Andrew did not bother to knock, but opened the door and closed it quietly behind him and, seeing their moving shadows near the kitchen threshold, walked quickly down the hall. They could not see his face in the dark hallway but by his tight, set way of walking, they were virtually sure. They were all but blocking his way. Instead of going into the hall to meet him, they drew aside to let him into the kitchen. He did not hesitate with their own moment’s hesitation but came straight on, his mouth a straight line and his eyes like splintered glass, and without saying a word he put his arms around his aunt so tightly that she gasped, and lifted her from the floor. “Mary,” Hannah whispered, close to his ear; he looked; there she stood waiting, her eyes, her face, like that of an astounded child which might be pleading, Oh, don’t hit me; and before he could speak he heard her say, thinly and gently, “He’s dead, Andrew, isn’t he?” and he could not speak, but nodded, and he became aware that he was holding his aunt’s feet off the floor and virtually breaking her bones, and his sister said, in the same small and unearthly voice, “He was dead when you got there”; and again he nodded; and then he set Hannah down carefully on her feet and, turning to his sister, took her by her shoulders and said, more loudly than he had expected, “He was instantly killed,” and he kissed her upon the mouth and they embraced, and without tears but with great violence he sobbed twice, his cheek against hers, while he stared downwards through her loose hair at her humbled back and at the changeful blinking of the linoleum; then, feeling her become heavy against him, said, “Here, Mary,” catching her across the shoulders and helping her to a chair, just as she, losing strength in her knees, gasped, “I’ve got to sit down,” and looked timidly towards her aunt, who at the same moment saying, in a broken voice, “Sit down, Mary,” was at her other side, her arm around her waist and her face as bleached and shocking as a skull. She put an arm tightly around each of them and felt gratitude and pleasure, in the firmness and warmth of their moving bodies, and they walked three abreast (like bosom friends, it occurred to her. the three Musketeers) to the nearest chair; and she could see Andrew twist it towards her with his outstretched left hand, and between them, slowly, they let her down into it, and then she could see only her aunt’s face, leaning deep above her, very large and very close, the eyes at once intense and tearful behind their heavy lenses, the strong mouth loose and soft, the whole face terrible in love and grief, naked and undisciplined as she had never seen it before.

“Let Papa know and Mama,” she whispered. “I promised.”

“I will,” Hannah said, starting for the hall.

“Walter’s bringing them straight up,” Andrew said. “They know by now.” He brought another chair. “Sit down, Aunt Hannah.” She sat and took both Mary’s hands in her own, on Mary’s knees, and realized that Mary was squeezing her hands with all her strength, and as strongly as she was able. She replied in kind to this constantly, shifting, almost writhing pressure.

“Sit with us, Andrew,” Mary said, a little more loudly; he was already bringing a third chair and now he sat, and put his hands upon theirs, and, feeling the convulsing of her hands, thought, Christ, it’s as if she were in labor. And she is. Thus they sat in silence a few moments while he thought: now I’ve got to tell them how it happened. In God’s name, how can I begin!

“I want whiskey,” Mary said, in a small, cold voice, and tried to get up.

“I’ll get it,” Andrew said, standing.

“You don’t know where it is,” she said, continuing to put aside their hands even after they were withdrawn. She got up and they stood as if respectfully aside and she walked between them and went into the hall; they heard her rummaging in the closet, and looked at each other. “She needs it,” Hannah said.

He nodded. He had been surprised, because of Jay, that there was whiskey in the house; and he was sick with self-disgust to have thought of it. “We all do,” he said.

Without looking at them Mary went to the kitchen closet and brought a thick tumbler to the table. The bottle was almost full. She poured the tumbler full while they watched her, feeling they must not interfere, and took a deep gulp and choked on it, and swallowed most of it.

“Dilute it,” Hannah said, slapping her hard between the shoulders and drying her lips and her chin with a dish towel. “It’s much too strong, that way.”

“I will,” Mary croaked, and cleared her throat, “I will,” she said more clearly.

“Just sit down, Mary,” Andrew and Hannah said at the same moment, and Andrew brought her a glass of water and Hannah helped her to her chair.

“I’m going to have some, too,” Andrew said.

“Goodness, do!” said Mary.

“Let me fix us a good strong toddy,” Hannah said. “It’ll help you to sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” Mary said; she sipped at her whiskey and took plenty of the water. “I’ve got to learn how it happened.”

“Aunt Hannah,” Andrew asked quietly, motioning towards the bottle.

