And Eugene’s eyes grew blind with love and wonder: an enormous organ-music sounded in his heart, he possessed them for a moment, he was a part of their loveliness, his life soared magnificently out of the slough and pain and ugliness. He thought:
“That was not all! That really was not all!”
Helen turned quietly to Coker, who was standing in shadow by the window, chewing upon his long unlighted cigar.
“Is there nothing more you can do? Have you tried everything? I mean — EVERYTHING?”
Her voice was prayerful and low. Coker turned toward her slowly, taking the cigar between his big stained fingers. Then, gently, with his weary yellow smile, he answered: “Everything. Not all the king’s horses, not all the doctors and nurses in the world, can help him now.”
“How long have you known this?” she said.
“For two days,” he answered. “From the beginning.” He was silent for a moment. “For ten years!” he went on with growing energy. “Since I first saw him, at three in the morning, in the Greasy Spoon, with a doughnut in one hand and a cigarette in the other. My dear, dear girl,” he said gently as she tried to speak, “we can’t turn back the days that have gone. We can’t turn life back to the hours when our lungs were sound, our blood hot, our bodies young. We are a flash of fire — a brain, a heart, a spirit. And we are three-cents-worth of lime and iron — which we cannot get back.”
He picked up his greasy black slouch hat, and jammed it carelessly upon his head. Then he fumbled for a match and lit the chewed cigar.
“Has everything been done?” she said again. “I want to know! Is there anything left worth trying?”
He made a weary gesture of his arms.
“My dear girl!” he said. “He’s drowning! Drowning!”
She stood frozen with the horror of his pronouncement.
Coker looked for a moment at the gray twisted shadow on the bed. Then, quietly, sadly, with tenderness and tired wonder, he said: “Old Ben. When shall we see HIS like again?”
Then he went quietly out, the long cigar clamped firmly in his mouth.
In a moment, Bessie Gant, breaking harshly in upon their silence with ugly and triumphant matter-of-factness, said: “Well, it will be a relief to get this over. I’d rather be called into forty outside cases than one in which any of these damn relations are concerned. I’m dead for sleep.”
Helen turned quietly upon her.
“Leave the room!” she said. “This is our affair now. We have the right to be left alone.”
Surprised, Bessie Gant stared at her for a moment with an angry, resentful face. Then she left the room.
The only sound in the room now was the low rattling mutter of Ben’s breath. He no longer gasped; he no longer gave signs of consciousness or struggle. His eyes were almost closed; their gray flicker was dulled, coated with the sheen of insensibility and death. He lay quietly upon his back, very straight, without sign of pain, and with a curious upturned thrust of his sharp thin face. His mouth was firmly shut. Already, save for the feeble mutter of his breath, he seemed to be dead — he seemed detached, no part of the ugly mechanism of that sound which came to remind them of the terrible chemistry of flesh, to mock at illusion, at all belief in the strange passage and continuance of life.
He was dead, save for the slow running down of the worn-out machine, save for that dreadful mutter within him of which he was no part. He was dead.
But in their enormous silence wonder grew. They remembered the strange flitting loneliness of his life, they thought of a thousand forgotten acts and moments — and always there was something that now seemed unearthly and strange: he walked through their lives like a shadow — they looked now upon his gray deserted shell with a thrill of awful recognition, as one who remembers a forgotten and enchanted word, or as men who look upon a corpse and see for the first time a departed god.
Luke, who had been standing at the foot of the bed, now turned to Eugene nervously, stammering in an unreal whisper of wonder and disbelief:
“I g-g-g-guess Ben’s gone.”
Gant had grown very quiet: he sat in the darkness at the foot of the bed, leaning forward upon his cane, escaped from the revery of his own approaching death, into the waste land of the past, blazing back sadly and poignantly the trail across the lost years that led to the birth of his strange son.
Helen sat facing the bed, in the darkness near the windows. Her eyes rested not on Ben but on her mother’s face. All by unspoken consent stood back in the shadows and let Eliza repossess the flesh to which she had given life.
And Eliza, now that he could deny her no longer, now that his fierce bright eyes could no longer turn from her in pain and aversion, sat near his head beside him, clutching his cold hand between her rough worn palms.
She did not seem conscious of the life around her. She seemed under a powerful hypnosis: she sat very stiff and erect in her chair, her white face set stonily, her dull black eyes fixed upon the gray cold face.
They sat waiting. Midnight came. A cock crew. Eugene went quietly to a window and stood looking out. The great beast of night prowled softly about the house. The walls, the windows seemed to bend inward from the thrusting pressure of the dark. The low noise in the wasted body seemed almost to have stopped. It came infrequently, almost inaudibly, with a faint fluttering respiration.
Helen made a sign to Gant and Luke. They rose and went quietly out. At the door she paused, and beckoned to Eugene. He went to her.
“You stay here with her,” she said. “You’re her youngest. When it’s over come and tell us.”
He nodded, and closed the door behind her. When they had gone, he waited, listening for a moment. Then he went to where Eliza was sitting. He bent over her.
“Mama!” he whispered. “Mama!”
She gave no sign that she had heard him. Her face did not move; she did not turn her eyes from their fixed stare.
“Mama!” he said more loudly. “Mama!”
He touched her. She made no response.
“Mama! Mama!”
She sat there stiffly and primly like a little child.
Swarming pity rose in him. Gently, desperately, he tried to detach her fingers from Ben’s hand. Her rough clasp on the cold hand tightened. Then, slowly, stonily, from right to left, without expression, she shook her head.
He fell back, beaten, weeping, before that implacable gesture. Suddenly, with horror, he saw that she was watching her own death, that the unloosening grip of her hand on Ben’s hand was an act of union with her own flesh, that, for her, Ben was not dying — but that a part of HER, of HER life, HER blood, HER body, was dying. Part of her, the younger, the lovelier, the better part, coined in her flesh, borne and nourished and begun with so much pain there twenty-six years before, and forgotten since, was dying.
Eugene stumbled to the other side of the bed and fell upon his knees. He began to pray. He did not believe in God, nor in Heaven or Hell, but he was afraid they might be true. He did not believe in angels with soft faces and bright wings, but he believed in the dark spirits that hovered above the heads of lonely men. He did not believe in devils or angels, but he believed in Ben’s bright demon to whom he had seen him speak so many times.
Eugene did not believe in these things, but he was afraid they might be true. He was afraid that Ben would get lost again. He felt that no one but he could pray for Ben now: that the dark union of their spirits made only HIS prayers valid. All that he had read in books, all the tranquil wisdom he had professed so glibly in his philosophy course, and the great names of Plato