Ernie could have died so many ways. Furnace work was dangerous; there were accidents. When he rode his bike to and from work, he had to share the road with automobile drivers who, as Mr. Pullman often pointed out, were murderers in their hearts.
But there was no accident.
Nor was Ernie ill. Oh, he’d had a cold as the weather started turning nasty in late October, but that was gone except for a sniffle now and then, and a little huskiness in his voice.
There was no warning at all. Ernie went to bed on the first Monday night after Thanksgiving, and did not get up in the morning. His mother noticed at once that he had not gotten up at his usual time, but her thought was, The poor boy, he works so hard, how can I begrudge him one morning of sleeping in just a little? She kept expecting him to rush into the kitchen as she breakfasted the other kids, frantic about being late and demanding to know why she hadn’t woken him, and she planned to just smile and pretend not to have noticed the time.
But then it grew late enough that he might not be able to make it to the bus on time, so she left Davy in dubious charge of the kitchen table and went to waken Ernie in his room.
He was lying there peacefully on his side, his body curled like a question mark under the blankets, one leg drawn up, the other extended, the way he always slept. But when she spoke to him he did not stir, and when she shook his shoulder it did not yield.
Was he sick? She felt his forehead for fever, but it was as cold to her hand as tap water in winter.
She knew then that he was gone. She had dressed both her mother and father for burial; she knew how a dead body felt under her hand.
It was so impossible, though, that he could be dead, that she simply walked out of the room and closed the door behind her and went back to the kitchen. She interrupted the inevitable fight between Davy and Bug and wiped up the pile of congealing oatmeal that Zanna had made beside her bowl. Calmly, emotionlessly, she explained that Ernie was ill and wasn’t going to school today, and fended off Zanna’s attempt to go see him. “I don’t want you catching it, Zanna.”
Davy and Bug were out the door and on their way, bundled up against the cold—their school was in walking distance. Mrs. Pullman got Zanna some crayons and paper, knowing that she would concentrate totally on her drawing for quite some time. Only then did she call the doctor, keeping her voice low and her explanations oblique, so that Zanna would hear little and understand less.
“You must come look at my son, Ernie,” she told Dr. Wood. “His forehead is very cold, and he doesn’t move.”
It took Dr. Wood a moment to register what she was saying.
“My four-year-old is here in the kitchen with me, Doctor,” said Mrs. Pullman, “and I hope that when you come, you can handle things quietly for her sake.”
“I’ll be right there,” said Dr. Wood.
It took him only ten minutes. He found Mrs. Pullman very calm, except for the handkerchief she was wringing and twisting around her fingers. Wordlessly she led him to Ernie’s room and closed the door behind them.
When the doctor rolled him over, Ernie’s arms and legs stiffly held their positions. It was grotesque, and the doctor could not bear to have Mrs. Pullman remember her son in such a state, so he rolled the boy back. He went through the motions of looking for signs of life, but rigor mortis was obvious.
“He must have passed away in his sleep almost as soon as he went to bed last night,” said the doctor quietly.
“There was nothing you could have done,” said the doctor. “Did he complain of being sick?”
She shook her head.
“It could have been his heart,” said the doctor. “Sometimes the heart is weaker than anyone knows.”
“His heart,” said Mrs. Pullman almost angrily, “was very strong.” Then she let out a single great sob and slumped against the wall, burying her face in her handkerchief.
“Would you like me to call your husband?” asked the doctor.
She nodded.
“And is there a neighbor I can ask to come over and sit with Suzanna?”
Mrs. Pullman nodded and pointed toward the south. Dr. Wood went there first, explained briefly to Mrs. Higham, who immediately scooped up her own two-year-old daughter and hurried over.
“Come and play at my house, will you, Zanna?” said Mrs. Higham.
“I’m busy,” said Zanna.
“Your mother really needs you to come to my house so she can take care of Ernie. I’m baking cookies.”
But Zanna had no interest in cookies. She bent over her drawing.
“You can finish your drawing at my kitchen table.” When Zanna didn’t answer, Mrs. Higham put a hand on her shoulder. “Sweetheart, you really must come.”
Zanna gathered up her crayons and paper and followed Mrs. Higham through the autumn cold. Only then did the doctor dial the number for “Dad’s Work” beside the telephone on the small table in the parlor.
Mr. Pullman came home at once, and bore the news as calmly as if he had been expecting it. He took his weeping wife into his arms and held her, nodding as the doctor suggested that he could have Ernie’s body taken to the hospital to try to determine the cause of death.
Mr. Pullman shook his head.
“Won’t you always wonder why he passed away?” said Dr. Wood.
Mr. Pullman said, “I don’t want you cutting into him.”
Mrs. Pullman sobbed again and Mr. Pullman helped her slump into a chair.
“Mr. and Mrs. Pullman,” said the doctor, “I’m sorry to be blunt, but the undertaker will also open the body in preparation for burial. Please let me try to find out why such a strong and fine young man was taken from us.”
They seemed not to be listening. Until the doctor added, “What if it’s a hereditary condition that might affect the other children?”
So it was an ambulance, not a hearse, that came to the Pullman house, and the men who carried Ernie’s body from the house wore white, not black.
It turned out not to have been Ernie’s heart at all. As the doctor explained it to the parents, something in his brain broke open and killed him instantly. “It could not have been predicted,” he said. “It could not have been prevented. It was just his time.”
“No it wasn’t,” said Mr. Pullman quietly.
“Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Pullman, but her voice was tender and her hand gentle as she rested it upon her husband’s hand.
“It was not his time,” said Mr. Pullman, but his voice was soft, his insistence more of a murmur to himself than an argument.
“No, I agree,” said Dr. Wood. “It was not his time. A boy like that should have had a long life.”
“He had greatness in him, Doctor,” said Mrs. Pullman.
And as they left his office, Dr. Wood saw that now it was Mrs. Pullman who comforted her husband, who seemed to have aged ten years in the day since his firstborn son had died.