Home-Coming

I

HER son’s house was spacious, neat, precisely made, sturdy. In fact, it embodied all of Richard’s best traits, thought old Mrs. Farrow as she lowered herself, studiously careful, into the low chair. She was the first to enter the living room, the only one who — for this evening at least — would be able to look upon the room’s very accurate, slightly aloof hospitality unchastened by any other person’s presence. In her opinion, the only slight objection there was to the room was that it did not seem homelike. It was like a waiting room, a dentist’s outer office, she told herself exactly — repeated it, for already her thoughts were shying off again toward the other. And she should not think of the other any longer. It was not necessary; it was n’t even healthy. She had done that all day, and there were still hours of waiting ahead of her before he came. Hours of idleness, she thought almost aloud, looking at her empty hands, folding her fingers loosely over each other.

Yes, like a dentist’s office. But that was Ada’s fault, and that one year of hers at the art school studying interior decorating. Not a thing in the room that lived, not a canary, not a goldfish, not even a picture worth a fig, only that plant at the window which was neither ivy nor fern, but which had the correct slant to its shape, no doubt, bent that way by Ada. She heard footsteps, her son’s footsteps, and looked once more a little hopelessly at her hands.

The footsteps retreated again. For a while she still had to be alone, not thinking of what was in store for the evening. Pretty soon all their faces would be there, with all their thoughts written over them, almost in black and white. Perhaps it was n’t so strange that it was Ken, her favorite grandson, who was causing all this trouble. But the novelists always made the black sheep the favorite of the grandmother also. No doubt she ran true to pattern, or they knew what they were writing about. That was a good idea to think about while she sat and waited. Ada was a nice girl, but arty and selfconscious; Ruben was too good, like a clock, annoying like an alarm clock; but Ken . . . Oh well, she should n’t think of him. Not yet. But he was her favorite, she concluded hastily, as again her son’s footsteps came closer.

Mr. Farrow entered the room unfolding the evening newspaper. One could easily conceive that Mr. Farrow had planned and built this house, especially this living room. The straight blue eyes, the knotty hands, which had handled bricks and mortar, the unassuming clothes, the slightly lumbering gait — yes, Mr. Farrow was the builder, a builder who had done well by himself.

Old Mrs. Farrow spread out her empty hands and said, ‘Here I sit, nothing in my hands. I guess I’m getting sort of lazy in my old age, Richard.’ But when his face retained the same fixed, calculating rigidity, she added hastily, ‘Yes, why don’t you turn on the radio? I was going to, but I’d already sunk in this chair, and didn’t have the courage to get up again.’

He looked at her vaguely. ‘ Are you all right there, Mother?’

‘Sure. What’s the matter with me?’ she asked stridently.

‘Nothing, if you say you’re all right. You want the radio turned on, don’t you?’ He hunched down and fidgeted with the radio dial. ‘Takes her mighty long to get heated up to-night,’ he grumbled. Then, before sound came, he suddenly turned toward his mother. ‘Do you think we ought to put it on to-night? Considering . . .’

‘Sure. Why not?’ she interpolated. ‘We can’t just sit here all of us all night looking at each other. Besides, why not have it on when he comes in? He isn’t coming to a morgue, is he?’ She was raising her voice impatiently above the first strains of a dance orchestra. ‘Something lively,’ she shouted.

Mr. Farrow turned to another dance orchestra and then lowered himself in a chair and spread the newspaper out in front of his face. The radio dominated until other footsteps came down the stairs. The old woman heard it was her granddaughter, Ada. When the girl stopped in the doorway, she appraised her somewhat hostilely, for already she imagined Ada’s eyes sweeping over each article in the room trying to catch anything awry, anything not precisely harmonious. And because she imagined Ada thinking that the room should be especially neat and intimate to-night, so that the effect on Ken must be soothing, overwhelmingly soothing after two years in a cell, she slapped her hands on the arms of her chair and demanded, ‘Ada, where’s your mother? Now, she is n’t sitting upstairs sobbing again, is she?’ Her voice came unintentionally brusque and severe, as she had only intended to stop Ada’s calculations.

