Even on the way, he refused to imagine what
would happen. He entered the house quietly, as though to tell his
father that it was his next move, and setting his bundle of books
on a chair, he glanced at his mother. She was at the stove, where
an armful of kindling had been set off to take the chill out of
the house. She looked at him mysteriously, as though he were a
ghost of some lost one who had strayed in from a graveyard, but
she said nothing. Bill did not even nod to her. He fumbled with
his books, as though to keep them from slipping to the floor
when, quite obviously, they were not even inclined to leave the
chair. Rose let her eyes fall and then slide, under half-closed
lids, until they had Martin in her view. She looked at him
appealingly, but he was staring at a paper which he was not
reading. He had been in this chair for two hours, without a word,
pretending to be studying printed words which his mind refused to
register. Martin had done Bill's share of the chores, with
unbelief in his heart. He had never imagined such a thing. Who
would have thought it could happen--a son of his!
His wife broke the silence with:
"What happened, Billy? Were you sick?"
"No, mother, I wasn't sick."
Martin was still looking at his paper, which his fists gripped
tightly.
"Then you just couldn't get home sooner, could you? Something you
couldn't help kept you away, didn't it?"
Bill shook his head slowly.
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