door stood open. The bed was made, and the sash of thewindow was up so the curtains stirred in the morning air. He was neatly dressed, in his stocking feet, propped against the pillows, reading one of his books.
“Don’t get up,” she said. “I don’t mean to bother you. I just thought you might want the newspaper.”
“Thank you,” he said. She wondered what it was that made him stand when she or her father came into a room. It looked like deference, but it also seemed to mean, You will never see me at ease, you will never see me unguarded. And that thank-you of his. It was so unfailing as to be impersonal, or at least to have no reference to any particular kindness, as if he had trained himself to note the mere fact of kindness, however slight any instance of it might be. And of course there was nothing wrong with that. Certainly not in his case.
She said, “You’re welcome.” And then she said, “Papa would like us to talk.”
“Ah,” he said, as if the motive behind her coming into his room were suddenly clear. He brushed back his hair. “What would he like us to talk about?”
“Anything. It doesn’t matter. He just worries that we don’t talk. He hates a silent house.”
Jack nodded. “Yes. I see. Sure. I can do that.”
A minute passed. “So—” she said.
“There actually is something I wanted to talk to you about.” He went to the dresser and took up a bill that had been lying there and handed it to her. Ten dollars.
“Why are you giving me money?”
“I don’t suppose the Reverend has much to get by on. I thought that might help with the groceries.”
“It will help, of course. But he’s all right. He gets some income from the farm. Mrs. Blank retired when I came, so he doesn’t have to pay a housekeeper. And the others look after him. And the church.”
“The church.” He said, “And the church knows I’m here.”
“Well, yesterday there were those two pies on the porch, and today there was a casserole and six eggs.”
“So the word is out, then.”
“Yes.”
“They won’t come by, though.”
“Not unless they’re invited.”
“Good,” he said. “That’s good.” He looked at her. “You won’t invite them.”
“No.”
“Good. Thank you.” Then, as if by way of explanation, “I need a little while to get used to this place. To try to.”
It had occurred to her more than once that his thank you had the effect of ending conversation. He might not intend it that way. And just now, when the conversation had gone reasonably well, she decided not to take it that way. So she said, “What are you reading?”
Jack glanced at the worn little book he had left lying on the bed. “Something a friend gave me.” He said, “It’s pretty interesting.” And he smiled.
“That’s fine,” she said, and turned and went down to the kitchen. She did not care what he was reading. She had only tried to make conversation. Her father had not said in so many words that he noticed the silence between them and that he worried about it, but she knew it must be true, and she felt no real regret about mentioning it to Jack, even though it surprised her a little when she did. Papa was asleep so much of the time. It would be good to have someone to talk to. It was rude of him to shun her. Even if his memories of her were irritating to him. There is so much more to courtesy than Thank you, That’s kind of you! This was among those thoughts she hoped she would never hear herself speak out loud. She went back up the stairs.
He was still standing there, with the book in his hand. “W.E.B. DuBois,” he said. “Have you heard of him?”
“Well, yes, I’ve heard of him. I thought he was a Communist.”
He laughed. “Isn’t everybody? I mean, if you believe the newspapers?” He said, “Now I suppose you’ll think I’m up here reading propaganda.”
“I don’t care what you’re reading. All I really care about is whether we can live in this house like civilized
“Don’t get up,” she said. “I don’t mean to bother you. I just thought you might want the newspaper.”
“Thank you,” he said. She wondered what it was that made him stand when she or her father came into a room. It looked like deference, but it also seemed to mean, You will never see me at ease, you will never see me unguarded. And that thank-you of his. It was so unfailing as to be impersonal, or at least to have no reference to any particular kindness, as if he had trained himself to note the mere fact of kindness, however slight any instance of it might be. And of course there was nothing wrong with that. Certainly not in his case.
She said, “You’re welcome.” And then she said, “Papa would like us to talk.”
“Ah,” he said, as if the motive behind her coming into his room were suddenly clear. He brushed back his hair. “What would he like us to talk about?”
“Anything. It doesn’t matter. He just worries that we don’t talk. He hates a silent house.”
Jack nodded. “Yes. I see. Sure. I can do that.”
A minute passed. “So—” she said.
“There actually is something I wanted to talk to you about.” He went to the dresser and took up a bill that had been lying there and handed it to her. Ten dollars.
“Why are you giving me money?”
“I don’t suppose the Reverend has much to get by on. I thought that might help with the groceries.”
“It will help, of course. But he’s all right. He gets some income from the farm. Mrs. Blank retired when I came, so he doesn’t have to pay a housekeeper. And the others look after him. And the church.”
“The church.” He said, “And the church knows I’m here.”
“Well, yesterday there were those two pies on the porch, and today there was a casserole and six eggs.”
“So the word is out, then.”
“Yes.”
“They won’t come by, though.”
“Not unless they’re invited.”
“Good,” he said. “That’s good.” He looked at her. “You won’t invite them.”
“No.”
“Good. Thank you.” Then, as if by way of explanation, “I need a little while to get used to this place. To try to.”
It had occurred to her more than once that his thank you had the effect of ending conversation. He might not intend it that way. And just now, when the conversation had gone reasonably well, she decided not to take it that way. So she said, “What are you reading?”
Jack glanced at the worn little book he had left lying on the bed. “Something a friend gave me.” He said, “It’s pretty interesting.” And he smiled.
“That’s fine,” she said, and turned and went down to the kitchen. She did not care what he was reading. She had only tried to make conversation. Her father had not said in so many words that he noticed the silence between them and that he worried about it, but she knew it must be true, and she felt no real regret about mentioning it to Jack, even though it surprised her a little when she did. Papa was asleep so much of the time. It would be good to have someone to talk to. It was rude of him to shun her. Even if his memories of her were irritating to him. There is so much more to courtesy than Thank you, That’s kind of you! This was among those thoughts she hoped she would never hear herself speak out loud. She went back up the stairs.
He was still standing there, with the book in his hand. “W.E.B. DuBois,” he said. “Have you heard of him?”
“Well, yes, I’ve heard of him. I thought he was a Communist.”
He laughed. “Isn’t everybody? I mean, if you believe the newspapers?” He said, “Now I suppose you’ll think I’m up here reading propaganda.”
“I don’t care what you’re reading. All I really care about is whether we can live in this house like civilized
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