‘Mother isn’t crying at all, Grandmother,’the girl protested somewhat petulantly. ‘She’ll be down in a moment.’ After another minute’s appraisal of the room she picked up a book and went to the davenport, first scowling indefinitely at the radio, then relaxing with her book. That artistically relaxed pose, the old lady thought grimly, and tried to listen to the radio, but Ada’s mother’s footsteps came down the stairway, thumping awkwardly on high hard heels. Better to have a good carpet on those stairs instead of Ada’s notions, the old woman thought.

II

Mrs. Farrow stopped in the doorway also with a faint look of alarm toward the radio, next at her husband, then at the clock. ‘Ten minutes of nine,’ she said plaintively. ‘Richard, you don’t suppose he might come on the nineo’clock train, do you?‘ She walked to the radio and turned it lower, her back carefully turned toward her mother-inlaw.

Mr. Farrow shook his paper impatiently. ‘No. I told you before, no train comes in at nine. But you can never tell. Maybe he took a bus.

‘Well, didn’t you look up the bus schedules? ’

‘No.’ He spread his paper grimly, excluding her.

‘He isn’t likely to take a bus. Imagine him going two hundred miles in a bus! Why, he never liked a bus. Old Mrs. Farrow had addressed herself directly to her daughter-in-law, piqued because the radio had been turned so low that the crackling of Richard’s paper could easily drown it. Also, there was no necessity for that martyred look on her daughter’s face.

‘This is hardly the time to say anything about his likes and dislikes, Mother. I think he has other things to think about than whether he likes bus rides or not.’ Never mentioning his name, never stating where he was coming from. That little game had been going on ever since they were certain of the day he was coming back. For the two years he had been there, they had never mentioned the place. A bit of realism might clear the sky quite a lot, the old woman thought sternly. But she sank back in her chair, also worrying about her grandson, no longer hearing the music. Perhaps it was easy for her to be correct and hard because she was old, she scolded herself, watching her daughter seat herself on a rocker with some sewing, studying her as she placed a neatly folded handkerchief carefully on one knee, ready to receive her tears. Old Mrs. Farrow shut her eyes, listened to the dim music and street-car sounds, until thoughts came again.

When the thoughts had gone too far, she opened her eyes hastily, saw that handkerchief again and the hands of her daughter rhythmical over her sewing, her son’s hands red and taut on the edges of the newspaper, Ada straight and dead-still with her book. All of them were pent, uneasy, desperately trying not to show their restiveness, each one at his worst, she thought. And she was seeing them all at their worst, because she had to contain herself. She fixed her eyes on Ada’s shoe, almost falling from a dangling foot. When that shoe fell, all this preciseness would be disturbed and the tension might break. But before it fell Ada put her foot into it more firmly. Old Mrs. Farrow sighed and looked at a large photograph of Ruben which was facing the door. That was the first time she had seen it there. That precise, addingmachine face; no wonder he did so well in the bank. No wonder. But that picture there, facing the door through which Kenneth was coming soon — that nettled her. If he would only come through the back door as he used to, that would be perfect. But he wouldn’t. She leaned forward and demanded, ‘Now, why, if you can’t have pictures of real people in this room,’ she paused abruptly to scowl a bit too ostentatiously at Rembrandt’s Elizabeth Bas, until she saw that they were all listening, ‘why must you have that picture of Ruben there? It has n’t been there since Ada got back from art school, and there it is. Now why?’ She addressed the last words to Ada, who had shut her book and looked with misgiving at Ruben’s picture.

‘But I did n’t do it, Grandmother. You know I hate to see photographs about the house. And it is n’t simply because Ken is . . .’ She stopped suddenly and looked at her mother, whose fingers were crawling toward the handkerchief. ‘Well, simply because photographs are out. They look terrible. Mother, did you put Ruben’s picture there?’ she demanded.

Even Mr. Farrow dropped his newspaper and leaned forward to get his wife’s explanation. Mrs. Farrow’s fingers retreated from the handkerchief and felt impotently for the needle. Somewhat bewildered, she looked at Ruben’s photograph. ‘I just put it there to-night, Ada. I thought, whereas Ruben can’t be here with us to-night, when he — when Ken comes — well, I thought, anyway his picture is here. Sometimes I think that Ruben suffered more than any of us, what with his responsible position in the bank. It was n’t easy for him.’

