# Quicksand (Larsen)/Part 24

Twenty-Four
It began, this next child-bearing, during the morning services of a breathless hot Sunday while the fervent choir soloist was singing: “Ah am freed of mah sorrow,” and lasted far into the small hours of Tuesday morning. It seemed, for some reason, not to go off just right. And when, after that long frightfulness, the fourth little dab of amber humanity which Helga had contributed to a despised race was held before her for maternal approval, she failed entirely to respond properly to this sop of consolation for the suffering and horror through which she had passed. There was from her no pleased, proud smile, no loving, possessive gesture, no manifestation of interest in the important matters of sex and weight. Instead she deliberately closed her eyes, mutely shutting out the sickly infant, its smiling father, the ​soiled midwife, the curious neighbors, and the tousled room.
A week she lay so. Silent and listless. Ignoring food, the clamoring children, the comings and goings of solicitous, kind-hearted women, her hovering husband, and all of life bout her. The neighbors were puzzled. The Reverend Mr. Pleasant Green was worried. The midwife was frightened.
On the floor, in and out among the furniture and under her bed, the twins played. Eager to help, the church-women crowded in and, meeting there others on the same laudable errand, stayed to gossip and to wonder. Anxiously the preacher sat, Bible in hand, beside his wife's bed, or in a nervous half-guilty manner invited the congregated parishioners to join him in prayer for the healing of their sister. Then, kneeling, they would beseech God to stretch out His all-powerful hand on behalf of the afflicted one, softly at first, but with rising vehemence, accompanied by moans and ​tears, until it seemed that the God to whom they prayed must in mercy to the sufferer grant relief. If only so that she might rise up and escape from the tumult, the heat, and the smell.
Helga, however, was unconcerned, undisturbed by the commotion about her. It was all part of the general unreality. Nothing reached her. Nothing penetrated the kind darkness into which her bruised spirit had retreated. Even that red-letter event, the coming to see her of the old white physician from downtown, who had for a long time stayed talking gravely to her husband, drew from her no interest. Nor for days was she aware that a stranger, a nurse from Mobile, had been added to her household, a brusquely efficient woman who produced order out of chaos and quiet out of bedlam. Neither did the absence of the children, removed by good neighbors at Miss Hartley‘s insistence, impress her. While she had gone down into that appalling blackness of pain, the ballast of her brain had got loose and she hovered for ​a long time somewhere in that delightful borderland on the edge of unconsciousness, an enchanted and blissful place where peace and incredible quiet encompassed her. After weeks she grew better, returned to earth, set her reluctant feet to the hard path of life again.
“Well, here you are!” announced Miss Hartley in her slightly harsh voice one afternoon just before the fall of evening. She had for some time been standing at the bedside gazing down at Helga with an intent speculative look.
“Yes,” Helga agreed in a thin little voice, “I‘m back.” The truth was that she had been back for some hours. Purposely she had lain silent and still, wanting to linger forever in that serene haven, that effortless calm where nothing was expected of her. There she could watch the figures of the past drift by. There was her mother, whom she had loved from a distance and finally so scornfully blamed, who ​appeared as she had always remembered her, unbelievably beautiful, young, and remote. Robert Anderson, questioning, purposely detached, affecting, as she realized now, her life in a remarkably cruel degree; for at last she understood clearly how deeply, how passionately, she must have loved him. Anne, lovely, secure, wise, selfish. Axel Olsen, conceited, worldly, spoiled. Audrey Denney, placid, taking quietly and without fuss the things which she wanted. James Vayle, snobbish, smug, servile. Mrs. Hayes-Rore, important, kind, determined. The Dahls, rich, correct, climbing. Flashingly, fragmentarily, other long-forgotten figures, women in gay fashionable frocks and men in formal black and white, glided by in bright rooms to distant, vaguely familiar music.
It was refreshingly delicious, this immersion in the past. But it was finished now. It was over. The words of her husband, the Reverend Mr. Pleasant Green, who had been standing at the window looking mournfully out at ​the scorched melon-patch, ruined because Helga had been ill so long and unable to tend it, were confirmation of that.
“The Lord be praised,” he said, and came forward. It was distinctly disagreeable. It was even more disagreeable to feel his moist hand on hers. A cold shiver brushed over her. She closed her eyes. Obstinately and with all her small strength she drew her hand away from him. Hid it far down under the bed-covering, and turned her face away to hide a grimace of unconquerable aversion. She cared nothing, at that moment, for his hurt surprise. She knew only that, in the hideous agony that for interminable hours—no, centuries—she had borne, the luster of religion had vanished; that revulsion had come upon her; that she hated this man. Between them the vastness of the universe had come.
Miss Hartley, all-seeing and instantly aware of a situation, as she had been quite aware that her patient had been conscious for ​some time before she herself had announced the fact, intervened, saying firmly: “I think it might be better if you didn‘t try to talk to her now. She‘s terribly sick and weak yet. She‘s still got some fever and we mustn‘t excite her or she‘s liable to slip back. And we don‘t want that, do we?”
