warned. "I mean it. If you run off now with all these
problems. I won't help you. I won't send you money. I
won't--"
'Don 't... " she screamed, her eyes bulging.
"Stay here and die." She stepped out and slammed the
door so hard the house shook.
Dave lowered his head like a flag of defeat. I
came dawn the stairs slowly and Mama came out of
the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She
looked at Dave, who stood by the closed front door,
and then she looked up at me. She was smiling. And that smile turned my blood to ice.
14
Dave Takes Sick
.
Knowing that his daughter was pregnant and
had run off with some new stranger she had met even after he had achieved what he thought was a new beginning for himself and her caused Dave to become as despondent as he had been the day he learned his son, Elliot, had died. He as much as admitted it to Mama,
"No matter what I do or try to do. I'm a failure as a father. Sarah. I've lost both my children. My whole family is gone. I feel like a man in mourning."
I wanted so much to tell him that all was not lost, that he was actually living with and caring for his own grandchild. but I had no idea what horrible things might come from such a revelation. It would lead to another and another, and our world would unravel like a ball of string. Only Mama could unwrap the secrets in our world. Only she knew what should be told and when something should be told. To defy her was to defy the spiritual family who protected and loved us. I would surely suffer some terrible punishment for it. I might even be sent to hell.
The tears I shed for Dave could fall only behind my eyes. I knew he was the kind of person who would worry more about my sadness than his own, and that would make me feel even worse, make me feel even more like a liar and a deceiver. Maybe the real reason Mama restricted the number of mirrors in our house was to prevent me from looking at myself, from seeing who I was and what I was. She was always worried about what my face revealed, even if only to me.
"You might as well be the front page of a newspaper, shouting the headlines. Noble. Stop scowling," she would say, or. "Stop pouting. And for God sakes, when we go anywhere, stop pressing your nose to the car window and looking out at everyone and everything with such desperate interest. Anyone would think you had been kept locked up in the basement all your life."
Would I dare tell her that I did feel that way sometimes? Did I have to tell her? Couldn't she see my thoughts scribbled over my face anyway?
Dave was certainly getting easy to read. The more forlorn he became, the more drawn and haggard he appeared, the more concerned I grew. I watched and waited for Mama to do more to help him, but she didn't appear to be worried. Was everything exaggerated in my eyes? Surely, she could see more than I could see. I thought. Yet I knew he wasn't eating well or for that matter sleeping too well. I heard him get up often late at night and walk softly downstairs to make himself a cup of warm milk, or. as I discovered one night when I came out and looked for him, to just sit in the old rocking chair and stare out at the night as if he were waiting up for Betsy, who had gone out on a date. Did he wake up thinking, hoping, all that had occurred was only a dream, only a bad dream? Go down and sit in the rocking chair, he told himself. Shell be home soon.
More and more he was drawn to the old rocking chair. He would even sit in it after dinner rather than sit on the sofa or the big cushioned chair. I wondered why he was drawn to it. Was he finally making a spiritual connection the way Mama often did with things in our house, things that had belonged to our ancestors? Did it give him relief or was he unable to resist it? Did it keep him trapped in his own
depression?
Shadows deepened in every corner, walls creaked, and the chandeliers swung ever so slightly with every closed or opened door, sometimes their bulbs blinking like eyes. The whispering I often heard in the darkness grew louder and more frequent. Did Dave hear it. too? Did he think he was going mad? I saw a strange darkness in his eyes as he looked toward every sound. He was truly like someone who had stepped into a pool of depression, a quicksand of despair drawing him down, down. down.
He no longer rushed to ask Mama to take their famous romantic walks in the moonlight or starlight after dinner. and I noticed he would often drift into his own deep thoughts so quickly and for so long, he was even unaware of Baby Celeste pulling on his pants leg in an attempt to get him to pay attention to her.
"Dave." Mama would say. "What?" His eyes would flutter as he looked about the room.
"The baby." Mama would nod at her sitting at his feet and looking up at him.
"Oh. I'm sorry. Hi, Celeste," he would finally say, and lift her into his lap, but his concentration was still directed elsewhere, lost in his thoughts. Was he thinking about his dead son or his errant daughter?
Weeks and weeks passed. Betsy didn't call or send any letters, which, according to Dave, was not unusual.