The old woman thumped her fist impatiently on her chair. Almost they had mentioned it, had been direct about him. But not enough. ‘Ruben has n’t suffered any more than the iceman,’ she blurted out. ‘Now if you say that he’s ashamed — more ashamed than the rest of us — well, then you’re saying the truth. I don’t believe for one minute that he’s got a meeting tonight. He just did n’t want to be here to see his brother come back.’ She clamped her mouth firmly shut when she felt them all staring at her.

Even when her daughter’s hands searched for the handkerchief again, she kept her mouth shut. But when her son said, ‘Why, Mother, what’s the matter with you to-night?’ in a voice that was altogether too soft for his big strong body, she sat back and smiled apologetically. ‘Maybe waiting’s a bit too much for me,’ she muttered.

III

It did n’t matter what they did after that — not even Ada’s striding up to Ruben’s photograph and carrying it off toward the back of the house. Nothing. Not even three street cars passing, jarring the house sometimes, rattling things in the china closet, in spite of the house’s sturdiness. She sat back and waited impatiently like the rest of them, wishing her fingers were busy with something.

Mr. Farrow finished his paper. It had been finished when he had brought it in. All three watched him flick through the pages again, Ada counting the seconds for each page on her watch, Mrs. Farrow’s hands going faster, the old lady’s staring getting more intense until he had nearly reached the last page and she suddenly announced, ‘It’s hot in here. Can’t we open a window?’

Ada rose. ‘If we open this one at the front we can hear cars stop and people coming up the porch,’ she said. They all knew she had been meditating on that, in spite of the casualness of her voice.

‘Yes, open that one. Awful warm weather for October,’ Mr. Farrow grumbled, and picked the newspaper up again, which he had allowed to crumple to the floor.

Ada leaned out of the open window. She straightened and looked only at her grandmother. ‘Don’t you think we could turn on the porch light?’

‘No. Why should we? This is no bridge party,’ her father answered at once.

‘Well, I just thought . .‘

‘Don’t think. This is n’t an occasion for foolishness. It’s serious. You ought to realize that. It’ll be serious for him, and it is for us.’ After his diatribe he thrust the paper in front of his face again.

’Oh, all right.’ Ada went back to her book and Mrs. Farrow’s hands moved on again. Old Mrs. Farrow shut her eyes and listened to a far-away street-car jangle and the voices of children outdoors. Too late for children to be cavorting around. The silence was long, endless, even Richard did not turn the pages of the newspaper any longer. He just sat behind them and stared. And then there came the sound of footsteps toward the house, up the porch steps, and all their hands were suddenly still on the things they were holding. The bell pealed. Mr. Farrow folded his paper and made preparations to rise. But then they heard voices, a woman’s voice tittering in response to a man’s. Mr. Farrow sagged back in his chair. ‘You go, Ada, and see who’s there,’ he commanded.

Ada went reluctantly toward the door. ‘Don’t mince like that, Ada,’ the old lady shouted before she too sank back in her chair, closing her eyes, careful that she had n’t looked at the clock first.

Ada returned after the sound of mutterings at the door. They had been unable to understand her vague protestations. With her entered a young couple, their faces screwed up politely, their eyes humble. Mr. Farrow did not rise. They all sat and stared. Ada remained standing behind the two, while the yellow-faced, wateryeyed young man explained: ‘ We heard that Kenneth was home. And as we’re both such good friends of his, we thought we’d see how he was. But Ada says he has n’t come yet.’

‘No,’ said Mr. Farrow.

‘But you expect him to-day, don’t you, Mr. Farrow?’ very cloyingly, very tenderly, as condolences for the stricken. The young woman’s smiles wrinkled around hergold-rimmed glasses while she stuck her arm through that of her companion. No one had asked them to be seated. Ada hovered sternly behind them.

‘Yes, we expect him to-night,’ Mr. Farrow said, and started to search for his paper.

‘Oh, well, in that case maybe we’d better run along. Tell him Brick and Anny came in to wish him lots of luck, will you? You know Anny, of course.’

