whatever it was and however good it was, it wasn’t what you once had been, and had lost, and could never have again, and once in a while, once in a long time, you remembered, and knew how far you were away, and it hit you hard enough, that little while it lasted, to break your heart.
He felt thirsty, and images of stealthiness and deceit, of openness, anger and pride, immediately possessed him, and immediately he fought them off. If ever I get drunk again, he told himself proudly, I’ll kill myself. And there are plenty good reasons why I won’t kill myself. So I won’t even get drunk again.
He felt consciously strong, competent both for himself and against himself, and this pleasurable sense of firmness contended against the perfect and limpid remembrance he had for a moment experienced, and he tried sadly, vainly, to recapture it. But now all that he remembered, clear as it was to him, and dear to him, no longer moved his heart, and he was in this sadness, almost without thought, staring at the wall, when the door opened softly behind him and he was caught by a spasm of rage and alarm, then of shame for these emotions.
“Jay,” his wife called softly. “Isn’t he asleep yet?”
“Yeah, he’s asleep,” he said, getting up and dusting his knees. “Reckon it’s later than I knew.”
“Andrew and Amelia had to go,” she whispered, coming over. She leaned past him and straightened the sheet. “They said tell you good night.” She lifted the child’s head with one hand, while her husband, frowning, vigorously shook his head; “It’s all right, Jay, he’s sound asleep;” she smoothed the pillow, and drew away: “They were afraid if they disturbed you they might wake Rufus.”
“Gee. I’m sorry not to see them. Is it so late?”
“You must have been in here nearly an hour! What was the matter with him?”
“Bad dream, I reckon; fraid of the dark.”
