The dark mother

by Waldo David Frank

David followed her downstairs.

He felt as he stepped in that they were looking at him and that they must have stopped abrupt from talking of him. It was as if one voice had spoken and were now cut off. Yet David had heard no word.

He was being introduced. He saw that his business friend, Duer Tibbetts, was in the group. He gathered that these were his parents and his sister. They and the Deanes were all knit together. He was outside. He had the sense of an aperture, laboriously open, slowly sucking him in. He felt himself resisting.

There were words; he answered enough he presumed. Mr. Tibbetts told him that his uncle was already hopeful of his success; Mrs. Tibbetts invited him to dinner. The young girl was beside Lois. They were faintly apart: a mere quarter-note out of harmony. This introduced a tremor into the heavy rhythm of the room. David liked it. Instinctively, he moved toward the two girls. In the dissonance of their atmosphere he found himself: the group receded into its individual components.

He observed in Mr. Tibbetts an air of aloofness, of studied condescension that was half nature and half inspired by David. Duer imitated him, he saw now that Duer always imitated his father: he was a depleted pattern of Mr. Tibbetts. Mrs. Tibbetts talked most easily. “I am Cousin Laura,” she announced with a confidence that showed how fully her habit was command, “and this is Cousin John.” She was a very thin lady with a bobbing adam’s-apple. She was clad in glimmering blue satin and her feet were slippered not so slenderly as to conceal their astounding inharmonious width. David saw the height of her cheekbones and the scooped boniness between her nose and her mouth. She was a type familiar to him in New England.

In all the families he had yet come to know, the women were spokesmen. The men burst on occasion from brooding silence into cantankerous volubility. David was not surprised when Mr. Tibbetts began a speech.

It was different, however. It came from between thin lips. It left the broad complacent countenance unmoved. It had none of the weight and breadth and clarity of this man’s wide open collar and of his wide white vest. It seemed very little to come forth from so voluminous a frock-coat. Mr. Tibbetts talked; David could not altogether keep his eyes from the cylindrical cuffs and the crinkly patent-leather shoes. These seemed the proper focus of attention, as in other cases the speaker’s eyes.

Mr. Tibbetts was saying that it was a great joy to have a new young member of the family. He said this several times. He seemed to be talking down to David: to be choosing emphatic, monosyllabic words: to be repeating his welcome for each bright button on his waistcoat. David knew that Mr. Tibbetts could have spoken better. He recalled now that this was his uncle’s lawyer, was a great lawyer, had his portrait occasionally in the papers.

“Duer tells me you are already friends. I am glad. He will help you downtown. You must help each other. I’ll tell you how. Have a race. See who can do the best work. Who can work hardest. That’s not a bad idea, eh? You two—having a race—spurring each other on to new efforts. Racing each other to the goal of hard and successful work. Do you understand what I mean? All life is a race. Ever thought of that? All life is a race. You two men must help each other in the spirit of friendly Competition....”

It was plain that Mr. Tibbetts loved this conception of his. He caressed it. He rubbed it up and down. He could not let it go. David, standing there, counted the buttons on his waistcoat.