‘Sure, yes, come again when he’s home,’ Mr. Farrow mumbled, finally rising out of his chair, mainly because he had been unsuccessful in reaching his paper.

The two callers cast some smiles broadly into the room and appealed to Ada about this unusual October weather, groped toward the hallway again, where Ada was already holding the door open for them. Then their voices were outside once more; but not until Ada returned was the silence broken.

‘If any more truck like that comes to-night, Ada, tell them we’re all in bed. Anything,’ Mr. Farrow fumed. ‘Tell them anything, but don’t let them in.’

‘Well, why don’t you go to the door, then, like you ought to? Maybe you can hold them out. I could n’t. They crowded as if we had a fire sale here,’ she protested.

‘Funny they did n’t think of bringing a bag of peanuts to chew on while they watched the show. Wanting to see Kenneth! Only wanted to see how pasty he’d got, how humble after two years there. That’s all. Well, he can’t look pastier than that specimen. Call him Brick. Must be a brick of cheese.’

Old Mrs. Farrow leaned eagerly forward in approval. ‘Never knew he was such a friend of Kenneth’s. Ken would n’t pick anything like that for a friend.’

But suddenly they lapsed into silence again, thinking of the friends Kenneth had chosen. Ada picked her book up again after one despairing look at the clock. Mr. Farrow forgot his newspaper. Mrs. Farrow, very intent on her sewing, said, ‘Maybe, Richard, you should have driven down and fetched him. You know it would n’t have hurt.’

‘No,’ he boomed. ‘He got himself in there without our help; he can find his way back to us without our making a show over it. Just like those monkeys that just called. First thing you know, you’ll have him thinking he did something important. No, he deserved every bit he got.’ He rose and strode toward the kitchen, where they heard him splashing water noisily into the sink.

‘Don’t get him upset like that,’ Ada scolded.

The old woman sat and blinked at the clock.

IV

For many long minutes nothing was said. Mr. Farrow returned to the room, seven street cars passed, the voices of children ended. And then once again the doorbell rang, and none of them had heard footsteps or voices. No one rose after the ringing. They simply sat and looked at the door until Mr. Farrow said at last, ‘You look and see who’s there, Ada.’

Again Ada cast a pleading glance back at them all — then especially toward her grandmother before she walked reluctantly toward the door when the bell rang a second time. ‘Quit your mincing, Ada,’ the old woman commanded desperately.

The voice which answered Ada’s was not Ken’s. It was a deep, assimilated bass, unctuous, measured. Ada’s replies were almost audible — almost, because her uneasiness was making her shrill. ‘It’s the preacher from John Street, where Ken used to play basketball,’ Mrs. Farrow whispered, and pushed her sewing next to her on the chair.

Ada returned with the pastor, behind him as if she were shoving him in. He came, straight-backed, as if dutifully against his will, his face innocently florid, his eyeglasses twinkling. This time Mr. Farrow rose and the grave handshaking started. Even old Mrs. Farrow’s hand lay for a while loose and unwilling in the preacher’s, her old eyes telling him that after all she was compelled to do this, because people were silly enough to get that way about preachers, but that it was firmly against her particular, private will. At least, she hoped that her eyes told him all that. But when his hand cupped warm and long over hers, she withdrew hers unceremoniously. He must be nearsighted, she thought grimly.

After the good-evenings came a discussion of the October weather, and then inevitably the sanctimonious voice turned more sanctimonious when it touched on Ken. ‘Yes, I heard that Kenneth would be home. You know, of course, that he frequently wrote me letters. Oh yes. I have tried to be of as much guidance to him as I possibly could be. Got in touch with the pastor there, who kept his eye on him. Kenneth was a good boy, a little wild. I had hoped I could have done more. But . . .’ He hesitated, smiled benignantly, and looked at Mr. Farrow, expecting him to say something.

Mr. Farrow cleared his throat, but remained silent. Mrs. Farrow said, ‘Yes, we expect him to-night. Almost any time now, in fact. I am sure he’d be happy to see you.’ Her voice sounded insincere in spite of her desperate politeness.

‘And, Miss Ada, I suppose you’ll be very happy to have Kenneth back?’ the pastor continued, his eyes already sweeping toward old Mrs. Farrow for his next remark.