No, the man, her husband, responded, they didn‘t want that. Reluctantly he went from the room with a last look at Helga, who was lying on her back with one frail, pale hand under her small head, her curly black hair scattered loose on the pillow. She regarded him from behind dropped lids. The day was hot, her breasts were covered only by a nightgown of filmy crêpe, a relic of prematrimonial days, which had slipped from one carved shoulder. He flinched. Helga‘s petulant lip curled, for she well knew that this fresh reminder of her desirability was like the flick of a whip. Miss Hartley carefully closed the door after the retreating husband. “It‘s time,” she ​said, “for your evening treatment, and then you‘ve got to try to sleep for a while. No more visitors tonight.”
Helga nodded and tried unsuccessfully to make a little smile. She was glad of Miss Hartley‘s presence. It would, she felt, protect her from so much. She mustn‘t, she thought to herself, get well too fast. Since it seemed she was going to get well. In bed she could think, could have a certain amount of quiet. Of aloneness.
In that period of racking pain and calamitous fright Helga had learned what passion and credulity could do to one. In her was born angry bitterness and an enormous disgust. The cruel, unrelieved suffering had beaten down her protective wall of artificial faith in the infinite wisdom, in the mercy, of God. For had she not called in her agony on Him? And He had not heard. Why? Because, she knew now, He wasn‘t there. Didn‘t exist. Into that yawning gap of unspeakable brutality had gone, too, ​her belief in the miracle and wonder of life. Only scorn, resentment, and hate remained—and ridicule. Life wasn‘t a miracle, a wonder. It was, for Negroes at least, only a great disappointment. Something to be got through with as best one could. No one was interested in them or helped them. God! Bah! And they were only a nuisance to other people.
Everything in her mind was hot and cold, beating and swirling about. Within her emaciated body raged disillusion. Chaotic turmoil. With the obscuring curtain of religion rent, she was able to look about her and see with shocked eyes this thing that she had done to herself. She couldn‘t, she thought ironically, even blame God for it, now that she knew that He didn‘t exist. No. No more than she could pray to Him for the death of her husband, the Reverend Mr. Pleasant Green. The white man‘s God. And His great love for all people regardless of race! What idiotic nonsense she had allowed herself to believe. How could she, ​how could anyone, have been so deluded? How could ten million black folk credit it when daily before their eyes was enacted its contradiction? Not that she at all cared about the ten million. But herself. Her sons. Her daughter. These would grow to manhood, to womanhood, in this vicious, this hypocritical land. The dark eyes filled with tears.
“I wouldn‘t,” the nurse advised, “do that. You‘ve been dreadfully sick, you know. I can‘t have you worrying. Time enough for that when you‘re well. Now you must sleep all you possibly can.”
Helga did sleep. She found it surprisingly easy to sleep. Aided by Miss Hartley‘s rather masterful discernment, she took advantage of the ease with which this blessed enchantment stole over her. From her husband‘s praisings, prayers, and caresses she sought refuge in sleep, and from the neighbors‘ gifts, advice, and sympathy.
There was that day on which they told ​her that the last sickly infant, born of such futile torture and lingering torment, had died after a short week of slight living. Just closed his eyes and died. No vitality. On hearing it Helga too had just closed her eyes. Not to die. She was convinced that before her there were years of living. Perhaps of happiness even. For a new idea had come to her. She had closed her eyes to shut in any telltale gleam of the relief which she felt. One less. And she had gone off into sleep.
And there was that Sunday morning on which the Reverend Mr. Pleasant Green had informed her that they were that day to hold a special thanksgiving service for her recovery. There would, he said, be prayers, special testimonies, and songs. Was there anything particular she would like to have said, to have prayed for, to have sung? Helga had smiled from sheer amusement as she replied that there was nothing. Nothing at all. She only hoped that they would enjoy themselves. And, closing her ​eyes that he might be discouraged from longer tarrying, she had gone off into sleep.
Waking later to the sound of joyous religious abandon floating in through the opened windows, she had asked a little diffidently that she be allowed to read. Miss Hartley‘s sketchy brows contracted into a dubious frown. After a judicious pause she had answered: “No, I don‘t think so.” Then, seeing the rebellious tears which had sprung into her patient‘s eyes, she added kindly: “But I‘ll read to you a little if you like.”
That, Helga replied, would be nice. In the next room on a high-up shelf was a book. She‘d forgotten the name, but its author was Anatole France. There was a story, “The Procurator of Judea.” Would Miss Hartley read that? “Thanks. Thanks awfully.”
“‘Lælius Lamia, born in Italy of illustrious parents,’” began the nurse in her slightly harsh voice.
Helga drank it in.
​”‘. . . For to this day the women bring down doves to the altar as their victims. . . .’“
Helga closed her eyes.
”‘. . . Africa and Asia have already enriched us with a considerable number of gods. . . .’“
Miss Hartley looked up. Helga had slipped into slumber while the superbly ironic ending which she had so desired to hear was yet a long way off. A dull tale, was Miss Hartley‘s opinion, as she curiously turned the pages to see how it turned out.
“‘Jesus? . . . Jesus—of Nazareth? I cannot call him to mind.‘”
“Huh!” she muttered, puzzled. “Silly.” And closed the book.