She looked out into the sunshine.
Her full face was not soft; it was controlled, kindly.
Her hazel eyes seemed to have experienced all possible tragedy and to have mounted pain and suffering like steps into a high calm and a superhuman understanding.
She seemed to know, to accept, to welcome her position, the citadel of the family, the strong place that could not be taken.
And since old Tom and the children could not know hurt or fear unless she acknowledged hurt and fear, she had practiced denying them in herself.
And since, when a joyful thing happened, they looked to see whether joy was on her, it was her habit to build up laughter out of inadequate materials.
But better than joy was calm.
Imperturbability could be depended upon.
And from her great and humble position in the family she had taken dignity and a clean calm beauty.
From her position as healer, her hands had grown sure and cool and quiet; from her position as arbiter she had become as remote and faultless in judgment as a goddess.
She seemed to know that if she swayed the family shook, and if she ever really deeply wavered or despaired the family would fall, the family will to function would be gone.
She looked out into the sunny yard, at the dark figure of a man.
Pa stood near by, shaking with excitement.
“Come in,” he cried. “Come right in, mister.” And Tom a little shame-facedly stepped over the doorsill.
She looked up pleasantly from the frying pan.
And then her hand sank slowly to her side and the fork clattered to the wooden floor.
Her eyes opened wide, and the pupils dilated.
She breathed heavily through her open mouth.
She closed her eyes.
“Thank God,” she said. “Oh, thank God!” And suddenly her face was worried. “Tommy, you ain’t wanted?
You didn’ bust loose?”
“No, Ma.
Parole.
I got the papers here.” He touched his breast.
She moved toward him lithely, soundlessly in her bare feet, and her face was full of wonder.
Her small hand felt his arm, felt the soundness of his muscles.
And then her fingers went up to his cheek as a blind man’s fingers might.
And her joy was nearly like sorrow.
Tom pulled his underlip between his teeth and bit it.
Her eyes went wonderingly to his bitten lip, and she saw the little line of blood against his teeth and the trickle of blood down his lip.
Then she knew, and her control came back, and her hand dropped.
Her breath came out explosively.
“Well!” she cried. “We come mighty near to goin’ without ya.
An’ we was wonderin’ how in the worl’ you could ever find us.” She picked up the fork and combed the boiling grease and brought out a dark curl of crisp pork.
And she set the pot of tumbling coffee on the back of the stove.
Old Tom giggled,
“Fooled ya, huh, Ma?
We aimed to fool ya, and we done it.
Jus’ stood there like a hammered sheep.
Wisht Grampa’d been here to see.
Looked like somebody’d beat ya between the eyes with a sledge.
Grampa would a whacked ’imself so hard he’d a throwed his hip out—like he done when he seen Al take a shot at that grea’ big airship the army got.
Tommy, it come over one day, half a mile big, an’ Al gets the thirty-thirty and blazes away at her.
Grampa yells,
‘Don’t shoot no fledglin’s, Al; wait till a growed-up one goes over,’ an’ then he whacked ’imself an’ throwed his hip out.”
Ma chuckled and took down a heap of tin plates from a shelf.
Tom asked,
“Where is Grampa?
I ain’t seen the ol’ devil.”
Ma stacked the plates on the kitchen table and piled cups beside them.