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Ada smiled fiercely.

Suddenly old Mrs. Farrow lifted herself out of her chair with unaccustomed alacrity and scampered toward the back of the house. ‘I must see about the hot water,’ she mumbled, and swept faster, fearing that his remarks might yet catch up with her.

There was a long awkward silence then. The pastor rubbed his hands and once more made comments on the weather. Mr. Farrow offered him a cigar, already expecting the ‘No, thank you. I really never smoke, never crave for it.’

During another period of silence, Mr. Farrow looked anxiously at the clock. ‘Yes, he may get here any moment,’ he explained slowly. ‘But then, also, maybe he won’t get here till after midnight.’ He watched the effect of his words on the pastor’s face. Only one benign sympathetic nod was the answer. ‘Well, you see — not suggesting anything, and all that — but you see, we’d like to meet Kenneth just with our own group to-night. Just the family group. This is rather a different occasion. You’ll see, of course.’

The pastor saw. Even Mrs. Farrow smiled piously, obviously in sympathy with her husband. The pastor rose, his smile frozen to a courteous good-wiilto-all-men expression. ‘Of course, I understand, Mr. Farrow. It must be a little painful. Hut so much can be done with the right guidance. So very much. And I do intend to help you, with all the strength God has given me. Oh yes. You must not protest. I know it is one of my duties. Let’s see, how old is Kenneth now?’

‘ Twenty-two,’ Mrs. Farrow answered promptly, her ears cocked with misgiving toward the scouring sounds in the kitchen whither her mother-in-law had fled.

‘Oh yes, twenty-two. Still a very pliable age. I am certain that much can still be done with guidance. Not that Kenneth is a really bad boy.’

The farewells started. Dead silence reigned in the kitchen. The old lady was no doubt contemplating a safe return, Ada thought. Mr. Farrow went to the door with the pastor. More words, soothing ones, drifted back from there. Old Mrs. Farrow returned from the kitchen. ‘I went and scoured that pan you baked the pudding in,’ she announced. Then, peering at the door, ‘ Had to do something — something noisy, so I couldn’t hear him.’

V

There had once more been a long silence. ‘Five of ten,’ Mrs. Farrow said to end it, and studied her stitches critically.

Ada shut her book and lighted a cigarette. Mr. Farrow frowned at her. Then he too rose and selected a cigar. ‘Seeing the preacher did n’t want it, I might as well smoke it myself,’ he explained. ‘Any other man would have accepted it. So it would have been wasted anyway.’ He sat down and blew smoke rings. Ada puffed assiduously at her cigarette; Mrs. Farrow coughed deprecatingly and nodded in the direction of the old lady, who had fallen asleep. But at that moment she opened her eyes and protested, ‘I suppose I’ve got to do better than this, if I want to see him with my own eyes.’

Immediately thereafter a car stopped in front of the house. Then another, and there were voices, among them Ken’s, loud and cheerful. They all rose in unison, even old Mrs. Farrow, but none of them moved when the doorbell rang. Again Ada went to the door, when she saw that all the others hesitated. Mrs. Farrow clutched her handkerchief.

They heard, ‘Hi, Ada, old kid, how’s sledding? Folks in?’ Then Ada’s answer, too low, perhaps because they were not listening to it. The door opened, and Kenneth in a new suit, pale but debonair, clean and smiling, waved his hands at them, while they remained staring, immobile, speechless. ‘Hello, everybody! Hello there, Grandmom, how’s the old scout?’ He continued smiling, hesitating momentarily at their silence. ‘Look here, I just ran in to tell you everything is O.K. You see, the fellows — Eddie, Jim, and the bunch — drove all the way down and met me. Awful decent of them. They knew you folks were n’t coming, so they knew they would n’t be butting in. I got these new togs downtown. How do you like them?’ He pirouetted in front of them while they looked dumbly at his neat gray suit. ‘Not bad, is it? For a recent graduate? Well, as I was saying, the fellows got me, drove all the way.’ He stopped at the sounding of a peremptory automobile horn outside, turned and shouted through the open doorway, ‘Hey there, Nan, hold your horses for a second, will you? Be with you in a minute.’ He turned toward them again in the room, seemingly oblivious of their staring. ‘ I’m driving. Just ached to get my fingers around a steering wheel again, so they let me. We had dinner downtown, and now we ’re going up to Eddie’s to celebrate a little. Don’t you worry about me.