“Please.”

While he broke ice and brought glasses and a pitcher of water, none of them spoke; Mary sat in a distorted kind of helplessness at once meek and curiously sullen, waiting. Months later, seeing a horse which had fallen in the street, Andrew was to remember her; and he was to remember it wasn’t drunkenness, either. It was just the flat of the hand of Death.

“Let me pour my own,” Mary said. “Because,” she added with deliberation while she poured, “I want it just as strong as I can stand it.” She tasted the dark drink, added a little more whiskey, tasted again, and put the bottle aside. Hannah watched her with acute concern, thinking, if she gets drunk tonight, and if her mother sees her drunk, she’ll half die of shame, and thinking, nonsense. It’s the most sensible thing she could do.

“Drink it very slowly, Mary,” Andrew said gently. “You aren’t used to it.”

“I’ll take care,” Mary said.

“It’s just the thing for shock,” Hannah said.

Andrew poured two small straight drinks and gave one to his aunt; they drank them off quickly and took water, and he prepared two pale highballs.

“Now, Andrew, I want to hear all about it,” Mary said.

He looked at Hannah.

“Mary,” he said. “Mama and Papa’ll be here any minute. You’d just have to hear it all over again. I’ll tell you, of course, if you prefer, right away but—could you wait?”

But even as he was speaking she was nodding, and Hannah was saying, “Yes, child,” as all three thought of the confusions and repetitions which were, at best, inevitable. Now after a moment Mary said, “Anyway, you say he didn’t have to suffer. Instantly, you said.”

He nodded, and said, “Mary, I saw him—at Roberts’. There was just one mark on his body.”

She looked at him. “His head.”

“Right at the exact point of the chin, a small bruise. A cut so small—they can close it with one stitch. And a little blue bruise on his lower lip. It wasn’t even swollen.”

“That’s all,” she said.

“All.” Hannah said.

“That’s all,” Andrew said. “The doctor said it was concussion of the brain. It was instantaneous.”

She was silent; he felt that she must be doubting it. Christ, he thought furiously, at least she could be spared that!

“He can’t have suffered, Mary, not even for a fraction of a second. Mary, I saw his face. There wasn’t a glimmer of pain in it. Only—a kind of surprise. Startled.”

Still she said nothing. I’ve got to make her sure of it, he thought. How in heaven’s name can I make it clearer? If necessary, I’ll get hold of the doctor and make him tell her hims ...

“He never knew he was dying,” she said. “Not a minute, not one moment, to know, ‘my life is ending.’ ”

Hannah put a quick hand to her shoulder; Andrew dropped to his knees before her; took her hands and said, most earnestly, “Mary, in God’s name be thankful if he didn’t! That’s a hideous thing for a man in the prime of life to have to know. He wasn’t a Christian, you know,” he blurted it fiercely. “He didn’t have to make his peace with God. He was a man, with a wife and two children, and I’d say that sparing him that horrible knowledge was the one thing we can thank God for!” And he added, in a desperate voice, “I’m so terribly sorry I said that, Mary!”

But Hannah, who had been gently saying, “He’s right, Mary, he’s right, be thankful for that,” now told him quietly, “It’s all right, Andrew”; and Mary, whose eyes fixed upon his, had shown increasing shock and terror, now said tenderly, “Don’t mind, dear. Don’t be sorry. I understand. You’re right.”

“That venomous thing I said about Christians,” Andrew said after a moment. “I can never forgive myself, Mary.”

“Don’t grieve over it, Andrew. Don’t. Please. Look at me, please.” He looked at her. “It’s true I was thinking as I was bound to as a Christian, but I was forgetting we’re human, and you set me right and I’m thankful. You’re right. Jay wasn’t—a religious man, in that sense, and to realize could have only been—as you said for him. Probably as much so, even if he were religious.” She looked at him quietly. “So just please know I’m not hurt or angry. I needed to realize what you told me and I thank God for it.”

There was a noise on the porch; Andrew got from his knees and kissed his sister on the forehead. “Don’t be sorry,” she said. He looked at her, tightened his lips, and hurried to the door.

“Papa,” he said, and stood aside to let him past. His mother fumbled for his arm, and gripped it hard. He put his hand gently across her shoulders and said, next her ear, “They’re back in the kitchen”; she followed her husband. “Come in, Walter.”

“Oh no. Thank you,” Walter Starr said. “These are family matters. But if there’s ...”

Andrew took him by the arm. “Come in a minute, anyway,&rdqu............