Percival.
And now he was wearing dress pants and a faded running shirt, and his hands were absolutely still.
At that moment an odd thing began to happen. The day began to take place outside of Mag . She had not felt this way for fourteen years, since her pregnancy with Simon, but she remembered the sensation well. Whenever she was pregnant, a fine veil would lower in front of everything beyond her, leaving her hazy except for her own workings. She would have preferred to concentrate on school, or later the jobs she had begun to take, getting down to the real business of her life—but she was helpless to stay the process. Each time, she drew back to her own center, monitoring the quickening in her belly, becoming absorbed. But then it had been births she was waiting for, and now it was a death. She was helpless before either of them. So without meaning to, she stood separate from herself, watching as if she were not really taking part.
The front door opened. She knew before she turned that it was Izzy and the twins, arriving after their ride up from College Park. She greeted them from her distance, having no power to propel herself nearer, yet noticing them with surprising clarity. As they crowded into the hallway out of the rain, she was struck by Izzy's dark beauty and the twins' homeliness, as if she were seeing them for the first time. She thought with perfect coldness that it was unfair her most brilliant son was also her most handsome. The twins' hair hung limp and almost white over high foreheads, while Izzy's dipped down onto a perfect dark brow—crisp, shiny hair, full of body and almost black. Izzy had a bright, intelligent gaze, too, while the twins had the vacant look of pale-eyed, lashless blonds—identical brooding Hamlets, though neither of them brooded much, and there were no Danish ancestors on either side. Then she recalled that the twins received attention because there were two of them, and she saw Izzy with his face contorted as it had often been when he took notes on suffering animals in the interest of science. From her distance she understood that Izzy's beauty did not help him, no more than Percival's ever had, coming so late—and she felt sad for all of them: the homely twins and Percival and Izzy all at once. And yet she felt removed from it, beyond it.
Izzy kissed her, having grown to that level of maturity where kissing did not embarrass him; and the twins nodded and shuffled away. She saw that Merle looked different—worse—but before she could figure out why, Izzy said, "Heard anything yet?" and she forgot Merle, thinking instead, very objectively, that this question—"Heard anything yet?" —was to be the refrain from now on, until they actually did hear something. People would want to react appropriately to the news, though of course it was a matter of indifference to her how they reacted.
Neither Izzy nor the twins had brought laundry home with them. This had never happened before. She saw—in a cool, detached, probing way—that even in her grief, she was relieved they had brought no clothes for her to wash. She registered that as a strike against herself. And registered another: that in spite of the crisis, she still felt crowded by the boys' physical size as she always had since they had grown so large, and still hated feeling dwarfed, in her own house, by her own sons. She saw that Percival's death would make no difference in this regard—that she would not wish, even then, to have four or five grown boys so close to her. She was not capable of making even so small a sacrifice. And she was bruised by her selfishness.
When everyone had been greeted, they resumed their vigil in the family room. Patrick lay down on the couch again, listening to the TV with the washcloth over his eyes. Simon, immaculately clean in his odd clothes, sat at the far end of the couch on Patrick's feet. It was something he had done when he was a
And now he was wearing dress pants and a faded running shirt, and his hands were absolutely still.
At that moment an odd thing began to happen. The day began to take place outside of Mag . She had not felt this way for fourteen years, since her pregnancy with Simon, but she remembered the sensation well. Whenever she was pregnant, a fine veil would lower in front of everything beyond her, leaving her hazy except for her own workings. She would have preferred to concentrate on school, or later the jobs she had begun to take, getting down to the real business of her life—but she was helpless to stay the process. Each time, she drew back to her own center, monitoring the quickening in her belly, becoming absorbed. But then it had been births she was waiting for, and now it was a death. She was helpless before either of them. So without meaning to, she stood separate from herself, watching as if she were not really taking part.
The front door opened. She knew before she turned that it was Izzy and the twins, arriving after their ride up from College Park. She greeted them from her distance, having no power to propel herself nearer, yet noticing them with surprising clarity. As they crowded into the hallway out of the rain, she was struck by Izzy's dark beauty and the twins' homeliness, as if she were seeing them for the first time. She thought with perfect coldness that it was unfair her most brilliant son was also her most handsome. The twins' hair hung limp and almost white over high foreheads, while Izzy's dipped down onto a perfect dark brow—crisp, shiny hair, full of body and almost black. Izzy had a bright, intelligent gaze, too, while the twins had the vacant look of pale-eyed, lashless blonds—identical brooding Hamlets, though neither of them brooded much, and there were no Danish ancestors on either side. Then she recalled that the twins received attention because there were two of them, and she saw Izzy with his face contorted as it had often been when he took notes on suffering animals in the interest of science. From her distance she understood that Izzy's beauty did not help him, no more than Percival's ever had, coming so late—and she felt sad for all of them: the homely twins and Percival and Izzy all at once. And yet she felt removed from it, beyond it.
Izzy kissed her, having grown to that level of maturity where kissing did not embarrass him; and the twins nodded and shuffled away. She saw that Merle looked different—worse—but before she could figure out why, Izzy said, "Heard anything yet?" and she forgot Merle, thinking instead, very objectively, that this question—"Heard anything yet?" —was to be the refrain from now on, until they actually did hear something. People would want to react appropriately to the news, though of course it was a matter of indifference to her how they reacted.
Neither Izzy nor the twins had brought laundry home with them. This had never happened before. She saw—in a cool, detached, probing way—that even in her grief, she was relieved they had brought no clothes for her to wash. She registered that as a strike against herself. And registered another: that in spite of the crisis, she still felt crowded by the boys' physical size as she always had since they had grown so large, and still hated feeling dwarfed, in her own house, by her own sons. She saw that Percival's death would make no difference in this regard—that she would not wish, even then, to have four or five grown boys so close to her. She was not capable of making even so small a sacrifice. And she was bruised by her selfishness.
When everyone had been greeted, they resumed their vigil in the family room. Patrick lay down on the couch again, listening to the TV with the washcloth over his eyes. Simon, immaculately clean in his odd clothes, sat at the far end of the couch on Patrick's feet. It was something he had done when he was a
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