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CHAPTER 28

In The Dark

      WHEN LUCY woke, it was still pitch dark, and the lights were still on in the living room, but Bobby and Normalade had gone.

      "What woke me?" she wondered. When she realized what it was, she lay there a minute, thinking about it. "Could I wait? Just go to sleep again?"

      No.

      She got up gingerly, bringing the quilt with her. Although she was only going down the hall, it seemed almost too far to travel.

      Well, one step at a time. Let's go.

      As she crossed the living room, she noticed clothes all over the place. Bobby's shoes. His pants. Normalade's dress.

      In the hall, their underwear was scattered on the stairs.

      The bathroom door was shut, and that stopped her dead. The inside door led into Uncle Bob's room. And that door was sure to be open.

      Clutching the quilt around her, she stared at the doorknob. It looked bright and ominous. "Be sensible," she told herself, "He's got to be asleep now."

      Slowly, she made herself reach out and touch the knob. And sure enough, it didn't bite.

      When the door was open, she could see that the bathroom was empty, so she tiptoed hastily across the small room and shut the far door silently, and locked it.

      But when she turned around and caught a glimpse of her image in the mirror, the sight almost made her forget what she'd come for. Because even in the dim light of the night-light, she could see the bruise on one side of her face. She also had a black eye.

      Moving in for a better look, the bruises astonished her. It was as it she'd been so shaken emotionally that she'd forgotten there was something visible to show for it.

      "I look like I been in a fight," she murmured, staring. "I look like I lost."

      She touched her cheek. It didn't hurt so much now. Well, bruises go away, and these will too, she thought.

      When she was done, she washed her hands and dried them. Then she got the quilt around her just so. Then she waited a little longer. She was stalling, and she knew it. She was afraid to open the connecting door again.

      But of course, she had to. And when the door was open again, and she looked into Uncle Bob's dark room, she began to shake.

      Because now she had to go in there. Bobby had been right: she must forgive and forget. She must not hold a grudge. If not for Uncle Bob's sake, then for her own.

      "Well, do it, then.

      Almost furtively Lucy took a step forward and peeked in the door. The room was not entirely dark. A pale light was coming in through the window, a pearly, seamless brightness like light that filters through frosted glass. It must be nearly morning, Lucy thought.

      From where she stood, she could see that he was in the bed, not moving. And seeing everything so quiet and still, she found the courage to take a few steps forward. Then she stopped again, stalled halfway between Uncle Bob and the bathroom door, paralyzed with dread.

      The light gleamed in the window and nothing moved. And then . . . the strangest thing happened. Lucy became absolutely certain that Mama was standing right there behind her.

      It was nothing fearful; not a a ghost. She simply knew that Mama was there, and that she had come to watch over her the way mothers do when their children are little and afraid.

      At first, she had no idea where that certainty had come from — and then she placed it: a dreamy recollection of a time so long ago that she could actually smell when her mother was nearby.

      And that was it. All around her, right now, was the same good, flesh-and-blood smell that Mama had when Lucy was tiny child. And that was how Lucy knew, absolutely and certainly, that Mama was there with her, and it was safe to go on. It smelled safe now.

      Without Mama's presence Lucy could not have made it to Uncle Bob's bed.

      His face was turned away, and he was lying so still that she could hardly see him breathe — although he generally snored very heavily at night. And as he continued to lie still, she noticed for the first time that she was clenching her teeth. When she discovered it, she tried to unclench them.

      Then Uncle Bob moved a little in his sleep. And when she saw that, she would have run away if Mama hadn't held her.

      But he didn't stir again.

      "Oh Uncle Bob," she thought. "I don't want to have to be afraid of you."

      Then she realized that was not why Mama had come to her at all. It was because she must learn not to hate him for what he'd done to her tonight.

      Lucy stood and looked at him a long time. Even with Mama's help, she couldn't cross the stick that lay between them.

      And yet, she had to come to grips with what she was feeling now, and she had to do it tonight. Because if she did not, something within her might not survive it.

      All up to you, Luce.

      So Lucy gritted her teeth, and faced it.

      She let herself remember the crazy look in his eyes. And the things he'd said. Then the stick was coming down at her face, and . . . Oh, she couldn't do this! She couldn't forgive him! Her whole chest was filled with a dammed-up river of weeping, and she must not — dared not let that grief break loose. Because if she once began to cry, her eyes wouldn't have room for all the tears.

      Lucy sank down on the floor, head bowed, with her bruised cheek resting against the iron bedstead.

      It seemed a long time that she crouched there, but when she roused at last, the same pearly light was still shining in the window. And she had come to a place in her mind where she could endure the thing that had happened. She'd somehow bundled it up and put it on the shelf. Now it lay quietly, alongside Mama's death . . . stacked with the big griefs and little losses a person must live with all her life.

      It wasn't gone, of course, but it wasn't going to eat her up, either. She got to her feet; she could live with it now.

      Huddled inside her quilt, Lucy stood at his bedside, looking at him. "Take a good look," Mama whispered. "He's so little and frail, that you won't have to take care of him much longer. Come on. Forgive this sad, bad old boy. And then forgive me for leaving you this burden of mine."

      "All right," Lucy whispered, "I forgive you, Mama. And I'll try to forgive Uncle Bob."

      He never moved; he didn't hear her. But Mama heard her, and she gave a little sigh, as if that burden had lifted from her shoulders. And strangely enough, Lucy felt her own burden grow lighter, when that happened.

      She took a breath and said aloud, still very softly, "It's not going to make any difference, Uncle Bob. I'll keep looking after you, just the way I've always done. You hear me, Uncle Bob? It's okay."

      This time, although he never stirred, Lucy thought he had heard her, and that he understood.

      So things would come out all right after all. It was done, and Mama was satisfied, and Lucy had kept her promise. She stayed true. She was able to lean over and kiss him good night on his wrinkled old cheek, just the way she'd always done.

      And when he still didn't rouse, she turned and tiptoed quietly out of the room, so as not to disturb his rest.

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