A few minutes before ten, the phone rang. Mary hurried to quiet it. “Hello?”

The voice was a man’s, wiry and faint, a country voice. It was asking a question, but she could not hear it clearly.

“Hello?” she asked again. “Will you please talk a little louder? I can’t hear. ... I said I can’t hear you! Will you talk a little louder please? Thank you.”

Now, straining and impatient, she could hear, though the voice seemed still to come from a great distance.

“Is this Miz Jay Follet?”

“Yes; what is it?” (for there was a silence); “yes, this is she.”

After further silence the voice said, “There’s been a slight—your husband has been in a accident.”

His head! she told herself.

“Yes,” she said, in a caved-in voice. At the same moment the voice said, “A serious accident.”

“Yes,” Mary said more clearly.

“What I wanted to ask, is there a man in his family, some kin, could come out? We’d appreciate if you could send a man out here, right away.”

“Yes; yes, there’s my brother. Where should he come to?”

“I’m out at Powell Station, at Brannick’s Blacksmith Shop, bout twelve miles out the Ball Camp Pike.”

“Brannick’s bl—”

“B-r-a-n-n-i-c-k. It’s right on the left of the Pike comin out just a little way this side, Knoxvul side of Bell’s Bridge.” She heard muttering, and another muttering voice. “Tell him he can’t miss it. We’ll keep the light on and a lantern out in front.”

“Do you have a doctor?”

“How’s that again, ma’am?”

“A doctor, do you have one? Should I send a doctor?”

“That’s all right, ma’am. Just some man that’s kin.”

“He’ll come right out just as fast as he can.” Walter’s auto, she thought. “Thank you very much for calling.”

“That’s all right, ma’am. I sure do hate to give you bad news.”

“Good night.”

“Good-bye, ma’am.”

She found she was scarcely standing, she was all but hanging from the telephone. She stiffened her knees, leaned against the wall, and rang.

“Andrew?”

“Mary?”

She drew a deep breath.

“Mary.”

She drew another deep breath; she felt as if her lungs were not large enough.

“Mary?”

Dizzy, seeing gray, trying to control her shaking voice, she said, “Andrew, there’s been an—a man just phoned, from Powell’s Station, about twelve miles out towards LaFollette, and he says—he says Jay—has met with a very serious accident. He wants ...”

“Oh, my God, Mary!”

“He said they want some man of his family to come out just as soon as possible and, help bring him in, I guess.”

“I’ll call Walter, he’ll take me out.”

“Yes do, will you, Andrew?”

“Of course I will. Just a minute.”

“What?”

“Aunt Hannah.”

“May I speak to her when you’re through?”

“Certainly. Where is he hurt, Mary?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Well, didn’t you—no matter.”

“No I didn’t,” she said, now realizing with surprise that she had not, “I guess because I was so sure. Sure it’s his head, that is.”

“Do they—shall I get Dr. Dekalb?”

“He says no; just you.”

“I guess there’s already a doctor there.”

“I guess.”

“I’ll call Wa—wait, here’s Aunt Hannah.”

“Mary.”

"Aunt Hannah, Jay is in a serious accident, Andrew has to go out. Would you come up and wait with me and get things ready just in case? Just in case he’s well enough to be brought home and not the hospital?”

“Certainly, Mary. Of course I will.”

“And will you tell Mama and Papa not to worry, not to come out, give them my love. We might as well just be calm as we can, till we know.”

“Of course we must. I’ll be right up.”

“Thank you, Aunt Hannah.”

She went into the kitchen and built a quick fire and put on a large kettle of water and a small kettle, for tea. The phone rang.

“Mary! Where do I go?”

“Why, Powell’s Station, out the Pike towards ...”

“I know, but exactly where? Didn’t he say?”

“He said Brannick’s blacksmith shop. B-r-a-n-n-i-c-k. Do you hear?”

“Yes. Brannick.”

“He said they’ll keep the lights on and you can’t miss it. It’s just to the left of the Pike just this side of Bell’s Bridge. Just a little way this side.”

“All right, Mary, Walter will come by here and we’ll bring Aunt Hannah on our way.”

“All right. Thank you, Andrew.”

