"Yes, Edith," Stoner said gently, and he felt his heart contract.
It was a difficult semester for Stoner; it had come his turn to administer the university-wide junior English examination, and he was at the same time engaged in directing two particularly difficult doctoral dissertations, both of which required a great deal of extra reading on his part. So he was away from home more frequently than had been his habit for the last few years.
One evening, near the end of November, he came home even later than usual. The lights were off in the living room, and the house was quiet; he supposed that Grace and Edith were in bed. He took some papers he had brought with him to his little back room, intending to read a few of them after he got into bed. He went into the kitchen to get a sandwich and a glass of milk; he had sliced the bread and opened the refrigerator door when suddenly he heard, sharp and clean as a knife, a prolonged scream from somewhere downstairs. He ran into the living room; the scream came again, now short and somehow angry in its intensity, from Edith's studio. Swiftly he went across the room and opened the door.
Edith was sitting sprawled on the floor, as if she had fallen there; her eyes were wild, and her mouth was open, ready to emit another scream. Grace sat across the room from her on an upholstered chair, her knees crossed, and looked almost calmly at her mother. A single desk lamp, on Edith's work table, was burning, so that the room was filled with harsh brightness and deep shadows.
"What is it?" Stoner asked. "What's happened?"
Edith's head swung around to face him as if it were on a loose pivot; her eyes were vacant. She said with a curious petulance, "Oh, Willy. Oh, Willy." She continued to look at him, her head shaking weakly.
He turned to Grace, whose look of calm did not change.
She said conversationally, "I'm pregnant, Father."
And the scream came again, piercing and inexpressibly angry; they both turned to Edith, who looked back and forth, from one to the other, the eyes absent and cool above the screaming mouth. Stoner went across the room, stooped behind her, and lifted her upright; she was loose in his arms, and he had to support her weight.
"Edith!" he said sharply. "Be quiet."
She stiffened and pulled away from him. On trembling legs she stalked across the room and stood above Grace, who had not moved.
"You!" she spat. "Oh, my God. Oh, Gracie. How could you —oh, my God. Like your father. Your father's blood. Oh, yes. Filth. Filth—"
"Edith!" Stoner spoke more sharply and strode over to her. He placed his hands firmly on her upper arms and turned her away from Grace. "Go to the bathroom and throw some cold water on your face. Then go up to your room and lie down."
"Oh, Willy," Edith said pleadingly. "My own little baby. My very own. How could this happen? How could she—"
"Go on," Stoner said. "I'll call you after a while."
She tottered out of the room. Stoner looked after her without moving until he heard the tap water start in the bathroom. Then he turned to Grace, who remained looking up at him from the easy chair. He smiled at her briefly, walked across to Edith's work table, got a straight chair, brought it back, and placed it in front of Grace's chair, so that he could talk to her without looking down upon her upturned face.
"Now," he said, "why don't you tell me about it?"
She gave him her small soft smile. "There isn't much to tell," she said. "I'm pregnant."
"Are you sure?"
She nodded. "I've been to a doctor. I just got the report this afternoon."
"Well," he said and awkwardly touched her hand. "You aren't to worry. Everything will be all right."
"Yes," she said.
He asked gently, "Do you want to tell me who the father is?"
"A student," she said. "At the University."
"Had you rather not tell me?"
"Oh, no," she said. "It doesn't make any difference. His name is Frye. Ed Frye. He's a sophomore. I believe he was in your freshman comp class last year."
"I don't remember him," Stoner said. "I don't remember him at all."
"I'm sorry, Father," Grace said. "It was stupid. He was a little drunk, and we didn't take—precautions."
Stoner looked away from her, at the floor.
"I'm sorry, Father. I've shocked you, haven't I?"
"No," Stoner said. "Surprised me, perhaps. We really haven't known each other very well these last few years, have we?"
She looked away and said uncomfortably, "Well—I suppose not."
"Do you—love this boy, Grace?"
"Oh, no," she said. "I really don't know him very well."
He nodded. "What do you want to do?"
"I don't know," she said. "It really doesn't matter. I don't want to be a bother."
They sat without speaking for a long time. Finally Stoner said, "Well, you aren't to worry. It will be all right. Whatever you decide—whatever you want to do, it will be all right."
"Yes," Grace said. She rose from the chair. Then she looked down at her father and said, "You and I, we can talk now."
"Yes," Stoner said. "We can talk."
She went out of the studio, and Stoner waited until he heard her bedroom door close upstairs. Then, before he went to his own room, he went softly upstairs and opened the door to Edith's bedroom. Edith was fast asleep, sprawled fully clothed on her bed, the bedside light harsh upon her face. Stoner turned the light out and went downstairs.
The next morning at breakfast Edith was almost cheerful; she gave no sign of her hysteria of the night before, and she spoke as if the future were a hypothetical problem to be solved. After she learned the name of the boy she said brightly, "Well, now. Do you think we ought to get in touch with the parents or should we talk to the boy first? Let's see—this is the last week in November. Let's say two weeks. We can make all the arrangements by then, maybe even a small chinch wedding. Gracie, what does your friend, what's his name—?"
"Edith," Stoner said. "Wait. You're taking too much for granted. Perhaps Grace and this young man don't want to get married. We need to talk it out with Grace."
"What's there to talk about? Of course they'll want to get married. After all, they—they— Gracie, tell your father. Explain to him."
Grace said to him, "It doesn't matter, Father. It doesn't matter at all."
And it didn't matter, Stoner realized; Grace's eyes were fixed beyond him, into a distance she could not see and which she contemplated without curiosity. He remained silent and let his wife and daughter make their plans.
It was decided that Grace's "young man," as Edith called him, as if his name were somehow forbidden, would be invited to the house and that he and Edith would "talk." She arranged the afternoon as if it were a scene in a drama, with exits and entrances and even a line or two of dialogue. Stoner was to excuse himself, Grace was to remain for a few moments more and then excuse herself, leaving Edith and the young man alone to talk. In half an hour Stoner was to return, then Grace was to return, by which time all arrangements were to be completed.
And it all worked out exactly as Edith planned. Later Stoner wondered, with amusement, what young Edward Frye thought when he knocked timidly on the door and was admitted to a room that seemed filled with mortal enemies. He was a tall, rather heavy young man, with blurred and faintly sullen features; he was caught in a numbing embarrassment and fear, and he would look at no one. When Stoner left the room he saw the young man sitting slumped in a chair, his forearms on his knees, staring at the floor; when, half an hour later, he came back into the room, the young man was in the same position, as if he had not moved before the barrage of Edith's birdlike cheerfulness.