jealous shame made him lift it. Yes, the man, back turned, had done it while he himself only watched. The eyes were now closed.
Her one hand still hung down. But beneath it, to a point nearer but not too logically close, the gun had moved. Been moved. He had won his bet in full. Were the fingers above the gun more curved than before, as if newly held around it, and again let drop? He bent to observe, and found himself retching, on his knees. The glass he still held spilled on his hand. He looked down on that glass which held nothing but whisky, drained it, and let it drop to the rug. On his knees still, but with his back turned to that sepulcher, he clutched the deprived root of him, and guarded it. If a woman had been near, he would have thrust himself upon her, to prove that impotence. For he wished to mourn.
Oh man of Uz, he said to himself, wandering the stairs again, striking a hand here, there. But Job, once his kinsman, was dust. He prayed to the god he had deserted—how hast thou forsaken me? But he could mourn only her of his choice, or try. He saw his house as he must keep it for her from now on, a house with all the common drapery burden of houses of its kind, but bare as a birdcage to any piercing eyeball. And on such tremoring middle ground as even he despised. But he must keep it for her as one kept one’s house for one’s child. For all the coming treasures of the snow—and of the hail.
For there was one loose end that with all his talents he could never bind for sure. Though all he knew of war was what men and books told him, like all who live in houses he had an excellent knowledge of wounds receivable there. A lesson carefully wrapped away for years could split again in an afternoon.
Grasping the banister as if it were a Bible, he swore, resolved—and yet in the end only imagined—how from this day on he would never say a word of any of those happenings to the child, except in extremis, if she spoke of it, in which case he would answer: “You had a delirium.” Reality came to children as it was made. There was a chance that this was no burial of the truth, but a strewing on the wind as one did with the ashes of the dead—a casting away into life. This was all he could do in that direction for his daughter, who was, ever would be—the loose end.
Afterwards, he saw how he had left his mark on this house. He saw the gougings on the banister, regular as from the tines of a rake or the close nails of some animal, and he inspected them as an animal did its own mark—as if another of its breed had gone before. Even if he gnawed off his own leg, he couldn’t leave this trap, which he must make for her too. He prayed, this time without kneeling. Then he began to see the true abyss between one like him and one on her threshold, and began truly to mourn.
When the examiner and the doctor, meeting on the steps, rang the bell together, and he opened the door to them, he was silent. But they had already heard through the door the cry that rose up the stairwell. Afterward, though no record was made of it, it may have puzzled them.
“That’s the Kaddish he’s saying?” the doctor, who was a Jew had murmured to the examiner, who was not, before they rang. “I only know it in Hebrew. ‘Yis kodol.’” The sound, a whisper now, shivered again at the door before this was opened to them. “There’s nobody young enough here to mourn her. There’s nobody young enough here to mourn.”
2. A Major Visit
June 1951
F ROM THE FILE CARDS which recorded all his visits to the Mannix house, Edwin Halecsy, long since dubbed the Judge’s “law clerk,” in sardonic tribute to his own youth and the Judge’s lack of office, was noting before leaving for dinner there that this would be his seventh major visit, if other elements in it went right. He had no need to look at a card in order to know this or any other of the facts recorded on it either in the high-schoolish script of the earliest visits, dated 1944, or
Her one hand still hung down. But beneath it, to a point nearer but not too logically close, the gun had moved. Been moved. He had won his bet in full. Were the fingers above the gun more curved than before, as if newly held around it, and again let drop? He bent to observe, and found himself retching, on his knees. The glass he still held spilled on his hand. He looked down on that glass which held nothing but whisky, drained it, and let it drop to the rug. On his knees still, but with his back turned to that sepulcher, he clutched the deprived root of him, and guarded it. If a woman had been near, he would have thrust himself upon her, to prove that impotence. For he wished to mourn.
Oh man of Uz, he said to himself, wandering the stairs again, striking a hand here, there. But Job, once his kinsman, was dust. He prayed to the god he had deserted—how hast thou forsaken me? But he could mourn only her of his choice, or try. He saw his house as he must keep it for her from now on, a house with all the common drapery burden of houses of its kind, but bare as a birdcage to any piercing eyeball. And on such tremoring middle ground as even he despised. But he must keep it for her as one kept one’s house for one’s child. For all the coming treasures of the snow—and of the hail.
For there was one loose end that with all his talents he could never bind for sure. Though all he knew of war was what men and books told him, like all who live in houses he had an excellent knowledge of wounds receivable there. A lesson carefully wrapped away for years could split again in an afternoon.
Grasping the banister as if it were a Bible, he swore, resolved—and yet in the end only imagined—how from this day on he would never say a word of any of those happenings to the child, except in extremis, if she spoke of it, in which case he would answer: “You had a delirium.” Reality came to children as it was made. There was a chance that this was no burial of the truth, but a strewing on the wind as one did with the ashes of the dead—a casting away into life. This was all he could do in that direction for his daughter, who was, ever would be—the loose end.
Afterwards, he saw how he had left his mark on this house. He saw the gougings on the banister, regular as from the tines of a rake or the close nails of some animal, and he inspected them as an animal did its own mark—as if another of its breed had gone before. Even if he gnawed off his own leg, he couldn’t leave this trap, which he must make for her too. He prayed, this time without kneeling. Then he began to see the true abyss between one like him and one on her threshold, and began truly to mourn.
When the examiner and the doctor, meeting on the steps, rang the bell together, and he opened the door to them, he was silent. But they had already heard through the door the cry that rose up the stairwell. Afterward, though no record was made of it, it may have puzzled them.
“That’s the Kaddish he’s saying?” the doctor, who was a Jew had murmured to the examiner, who was not, before they rang. “I only know it in Hebrew. ‘Yis kodol.’” The sound, a whisper now, shivered again at the door before this was opened to them. “There’s nobody young enough here to mourn her. There’s nobody young enough here to mourn.”
2. A Major Visit
June 1951
F ROM THE FILE CARDS which recorded all his visits to the Mannix house, Edwin Halecsy, long since dubbed the Judge’s “law clerk,” in sardonic tribute to his own youth and the Judge’s lack of office, was noting before leaving for dinner there that this would be his seventh major visit, if other elements in it went right. He had no need to look at a card in order to know this or any other of the facts recorded on it either in the high-schoolish script of the earliest visits, dated 1944, or
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