The Night Travellers

22. Ethan's Turn

22 Ethan's Turn "Of course, I like Aunt Sally. If I died, she would sew me into the most beautiful dress for burying. She would cry on every stitch." "But that's not enough," said Ethan. "No, not enough." He smiled encouragement, as to a learner in his classes, trying new ground. "You mean, basically, all these relatives of yours are alike? Good and bad, they come to the same thing in the end. Live as we live, think as we think—the same as not thinking at all. And no questions allowed." "One question. Where isJeff ? He calls me, but he won't say where he is." She was sitting on her feet to hide them. She had taken goofballs to block the pain and keep on dancing, just as everybody did, during the last days. She had walked to get there, on gravel roadsides, wearing sandals, under the far-off dance of distant stars. "But if he hasn't told you—" "Doesn't want me to know. He came for the closing program. Mother got her feelings hurt over one of the numbers, all about motherhood. She had Fred with her." "Who?" "Latest boyfriend. Philadelphia. Rich." She laughed. "Enough said." Ethan set the tips of his fingers together. He pondered. "Maybe it's dangerous to talk." "Jeff may think that." Sitting there, she remembered all the times she was with Jeff, the only place they were both understood, so it was happy for them. She wanted to share things about Art Manning with Ethan. The quiet 113 114 T H E N I G H T T R A V E L L E R S dynamism, the voice: "Push the idea, push it forward, nudge it to the breaking point, then break right into it. When you're there, you know it, you know. You have known, you will know . . . and know forever because you know now. . . ."It was right. But she thought she might have a fractured toe, and her one shirt was ripped. She sat thinking of his wonderful big hands, like a dog with big paws, pushing her forward, his own step leading them all. "There are no stars here." He had said that, not to her, but to another girl, who still wore lipstick and did up her hair. "Submerge your gift," he had said. "Let it speak for you. Work honestly . . . clean." So she sat telling Ethan, who listened. "The good things in you. They're growing," he said. "Why didn't you marry Aunt Jane?" "Why?" He took her question, which he couldn't have expected, as a natural one, though he almost (Mary thought) did not succeed in doing so. Something around his eyes had flinched and narrowed. "My impression was that she refused me." "I wonder why." His smile was weak for the first time. "I wasn't what she wanted me to be." "I'm hungry," Mary said. He took her back to his kitchen, a single man's supplies, refrigerator almost empty except for frozen dinners. A few cans on the shelves. "What do you like? Bacon and eggs? Soup?" She consented to Campbell's tomato. "Jeff is upset about the Gifford case. The immolation. You must have read about it." "He set himself on fire, on the street corner?" You could even make a dance of that, she thought, tragic, with clouds of smoke. The gas flame leaped up too high under the saucepan of soup. Ethan turned it down. "They were friends. I'm not sure how close recently. Perhaps he's mentioned him. They shared some strong ideals, Jeff being Catholic, too." "Not a very good one." "Just the same." He stirred and watched the boil form. When he turned, she had her head on the kitchen table where he habitually ate when alone. Her hair fell across her folded arms. When she raised her head again it was with effort. She was barely able to keep her lips moving. "He writes to me. I do know about the speaking circuit, how they're financing it through The Home Scene 115 the Movement. He called last night. I heard about the father's coming here. You'd told him. Here we go, maybe, he and I, me on a dancing circuit, he like a preacher making the rounds. Souls to be saved. ..." Her head fell forward, but she jerked it up...