“You wouldn’t be alone out there. You see I’ve got a family there too.... You’d have brothers and sisters there.”
“But you’re married to Ma.”
“That’s all right. I ain’t a bigamist. I’ve just never been married to Dora—that’s my other wife. She knows about Em. I told her everything. I guess she always liked me so much that not being married didn’t matter.”
The little man put his head on one side. At the thought of Dora his depression seemed to vanish. As for Philip, he simply stared, failing to live up to such an announcement. It neither surprised nor shocked him, for the whole thing seemed completely unreal, as if he were holding the fantastic conversation in a dream. It was the other thing that was real—the sight of the room in disarray with Mary’s handkerchief laid on the table by the hand of Naomi ... the memory of the sordid bed with the depression in the gray coverlet.
“You don’t seem surprised,” said his father.
“No.... No.... Nothing surprises me any more. I suppose if you wanted to have a family out there, it was all right. You can’t expect a man to stop living.” (He was right then: his father had had a woman out there.)
“But you see, Philip, they’re your brothers and sisters ... your father’s children.”
Philip made an effort. “How many of them are there?”
Jason’s yellow waistcoat swelled with pride. “Three boys and two girls,” he said. “Nobody can say I haven’t done my part in helping the world along. All strapping big ones too. The youngest ... Emma ... is thirteen.”
“Emma!”