Thought I’d run in and let you know, so you would n’t sit up all night.’ He turned toward the door, and from the porch he shouted, ‘I’ll be seeing you when the roosters start crowing!’

VI

They remained where they were and listened to a car door slamming shut and cars crunching away. No one moved to shut the door until Ada went to do this, and Mrs. Farrow sat down in her chair again and looked mechanically at the clock.

‘He’d been drinking already,’ Ada said, returning from the door.

‘ See you when the roosters crow,’Mr. Farrow mimicked bitterly. ‘How do you like the new duds? Just like he’d just graduated from college instead of . . .’ He stopped grimly.

‘Instead of serving two years in prison,’ Mrs. Farrow completed his sentence dryly.

Old Mrs. Farrow stood silent, pinching her fingers. At last they were mentioning the truth, wording and phrasing it accurately. And she did not like it. She did not want to hear it. ‘Two years in jail for forging checks and what not,’ she added, to smother her own terrible disappointment and to prevent them from saying it.

‘And look at his crowd. That Nan!’ Ada complained and flung herself on the davenport.

‘Two years, and we sit here expecting something — I don’t know what. Just what did we expect? Anyway that he’d be sorry and meek, anxious to be back, promising things.’ Mr. Farrow chewed his cigar ferociously.

‘You should have gone and gotten him. You had nothing to do all day,’ Mrs. Farrow complained.

‘Get that good-for-nothing? Go two hundred miles for that? I’m damned glad I did n’t stir from the house. Was never so glad in all my life. I should have faked up a meeting too, like Ruben. I guess Ruben had him spotted, all right.’

‘There, I knew Ruben had no meeting,’ the old lady grumbled. ‘I knew it. The prude.’ She lowered herself in her chair again. They all followed her example. When she saw that they were all seated she concluded, ‘Well, that’s that, I guess.’

They sat listening to the radio, which Ada had impetuously turned higher. The truth had been spoken, the unmentionable had been mentioned, and the truth was worse than silence and lies. They looked at each other guiltily. Ada started another cigarette. Facing and naming the truth had demoralized them, no matter how often they had turned it over in their own minds. The stating of it before others — family members even — had done it, completely demoralized them. But Kenneth had done that, they accused and palliated at the same time. Mr. Farrow rose. ‘If a son, after serving two years, can go and celebrate, well, what’s the matter with us?’ he challenged. ‘Why should we sit here in the dumps? That’s what I’d like to know. How about us all having a good helping of that dandelion wine that set us on our ears a couple of Sundays ago? We ’ll show them what we can do!‘ he shouted defiantly, and strode toward the cellar.

They heard him clanging bottles. The three women did not look at each other. Ada said, ‘That’s the spirit anyway, even though I don’t like dandelion wine. We might get some good stuff for the occasion.’

‘ Who’d ever have thought this would be the way for the evening to end,’ Mrs. Farrow said, and rose to get glasses. ‘Come here, Ada, and help me,’ she called from the kitchen.

Old Mrs. Farrow folded her hands. Thinking was done. Everything was done. No more worrying. Let the dead bury their dead. Let the prisoner shape himself another prison. Good boy, though, Kenneth. Too much life and too much spirit, therefore no good. She could count the street cars passing, louder and fewer now. Go ahead and avoid the truth again, the truth of their disappointment. That was necessary. She would help them. She rose wearily from her chair and banged the window shut. Whoever might come could stay outside.

VII

Mr. Farrow entered with the wine. He poured, they toasted and drank, not mentioning Kenneth again — avoiding Kenneth so assiduously that everything they mentioned was an avoidance of him. The wine was pungent and heady and the room grew hot and dense, for Mr. Farrow smoked furiously and Ada lit one cigarette after another. The weather was too warm for the time of the year, they concluded. The business depression was bound to continue, no building going on, Mr. Farrow complained. They were all heading for ruin. But that again touched on Kenneth. Must write to Mildred, Mrs. Farrow mentioned, but how to write to one’s own sister and not say anything about Kenneth! They listened to the radio, they laughed, they had more wine. And because they had totally forgotten Ruben, they sat startled, each one holding his glass, when they heard his key in the lock.

