“What’s to become of us!” wept Eliza.
“When brother strikes brother, it seems that the smash-up has come.”
She lifted the padded arm-chair, and placed it on its legs again.
When he could speak, Eugene said quietly, to control the trembling of his voice:
“I’m sorry I jumped on you, Ben.
You,” he said to the excited sailor, “jumped on my back like a coward.
But I’m sorry for what’s happened.
I’m sorry for what I did the other night and now.
I said so, and you wouldn’t leave me alone.
You’ve tried to drive me crazy with your talk.
And I didn’t,” he choked, “I didn’t think you’d turn against me as you have.
I know what the others are like — they hate me!”
“Hate you!” cried Luke excitedly.
“For G-g-god’s sake!
You talk like a fool.
We’re only trying to help you, for your own good.
Why should we hate you!”
“Yes, you hate me,” Eugene said, “and you’re ashamed to admit it.
I don’t know why you should, but you do.
You wouldn’t ever admit anything like that, but it’s the truth.
You’re afraid of the right words.
But it’s been different with you,” he said, turning to Ben.
“We’ve been like brothers — and now, you’ve gone over against me.”
“Ah!” Ben muttered, turning away nervously.
“You’re crazy.
I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
He lighted a cigarette, holding the match in a hand that trembled.
But although the boy had used a child’s speech of woe and resentment, they knew there was a core of truth in what he had said.
“Children, children!” said Eliza sadly.
“We must try to love one another.
Let’s try to get along together this Christmas — what time’s left.
It may be the last one we’ll ever have together.”
She began to weep:
“I’ve had such a hard life,” she said, “it’s been strife and turmoil all the way.
It does seem I deserve a little peace and happiness now.”
They were touched with the old bitter shame: they dared not look at one another.
But they were awed and made quiet by the vast riddle of pain and confusion that scarred their lives.
“No one, ‘Gene,” Luke began quietly, “has turned against you.
We want to help you — to see you amount to something.
You’re the last chance — if booze gets you the way it has the rest of us, you’re done for.”
The boy felt very tired; his voice was flat and low.
He began to speak with the bluntness of despair: what he said had undebatable finality.
“And how are you going to keep booze from getting me, Luke?” he said.
“By jumping on my back and trying to strangle me?
That’s on a level with every other effort you’ve ever made to know me.”
“Oh,” said Luke ironically, “you don’t think we understand you?”
“No,” Eugene said quietly.
“I don’t think you do.
You know nothing whatever about me.
I know nothing about you — or any of you.