softly: “I think I’ll go upstairs and see how Miss Adelaide is. I ain’t goin’ to be but a minute. When I gits back I want you to go to bed. Ain’t dis Sunday mornin'? Ain’t you got yo’ paper route?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Five o’clock,” I replied.
“Je -sus, dat’s what I thought! Now you got to git to bed right away, you hear me?”
Between the kitchen and the dining room there was another alcove, somewhat larger than the first, which was my mother’s music room. Something compelled me to go there, and I went into the room just as I heard Florence’s feet climbing the stairs above me. I turned on the gooseneck lamp that rested on the upright piano; the little sanctum was aglow with a soft bronze light that illuminated this place treasured by my mother above all other places in the house, or indeed anywhere; shelf upon shelf of bound sheet music, the walls lower down lined with shellac records in albums whose
“That would be wonderful,” I began. I had for a moment the oddest stir of hope, a flutter in my chest. Then it vanished. “I don’t think I believe in all that. I mean the woman getting well—maybe she did. But the salvation part, I really don’t think so. I think Jesus is okay, but—” I broke off.
“Den how come you go to church?”
“Well, you know, we don’t go to church all that regularly. I haven’t been to Sunday school in two or three months, or church either.”
“Den how come yo’ daddy goes?”
“I’ve told you all that before, Flo. Papa goes because of tradition and because he loves the beauty of the Scriptures and the ethical values of Christianity. He once told me that he went and made me go because I might absorb some of the teachings of Christ having to do with justice. Mostly it’s for me, I guess.”
“Does yo’ daddy believe, you think, Paul? Believe in de Holy Spirit an’ de power of de blood and prayer?”
I hesitated for a long time, then said: “I don’t know, Flo. I don’t think so. He gets awfully mad at religion sometimes. He says he’s a skeptic.” After another pause, I went on: “Once Papa told me that whenever there was a long prayer in church he spoke to himself lines from Rilke, who is a German poet.”
In the shadows I sensed Florence slowly shaking her head back and forth. “Po-et Dat is some sad shame.” In a moment she said softly: “I think I’ll go upstairs and see how Miss Adelaide is. I ain’t goin’ to be but a minute. When I gits back I want you to go to bed. Ain’t dis Sunday mornin'? Ain’t you got yo’ paper route?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Five o’clock,” I replied.
“Je -sus, dat’s what I thought! Now you got to git to bed right away, you hear me?”
Between the kitchen and the dining room there was another alcove, somewhat larger than the first, which was my mother’s music room. Something compelled me to go there, and I went into the room just as I heard Florence’s feet climbing the stairs above me. I turned on the gooseneck lamp that rested on the upright piano; the little sanctum was aglow with a soft bronze light that illuminated this place treasured by my mother above all other places in the house, or indeed anywhere; shelf upon shelf of bound sheet music, the walls lower down lined with shellac records in albums whose
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