And this aid the husband would not allow her to accept for the reason that it could not be repaid in kind.
“God will provide,” he said.
“Provide what?
Dandelions and ditch weeds?”
“Then He will give us the bowels to digest them.”
He was a minister.
For a year he had been leaving home early each Sunday morning before his father (this was before the son’s marriage) who though a member in good standing of the Episcopal church had not entered any church since the son could remember, discovered where he went.
He found that the son, then just turned twenty-one, was riding sixteen miles each Sunday to preach in a small Presbyterian chapel back in the hills.
The father laughed.
The son listened to the laughter as he would if it had been shouts or curses: with a cold and respectful detachment, saying nothing.
The next Sunday he went back to his congregation.
When the war began, the son was not among the first to go.
Neither was he among the last.
And he stayed with the troops for four years, though he fired no musket and wore instead of uniform the somber frock coat which he had purchased to be married in and which he had used to preach in.
When he returned home in ‘65 he still wore it, though he never put it on again after that day when the wagon stopped at the front steps and two men lifted him down and carried him into the house and laid him on the bed.
His wife removed the coat and put it away in a trunk in the attic.
It stayed there for twenty-five years, until one day his son opened the trunk and took it out and spread out the carefold folds in which it had been arranged by hands that were now dead.
He remembers it now, sitting in the dark window in the quiet study, waiting for twilight to cease, for night and the galloping hooves.
The copper light has completely gone now; the world hangs in a green suspension in color and texture like light through colored glass.
Soon it will be time to begin to say Soon now.
Now soon
‘I was eight then,’ he thinks. ‘It was raining.’
It seems to him that he can still smell the rain, the moist grieving of the October earth, and the musty yawn as the lid of the trunk went back.
Then the garment, the neat folds.
He did not know what it was, because at first he was almost overpowered by the evocation of his dead mother’s hands which lingered among the folds.
Then it opened, tumbling slowly.
To him, the child, it seemed unbelievably huge, as though made for a giant; as though merely from having been worn by one of them, the cloth itself had assumed the properties of those phantoms who loomed heroic and tremendous against a background of thunder and smoke and torn flags which now filled his waking and sleeping life.
The garment was almost unrecognisable with patches.
Patches of leather, mansewn and crude, patches of Confederate grey weathered leafbrown now, and one that stopped his very heart: it was blue, dark blue; the blue of the United States.
Looking at this patch, at the mute and anonymous cloth, the boy, the child born into the autumn of his mother’s and father’s lives, whose organs already required the unflagging care of a Swiss watch, would experience a kind of hushed and triumphant terror which left him a little sick.
That evening at supper he would be unable to eat.
Looking up, the father, now a man nearing sixty, would find the child staring at him with terror and awe and with something else.
Then the man would say,
“What have you been into now?” and the child could not answer, could not speak, staring at his father with on his child’s face an expression as of the Pit itself.
That night in bed he would not be able to sleep.
He would lie rigid, not even trembling, in his dark bed while the man who was his father and his only remaining relative, and between whom and himself there was so much of distance in time that not even the decades of years could measure, that there was not even any physical resemblance, slept walls and floors away.
And the next day the child would suffer one of his intestinal fits.
But he would not tell what it was, not even to the negro woman who ran the household and who was his mother too and nurse.
Gradually his strength would return.
And then one day he would steal again to the attic and open the trunk and take out the coat and touch the blue patch with that horrified triumph and sick joy and wonder if his father had killed the man from whose blue coat the patch came, wondering with still more horror yet at the depth and strength of his desire and dread to know.
Yet on the very next day, when he knew that his father had gone to call upon one of his country patients and would not possibly return before dark, he would go to the kitchen and say to the negro woman:
“Tell again about grandpa.
How many Yankees did he kill?”
And when he listened now it was without terror.
It was not even triumph: it was pride.
This grandfather was the single thorn in his son’s side.
The son would no more have said that than he would have thought it, anymore than it would ever have occurred to either of them to wish mutually that he had been given a different son or a different father.
Their relations were peaceable enough, being on the son’s part a cold, humorless, automatically respectful reserve, and on the father’s a bluff, direct, coarsely vivid humor which lacked less of purport than wit.
They lived amicably enough in the two-storey house in town, though for some time now the son had refused, quiet and firm, to eat any food prepared by the slave woman who had raised him from babyhood.
He cooked his own food in the kitchen, to the negress’ outraged indignation, and put it on the table himself and ate it face to face with his father, who saluted him punctiliously and unfailingly with a glass of Bourbon whiskey: this too the son did not touch and had never tasted.