She put on more kindling and hurried into the downstairs bedroom. How do I know, she thought; he didn’t even say; I didn’t even ask. By the way he talks he may be—she whipped off the coverlet, folded it, and smoothed the pad. I’m just simply not going to think about it until I know more, she told herself. She hurried to the linen closet and brought clean sheets and pillowcases. He didn’t say whether there was a doctor there or not. She spread a sheet, folded it under the foot of the mattress, pulled it smooth, and folded it under all around. Then she spread her palms along it; it was cold and smooth beneath her hands and it brought her great hope. Oh God, let him be well enough to come home where I can take care of him, where I can take good care of him. How good to rest! That’s all right, ma’am. Just some man that’s kin. She spread the top sheet. That’s all right, ma’am. That can mean anything. It can mean there’s a doctor there and although it’s serious he has it in hand, under control, it isn’t so dreadfully bad, although he did say it’s serious or it can ... A light blanket, this weather. Two, case it turns cool. She hurried and got them, unaware whether she was making such noise as might wake the children and unaware that even in this swiftness she was moving, by force of habit, almost silently. Just some man that’s kin. That means it’s bad, or he’d ask for me. No, I’d have to stay with the children. But he doesn’t know there are children. My place’d be home anyhow, getting things ready, he knows that. He didn’t suggest getting anything ready. He knew I’d know. He is a man, wouldn’t occur to him. She took the end of a pillow between her teeth and pulled the slip on and plumped it and put it in place. She took the end of the second pillow between her teeth and bit it so hard the roots of her teeth ached, and pulled the slip on and plumped it. Then she set the first pillow up on edge and set the second pillow on edge against it and plumped them both and smoothed them and stood away and looked at them with her head on one side, and for a moment she saw him sitting up in bed with a tray on his knees as he had sat when he strained his back, and he looked at her, almost but not quite smiling, and she could hear his voice, grouchy, pretending to be for the fun of it. If it’s his head, she remembered, perhaps he’ll have to lie very flat.

How do I know? How do I know?

She left the pillows as they were, and turned down the bed on that side, next to the window, and smoothed it. She carefully refolded the second blanket and laid it on the lower foot of the bed, no, it would bother his poor feet. She hung it over the footboard. She stood looking at the carefully made bed, and, for a few seconds, she was not sure where she was or why she was doing this. Then she remembered and said, “oh,” in a small, stupefied, soft voice. She opened the window, top and bottom, and when the curtains billowed she tied them back more tightly. She went to the hall closet and brought out the bedpan and rinsed and dried it and put it under the bed. She went to the medicine chest and took out the thermometer, shook it, washed it in cool water, dried it, and put it beside the bed in a tumbler of water. She saw that the hand towel which covered this table was dusty, and threw it into the dirty-clothes hamper, and replaced it with a fresh one, and replaced that with a dainty linen guest towel upon the border of which pansies and violets were embroidered. She saw that the front pillow had sagged a little, and set it right. She pulled down the shade. She turned out the light and dropped to her knees, facing the bed, and closed her eyes. She touched her forehead, her breastbone, her left shoulder and her right shoulder, and clasped her hands.

“O God, if it be Thy will,” she whispered. She could not think of anything more. She made the sign of the Cross again, slowly, deeply, and widely upon herself, and she felt something of the shape of the Cross; strength and quiet.

Thy will be done. And again she could think of nothing more. She got from her knees and without turning on the light or glancing towards the bed, went into the kitchen. The water for tea had almost boiled away. The water in the large kettle was scarcely tepid. The fire was almost out. While she was putting in more kindling, she heard them on the porch.

Hannah came in with her hands stretched out and Mary extended her own hands and took them and kissed her cheek while at the same instant they said, “Mary” and, “my dear”; then Hannah hurried to put her hat on the rack. Andrew stayed at the open door and did not speak but merely kept looking into her eyes; his own eyes were as hard and bright as those of a bird and they spoke to her of a cold and bitter incredulity, as if he were accusing something or someone (even perhaps his sister) which it was useless beyond words to accuse. She felt that he was saying, “And you can still believe in that idiotic God of yours?” Walter Starr stayed back in the darkness; Mary could just see the large lenses of his glasses, and the darkness of his mustache and of his heavy shoulders.

“Come in, Walter,” she said, and her voice was as overwarm as if she were coaxing a shy child.

“We can’t stop,” Andrew said sharply.

Walter came forward and took her hand, and gently touched her wrist with his other hand. “We shan’t be long,” he said.

“Bless you,” Mary murmured, and so pressed his hand that her arm trembled.

He patted her trembling wrist four times rapidly, turned away saying, “Better be off, Andrew,” and went towards his automobile. She could hear that he had left the engine running, and now she realized all the more clearly how grave matters were.