Ruben entered and stopped. They stared at him as they had done at Kenneth, forgetting to reply to his goodevening. They noted his surprised glaring at their glasses and at the smoke-filled room. They were aware of his neatness, his correctness, his fierce unassumingness, as he stood there, immaculate, unhandsome, stiff and rigid like the crease in his trousers. He stood and waited for them to speak, wondering and disapproving of the half-emptied glasses. ‘Well, I guess this is a surprise,’ he said at last.

‘Yes, it’s a surprise,’ Mrs. Farrow answered vaguely.

Still he did not come nearer, but remained standing with his topcoat over his arm. Only men like Ruben would wear a topcoat on warm evenings like this one, simply because the calendar said it was October, they thought. ‘What’s the big occasion?’ he asked, desperately jovial.

They did not answer, but when Ada sipped from her glass they all followed her example.

He colored and threw his coat on a chair. ‘I guess it is a secret. If it was n’t so funny, if it was n’t so close to the old story of the prodigal son’s return and his older brother not liking it, I would laugh. I would n’t mention it. But it’s so close, why, it looks as if you’re playing the part.’ Unwittingly he was assuming the role they had all imagined for him as they sat there staring at him censoriously looking at their drinking.

‘Have a drink, Ruben?’ Mr. Farrow suggested.

‘No.’ He snapped his lips shut, and thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded. ‘Where are you hiding him?’

‘He’s gone to bed. He went to bed right away,’ Mrs. Farrow said, so easily that none of them glanced up in surprise.

‘He rode the bus all day. He was awful tired,’ Ada added.

‘Yes, we thought he’d better get a good night’s rest,’ Mr. Farrow said.

The old lady smiled a little triumphantly, her heart suddenly light. She sipped from her glass. ‘Poor boy,’ she muttered. ‘He was so ashamed of himself. Tired, too. And I guess he was ashamed of meeting you, Ruben — you more than any of us.’ She felt warm, beautiful, protecting Kenneth — helping all of them against Ruben, spinning out lies so beautifully around him that they were smothering him.

Ruben smiled wryly. ‘How did he look?’ he asked.

‘Pale,’ Mr. Farrow said. ‘He looks worn-out. Had very little to say.’

‘Yes, I put him in the guest room. He’s sleeping. You’d better not disturb him. And I told him he’d better sleep late to-morrow. Maybe you won’t get to see him till to-morrow night,’ Mrs. Farrow told him with all the semblance of truth and concern.

The old lady had risen and pulled at Ada’s dress. ‘The guest-room door,’ she whispered, while Mr. Farrow said mournfully, ‘Yes, that is too bad. You won’t get to see him. It’s too bad, Ruben, but maybe you don’t mind.’

Ada clattered up the bare stairway. ‘No. I guess to-morrow is all right,’ Ruben said and sat down. ‘So he took it pretty hard, did he?’

They nodded. ‘Now, won’t you have a drink, too?’ Mrs. Farrow urged.

‘No, I guess not. I don’t like it. Guess I’ll turn in, myself. I am tired, too. Work the whole day and then this meeting to-night—that is pretty tiring.’ Ruben stroked his temples wearily.

Again Ada’s footsteps came thumping down the stairs. ‘Ada makes altogether too much noise, altogether too much. She’ll wake him up yet. I always told her, with her silly notions, that there ought to be a carpet over it.’

Old Mrs. Farrow almost believed that she was protecting Kenneth against Ada’s noisy thumping. Perhaps the wine did it. Perhaps untruth was far better than truth, if only to soothe herself. Anything against Ruben, in deep, vast unity with them all against Ruben. Age did n’t matter and truth didn’t matter. ‘Ada, I’m sure you woke him up with all your thumping,’she said angrily when the girl came back in the room.

Slowly they all sipped from their glasses and watched Ruben with ill-concealed hostility as he continued stroking his forehead in assumed weariness. ‘You’d better go to bed,’ the old woman said. ‘But don’t you go thumping up the stairs.’