The Sound of Thunder

by Taylor Caldwell

  She turned to the only one silent in the room, her son Gregory. “You wished to say something,” she said, not questioning but only stating a fact.

  “Yes,” he said. “I think I knew what Ed really was. I knew, even when I was a kid, that he was better in every way than myself. Once I read some old notebooks he had; things he’d written when he had a little time in the shop. And he was strong, and I was weak. I envied him. I took my revenge on him by caricaturing him in a magazine. I took my revenge by taking up—things—that I really hated and had contempt for. Because he despised them. That was my revenge, too.” He paused. “In one of his notebooks he had written about a Fourth of July when we were all kids. It was a poem and a damned good one, too. About what America meant to him. He really loved his country. Later it was enough for me to try to pull his country down and destroy it. It was like destroying Ed himself.”

  His voice had a high shrillness and self-hatred in it. His unseen fist hit the arm of his chair, thuddingly. “God damn it,” he said, and now his voice deepened. “It’s too late for any of us to do anything for Ed. He hates us like poison and he has reason for it, too.”

  “I do not think it is too late,” said Maria, and for the first time in her children’s memory her voice was trembling and changed. “If I had thought you would not respond this way, I would not have spoken. Edward is getting well. I suggest that each of you, one by one, go to see him alone, beginning tomorrow, and tell him what you have really accomplished—and what you have accomplished is good in its own right—and offer him all you have. He is a most terribly lonely man.”

  Margaret lifted her head from Sylvia’s shoulder. “But, Mother Enger, he doesn’t—”

  Maria overrode her voice quickly. She repeated, “You will confess to him and offer him all you have.” And Margaret kept her peace.

  She rose ponderously and left the room. She moved heavily into the hall, then into the morning room, where Gertrude and André and Robert were waiting, where she had asked them to remain. Gertrude was crying, and André’s arm was about her. Robert sat in silence, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his palms.

  “I am sorry I was late,” she said in her stately fashion as the young men rose. “But I was detained on important business.”

  She smiled at André. “I believe your parents will be very happy. I believe that my son Edward and his wife, Margaret, will be happy. You will make our Gertrude a very good husband, but not in the way that term is accepted. She will never suffer from boredom. You may tell your father, Gertrude, tomorrow.”

  Maria was very tired. Sometimes she believed that life was too wearying to be endured.

  CHAPTER XV

  Edward sat with Monsignor Jahle, near his opened window. He could see the brilliant tulips trooping through the warm dark earth of spring, and the white-and-green burst of the trees, and the long green undulations of the new grass. He said to the priest, “It’s very strange, but for the first time I can really see the world. It’s not because I almost died. It’s because there’s no hate in me now and I’m not afraid. Even without George’s money, I wouldn’t be afraid. Fear drives us to terrible things; I think that’s the explanation of all the agony in the world, and all the wars and hatred. All this would be ended if we didn’t fear each other. And coming down to it, why should anyone fear anyone else? We’re flesh and bone and spirit of every other man; we have the same passions and the same griefs and the same hopes and solitary miseries.”

  “Yes,” said the priest. “But it was said centuries ago by Our Lord. Do you remember what He said, Eddie? ‘Little children, love one another.’ For He is our Father.”

  He looked at Edward’s quiet and peaceful face, and, strangely, his younger face, in spite of the suffering, both mental and physical, which he had endured.

  Edward said as if speaking to himself, “I thought, almost all my life, that my family had rejected me. I used to complain to myself that I was never asked to come down to Christmas Eve celebrations and that I was kept from any religious education. And never wanted. But now I see that it was I myself who rejected my family and rejected God. I’m not going to be maudlin and say it was all my fault and that no one else had a hand in it. And that I was not exploited. I was exploited, by my father, and I knew it, and I took my own revenge on the whole family. I, too, didn’t have courage. When even a child knows he is exploited and he has some courage, he shouldn’t allow the exploitation. It’s his own shame and fault when he does. And I think I knew it, and hated my family because I despised myself.”