“Everything’s ready here in case—you know—he’s—well enough to be brought home,” Mary told Andrew.

“Good. I’ll phone, the minute I know. Anything.”

“Yes, dear.”

His eyes changed, and abruptly his hand reached out and caught her shoulder. “Mary, I’m so sorry,” he said, almost crying.

“Yes, dear,” she said again, and felt that it was a vacuous reply; but by the time this occurred to her, Andrew was getting into the automobile. She stood and watched until it had vanished and, turning to go in, found that Hannah was at her elbow.

“Let’s have some tea,” she said. “I’ve hot water all ready,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried down the hall.

Let her, Hannah thought, following. By all means. “Goodness no, it’s boiled away! Sit down, Aunt Hannah, it’ll be ready in a jiff.” She hustled to the sink.

“Let me ...” Hannah began; then knew better, and hoped that Mary had not heard.

“What?” She was drawing the water.

“Just let me know, if there’s anything I can help with.”

“Not a thing, thank you.” She put the water on the stove. “Goodness, sit down.” Hannah took a chair by the table. “Everything is ready that I can think of,” Mary said. “That we can know about, yet.” She sat at the opposite side of the table. “I’ve made up the downstairs bedroom” (she waved vaguely towards it), “where he stayed when his poor back was sprained, you remember.” (Of course I do, Hannah thought; let her talk.) “It’s better than upstairs. Near the kitchen and bathroom both and no stairs to climb and of course if need be, that is, if he needs a nurse, night nursing, we can put her in the dining room and eat in the kitchen, or even set up a cot right in the room with him; put up a screen; or if she minds that, why she can just sleep on the living-room davenport and keep the door open between. Don’t you think?”

“Certainly,” Hannah said.

“I think I’ll see if I can possibly get Celia, Celia Gunn, if she’s available, or if she’s on a case she can possibly leave, it’ll be so much nicer for everyone to have someone around who is an old friend, really one of the family, rather than just a complete stranger, don’t you think?”

Hannah nodded.

“Even though of course Jay doesn’t specially, of course she’s really an old friend of mine, rather than Jay’s, still, I think it would be more, well, harmonious, don’t you think?”

“Yes indeed.”

“But I guess it’s just as well to wait till we hear from Andrew, not—create any needless disturbance, I guess. After all, it’s very possible he’ll have to be taken straight to a hospital. The man did say it was serious, after all.”

“I think you’re wise to wait,” Hannah said.

“How’s that water?” Mary twisted in her chair to see. “Sakes alive, the watched pot.” She got up and stuffed in more kindling, and brought down the box of tea. “I don’t knows I really want any tea, anyway, but I think it’s a good idea to drink something warm while we’re waiting, don’t you?”

“I’d like some,” said Hannah, who wanted nothing.

“Good, then we’ll have some. Just as soon as the water’s ready.” She sat down again. “I thought one light blanket would be enough on a night like this but I’ve another over the foot of the bed in case it should turn cool.”

“That should be sufficient.”

“Goodness knows,” Mary said, vaguely, and became silent. She looked at her hands, which lay loosely clasped on the table. Hannah found that she was watching Mary closely. In shame, she focused her sad eyes a little away from her. She wondered. It was probably better for her not to face it if she could help until it had to be faced. If it had to be. Just quiet, she said to herself. Just be quiet.

“You know,” Mary said slowly, “the queerest thing.” She began slowly to turn and rub her clasped fingers among each other. Hannah waited. “When the man phoned,” she said, gazing quietly upon her moving fingers, “and said Jay had been in a—serious accident”; and now Hannah realized that Mary was looking at her, and met her brilliant gray eyes; “I felt it just as certainly as I’m sitting here now, ‘It’s his head.’ What do you think of that?” she asked, almost proudly.

Hannah looked away. What’s one to say, she wondered. Yet Mary had spoken with such conviction that she herself was half convinced. She looked into an image of still water, clear and very deep, and even though it was dark, and she had not seen so clearly since her girlhood, she could see sand and twigs and dead leaves at the bottom of the water. She drew a deep breath and let it out in a long slow sigh and clucked her tongue once. “We never know,” she murmured.

“Of course we just have to wait,” Mary said, after a long silence.

“Hyesss,” Hannah said softly, sharply inhaling the first of the word, and trailing the sibilant to a hair.

Through their deep silence, at length, they began to be aware of the stumbling crackle of the water. When Mary got up for it, it had boiled half away.

