“It is only her wish if we live together. She was planning it when she died.”
“I can’t follow—because—to share your life? Did you know I called here last Sunday week?”
“Yes. But then I only knew half. I thought you were my father’s son.”
Stephen’s anger and bewilderment were increasing. He stuttered. “What—what’s the odds if you did?”
“I hated my father,” said Rickie. “I loved my mother.” And never had the phrases seemed so destitute of meaning.
“Last Sunday week,” interrupted Stephen, his voice suddenly rising, “I came to call on you. Not as this or that’s son. Not to fall on your neck. Nor to live here. Nor—damn your dirty little mind! I meant to say I didn’t come for money. Sorry. Sorry. I simply came as I was, and I haven’t altered since.”
“Yes—yet our mother—for me she has risen from the dead since then—I know I was wrong—”
“And where do I come in?” He kicked the hassock. “I haven’t risen from the dead. I haven’t altered since last Sunday week. I’m—” He stuttered again. He could not quite explain what he was. “The man towards Andover—after all, he was having principles. But you’ve—” His voice broke. “I mind it—I’m—I don’t alter—blackguard one week—live here the next—I keep to one or the other—you’ve hurt something most badly in me that I didn’t know was there.”
“Don’t let us talk,” said Rickie. “It gets worse every minute. Simply say you forgive me; shake hands, and have done with it.”
“That I won’t. That I couldn’t. In fact, I don’t know what you mean.”