William Styron: The Collected Novels: Lie Down in Darkness, Set This House on Fire, The Confessions of Nat Turner, and Sophie's Choice by William Styron Page B

somehow afraid, for now beyond them, floating up like crickets from the darkness, an alarm clock went clickcluckclick, a broken-down soliloquy, promising terrible things.
    “Helen,” he said softly. There was no answer.
    “Helen,” he repeated.
    “Yes.” That was all. A voice without anticipation or hostility, without anything. Silence again. They could hear her breathing, summoning up to both of them an instant’s vision: the form outstretched, mother and lover, passionless, unfeeling, sick. What has happened to those warm, loving hands which once took care of us so well? But nothing stirred in the darkness. The hands were still. The alarm clock went clickcluckclick. So sick, so sick, so sick.
    “May we come in, Helen?”
    “Yes.”
    They crossed the room slowly, groping at the darkness as if they might be tearing cobwebs from some unseen wall. There were twin beds here, a small crocheted rug between, and they halted by her side still unable to see, yet aware through past acquaintance of things surrounding them in the night: rug, bedsteads, a score of little figurines and ornaments gazing at them, eyeless in the darkness; tiny bottles, too, medicine and pills, a little mirrored cabinet exuding a faint thin odor of sirup and chemicals. The sound of her breathing returned, close by, and as their eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness they sought out the place where she lay, a white-clad form gently breathing, hands across her body limp and unfolded like pale ghostly wings. Seabird wings.
    “Helen,” he said softly.
    “Yes.”
    “Helen, I’ve brought Peyton. Peyton and I——”
    They sat down on the edge of the bed across from her. A great blossom of fire suddenly illuminated the darkness; Helen lighted a cigarette, propped herself on one elbow. For a moment they saw her face, drawn and twisted with anger, sorrow—they really couldn’t tell. She sank back again, blew out the match. The bloom of fire collapsed as darkness rushed in about them all: a tiny crumb of light flickered at the match end; then this also went out. Night enclosed them—night, fragrant with gardenia and rose, yet with a smell of medicine rising through the darkness, an unpleasant vapor faintly threatful, suggesting weariness and infirmity and disorder.
    “Helen,” he said slowly. “Peyton wants to tell you—that she’s sorry … about Maudie.”
    “Mama, I’m sorry that I hurt Maudie. I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to, Mama.”
    “Yes,” Helen said.
    They sat in silence, smelling the perfume, the medicine, the cigarette smoke, unable to see. High above, an airplane droned past; each of them stirred a little, listening: how far was it going, where? On the wingtips lights would flash green and red, demon eyes winking in the night.
    “She’s sorry, Helen,” he said.
    “I’m sorry, Mama,” Peyton said again, a little breathlessly, as if she might begin to cry.
    “Yes,” said Helen.
    “I’m sorry, Mama.”
    There was a whisper and rustle of bedclothes in the darkness. A hand reached out; she pulled Peyton toward her. “Oh, yes, dear. I know you’re sorry. I know. I know. I’m sorry, too.” And together, both of them weeping a bit, they made the soft, soothing sounds two women make when they try to forgive each other. Loftis sat idly by for a while, until finally Helen whispered to Peyton, “Now, dear, you go downstairs. Go and wash your face now. You must be awfully dirty. It’s time to go to bed.” Peyton stumbled past him—he couldn’t see her—but he felt her fingers on his leg, trembling there like moths, plucking at his trousers. “Daddy?” she said.
    “Just a minute, baby,” he said. “I’ll be right along.”
    Peyton left the room, bumping against footstools and dressers, and again Loftis sat in silence.
    Finally he said, “She was really sorry, I think. It wasn’t I … who prompted her. I just told her how to say it. I think she was really sorry.”
    “Yes. She was.”
    “Is Maudie all