“There’s still plenty for two cups,” she said, and prepared the strainer and poured them, and put on more water. She lifted the lid of the large kettle. Its sides, below the water line, were rich beaded; from the bottom sprang a leisured spiral of bubbles so small they resembled white sand; the surface of the water slowly circled upon itself. She wondered what the water might possibly be good for.

“Just in case,” she murmured.

Hannah decided not to ask her what she had said.

“There’s ZuZus,” Mary said, and got them from the cupboard. “Or would you like bread and butter? Or toast. I could toast some.”

“Just tea, thank you.”

“Help yourself to sugar and milk. Or lemon? Let’s see, do I have le ...”

“Milk, thank you.”

“Me too.” Mary sat down again. “My, it’s frightfully hot in here!” She got up and opened the door to the porch, and sat down again.

“I wonder what ti ...” She glanced over her shoulder at the kitchen clock. “What time did they leave, do you know?”

“Walter came for us at quarter after ten. About twenty-five after, I should think.”

“Let’s see, Walter drives pretty fast, though not so fast as Jay, but he’d be driving faster than usual tonight, and it’s just over twelve miles. That would be, supposing he goes thirty miles an hour, that’s twelve miles in, let’s see, six times four is twenty-four, six times five’s thirty, twice twelve is twenty-four, sakes alive, I was always dreadful at arithmetic ...”

“Say about half an hour, allowing for darkness, and Walter isn’t familiar with those roads.”

“Then we ought to be hearing pretty soon. Ten minutes. Fifteen at the outside.”

“Yes, I should think.”

“Maybe twenty, allowing for the roads, but that is a good road out that far as roads go.”

“Maybe.”

“Why didn’t he tell me!” Mary burst out.

“What is it?”

“Why didn’t I ask?” She looked at her aunt in furious bewilderment. “I didn’t even ask! How serious! Where is he hurt! Is he living or dead.”

There it is, Hannah said to herself. She looked back steadily into Mary’s eyes.

That we simply have to wait to find out,” she said.

“Of course we have,” Mary cried angrily. “That’s what’s so unbearable!” She drank half her tea at a gulp; it burned her painfully but she scarcely noticed. She continued to glare at her aunt.

Hannah could think of nothing to say.

“I’m sorry,” Mary said. “You’re perfectly right. I’ve just got to hold myself together, that’s all.”

“Never mind,” Hannah said, and they fell silent.

Hannah knew that silence must itself be virtually unbearable for Mary, and that it would bring her face to face with likelihoods still harder to endure. But she has to, she told herself; and the sooner the better. But she found that she herself could not bear to be present, and say nothing which might in some degree protect, and postpone. She was about to speak when Mary burst out: “In heaven’s name, why didn’t I ask him! Why didn’t I? Didn’t I care?”

“It was so sudden.” Hannah said. “It was such a shock.”

“You would think I’d ask, though! Wouldn’t you?”

“You thought you knew. You told me you were sure it was his—in the head.”

“But how bad? What!”

We both know, Hannah said to herself. But it’s better if you bring yourself to say it. “It certainly wasn’t because you didn’t care, anyway,” she said.

“No. No it certainly wasn’t that, but I think I do know what it was. I think, I think I must have been too afraid of what he would have to say.”

Hannah looked into her eyes. Nod, she told herself. Say yes I imagine so. Just say nothing and it’ll be just as terrible for her. She heard herself saying what she had intended to venture a while before, when Mary had interrupted her: “Do you understand why J—your father stayed home, and your mother?”

“Because I asked them not to come.”

“Why did you?”

“Because if all of you came up here in a troop like that, it would be like assuming that—like assuming the very worst before we even know.”

“That’s why they stayed home. Your father said he knew you’d understand.”

“Of course I do.”

“We just must try to keep from making any assumptions—good or bad.”

“I know. I know we must. It’s just, this waiting in the dark like this, it’s just more than I can stand.”

“We ought to hear very soon.”

Mary glanced at the clock. “Almost any minute,” she said.

She took a little tea.

“I just can’t help wondering,” she said, “why he didn’t say more. ‘A serious accident,’ he said. Not a ‘very’ serious one. Just ‘serious.’ Though, goodness knows, that’s serious enough. But why couldn’t he say?”

“As your father says, it’s ten to one he’s just a plain damned fool,” Hannah said.

“But it’s such an important thing to say, and so simple to say, at least to give some general idea about. At least whether he could come home, or go to a hospital, or ... He didn’t say anything about an ambulance. An ambulance would mean hospital, almost for sure. And surely if he meant the—the ver............