Pearl Buck - Time Is Noon

Joan said quickly, “We can never understand. I’m to have the children.”

Mrs. Winters looked at her dubiously. “But how are you fixed?” she said.

Joan smiled. In this room she had once eaten all the cake on her plate at once, not thinking of tomorrow. “I’m all right,” she said sturdily. “I live on a farm. I have a little son of my own, you know. There’s a big house — plenty of room in the house.” She’d take the house and wrap it about the children, her children.

“I’m not real well,” said Mrs. Winters at last, looking about the neat room. “Rob was such a good boy. He never upset a thing. What I say is, people have no right to go off to the ends of the earth and leave their children for other people to bring up. But I’ll do my duty by my own son’s children, of course.”

Mr. Winters sat drooping, saying nothing.

“But I want them — they’re Rose’s children too,” Joan cried. “I’ll come to you sometimes and you can advise me and help me—”

Mrs. Winters shook her head sadly. “I’ll do all I can, I’m sure,” she said. “I always want to do all I can — and I do—”

“Of course you do,” said Joan quietly. Mrs. Winters looked old and tired and bewildered, more completely bewildered than she had on the day when Rob and Rose were married. “Goodbye,” said Joan. “Don’t worry. I can manage.” She went away quickly.

She strode through the street and down the road, her heart firm and sorrowful and exulting. She was to have the children. She went recklessly, her big body impetuous with generosity. She didn’t know how to manage, but she would manage. She must write to Francis and tell him. He never wrote to her, but she kept on writing to him anyway, because her mother would have wanted her to.

And then there she was at Mrs. Mark’s little stone house. She stopped short. She might go in, since she was early today. She hadn’t heard anything of Mrs. Mark for a long time, and she had not gone to see her. She had not wanted Mrs. Mark’s ruthlessness probing her — Mrs. Mark’s disgusted voice, “What’d you go and marry in a hurry like that for? A lout—”

But today she could forestall Mrs. Mark. She did not matter today — nor what she had done. She opened the door and called and a small voice answered and she followed it. Mrs. Mark lay buried under a thick cotton quilt. Her face looked out at her with the withered waiting look of an aged and suffering monkey. “I’m glad you’ve come, Joan Richards,” she said. “I’ve waited a mortal time for anybody to come. I been dead since yesterday noon from the waist down. I’ll never stir out of my bed again.”

“Oh, Mrs. Mark!”

She waited, groaning a little, while Joan heated soup she found congealed in a pot. She drank it slowly, and a thawed look came about her wrinkled mouth. “Wash me off,” she commanded. “Hot or cold water, it doesn’t matter from the waist down, but make it hot above. I like to feel as far as I can.”

When she was cleaned and fed, Joan said anxiously, “I’ll have to find someone to come and stay with you.”

“I won’t have a soul,” said Mrs. Mark promptly. “You can put some bread and milk by me and the clean bedpan and come back in a day or so. I hate fuss. It isn’t going to be but a week or two at most. An inch or so and it’ll hit my heart.”

“And maybe you’ll be alone!” Joan cried.

“Everybody’s alone,” said Mrs. Mark.

“I’m glad I came by when I did,” Joan answered.

But Mrs. Mark looked at her with suspicion. “Don’t you go thinking I prayed and you came by. I don’t pray. I lie here and take it, though it’s not coming to me more than to another. It’s chance — just as it was chance you came by. There wouldn’t have happened anything different, no matter what—”

“I wouldn’t leave you if it weren’t for Paul,” said Joan.

“Get along,” said Mrs. Mark. Her eyes were small and sharp and dark with the never-dying tragedy of an ape’s eyes. “Get along with you.” She shut her eyes and waited for her to go.

“I’ll go, but I’ll be back tomorrow,” said Joan. But Mrs. Mark would not answer and she went away.

She had stayed longer than she realized in Mrs. Mark’s cottage. When she reached the Corners, the sun had swung over the zenith and was on its way downward. There was no sign of the surrey. She searched the deep dust of the road and saw the narrow rut of its wheels, double, coming and going. There was the slight wavering of the right hind wheel, slipping a little. It was loose on its axle. They had come and gone, then. They had not waited. There was no sign of restless horses’ feet, stirring the dust.

She set her lips and struck out in long strides.

Paul would be hungry, and they would not feed him. No one had ever fed him except herself. It was not easy to feed him, not pleasant. It took a great deal of patience. She had to prepare his food and mash it soft and push it back into his mouth again and again when it ran out. They would let him lie hungry until she came. It never seemed to occur to any of them that Paul belonged to the family as much as Bart did or Sam. But she must not be bitter. It was easy not to be bitter about small things when all was well. But now sorrow stretched her soul.

She quickened her steps until she was half running through the hot dust. She took off her hat and let the sun beat down on her. Her thoughts marched to her feet. She must manage to get back to Mrs. Mark somehow tomorrow. She had put bread and milk and tea beside her and two tins of soup, and had filled the little spirit lamp freshly. If she could only find someone to go in every day — maybe Fanny would if she gave her a dollar more every week. She must get more money somehow. Maybe if she wrote to Francis he could send her a little.

Or maybe she could earn something somehow. She used to think she’d write songs. But what could she sing now? She had no song to sing. Songs could not be made out of the sort of days she lived. She could not even sing to Paul. She was living in deepest silence now that she knew she would pray no more. She strode on under the hot blue sky.

She had not prayed these last two days since the letter came. There was no use in it. Everything was stopped in her, every voice — even her own voice. The sky was blue emptiness, deeply, endlessly empty and blue. She stopped a moment to hear the utter stillness of the sky. But it was not quite still. There was a faint steady approaching drum of noise. That must be the plane. She turned her face up quickly. Far above her the silver flight went past, out of the sky and into the sky again. The sun poured its heat down upon her and she stood abandoned to it, her face turned upward. The sky was not empty. The sky was a sea for that ship to sail upon. She smiled, forgetting — That could be a song if she went on with it. Then she remembered that Rose was dead and she began to hurry again.

When she turned the bend of the road by the big elm she heard the noise. She was so used to silence heavy about the house that she could not believe it came from the house. Someone was shouting, a man’s voice, loud, hoarse, bellowing. She heard the crack of wooden furniture overturned. A woman’s voice screamed — a strange voice she did not know. She began to run. Noise was coming out of the silent house. Something had happened to Paul. She ran faster, her mouth dry, the perspiration upon her body stopped. The surrey was still standing at the side of the road. The horses were kicking and tossing their head at the flies, and they whimpered when they saw her. She ran across the grass. She could hear the voices, Bart’s father, Bart’s sullen voice, Bart’s mother begging, “Now Father—” The strange voice crying and crying, Sam’s complacent voice coaxing: “Let up, Pop — it’s done, isn’t it?” She ran into the open side door of the dining room, gasping. “Is Paul — is Paul—” and stopped.