  “Only God knows all there is to know about a child or a man,” said the priest. “He never judges us by men’s standards. And by the way,” and the old man smiled, “I understand that you and your minister are good friends now. It’s too bad about Mr. Yaeger, but you can make it up to him someway, even though he’s dead.”

  Edward laughed. “Poor old Yaeger. I think I used to scare him to death. But I do understand, now, why I helped him through my parents. I was ashamed of myself.”

  After the priest had gone, Edward sat alone in contentment as the blue twilight began to fill the room. He thought of how all his brothers and sister had come to him, one by one, to offer him all they had, to tell him all they had done through those years of dark nightmare. They had spoken simply, and he had listened as simply, without hurt or resentment but with only regret that those years had been wasted and blasted. By all of us, he thought. It would be ridiculous if it weren’t so tragic. I’m not far from fifty; half a century! It took me this long to understand, and for them to understand. At that, we’re lucky!

  When his nurse came in, he asked her to call his brother Gregory. There was something not yet resolved, which must be resolved now.

  Gregory arrived almost immediately. He seemed crushed and much smaller in stature and bulk. “Well, how are we?” he asked. Edward smiled and said, “You saw me this morning. I haven’t changed. Sit down, won’t you, Greg? I want to talk to you.”

  Gregory, suddenly nervous, sat down and lit a cigarette. His restless eyes had quieted these weeks, but they had a dull and lost expression. “Give me a cigarette,” said Edward, kindly. “Never mind. Damn the doctors. Thanks. That tastes good! I’ve sent for some drinks, too. I said, never mind!”

  A maid brought in whisky and soda, and the two brothers sipped a little while in silence, while the blue at the windows turned to a gentle purple and the wind brought in the fragrance of earth and grass and trees.

  Edward spoke as if idly, “You’re a writer, Greg, a damned good writer. Wait a minute; I’m talking now. And so I want your opinion. Is André—that gay jumping jack—a writer, too?”

  Gregory moved and exhaled as if in relief. “I can tell you this: I’m a hack compared with him. I never liked him, and I love your kid, Gertrude, and he’ll lead her a hell of a life but a stimulating one, and I think that’ll be good for her. She takes life too seriously, but André makes her laugh, and that’s important.”

  Edward looked thoughtfully at his cigarette. “Margo made you laugh, Greg.”

  Gregory stirred, as though touched with pain. “Yes, she did,” he muttered. “But what does that matter?”

  “And you love her,” said Edward, and turned his head to look at his brother. “She didn’t bring on my attack. I’d had warnings for years, but I wouldn’t go to any doctors. I had an idea what was wrong and what would happen. You see, I was grimly trying to kill myself. I often wanted to. Never mind.

  “Let’s talk about Margo. She has the earthiness you need, and the common sense. And you love each other. When she jumped on me and hated me, it was for your sake. She was ‘protecting’ and ‘helping’ you, because she knew you needed her and she thought I was frustrating you—which I was, by the way.

  “And I think she didn’t understand much about the indoctrination you’d been pounding into her all the time you were married.”

  “No, she didn’t.” The film was lifting from Gregory’s eyes, and the sick dullness from his
face.

  “So,” said Edward, “why don’t you go to New York tonight and bring her home? After all, I’m going to build you a house on this land, and you’ll need a wife, and Margo refuses to divorce you. Ask her to forgive you. She will.”

  Gregory stood up in wild agitation. He put his hands on Edward’s shoulders and said huskily, “You mean it? After all we did and said? After everything?”

  “Don’t be emotional,” said Edward. “And give me another cigarette. Why shouldn’t I mean it? I’m naturally patriarchal, and I’ve got to have one member of the family near me. Sylvia’ll still be here, with her bread-pudding husband, though they’ll spend half their time in New York, and Dave spends most of his time with Billy Russell, down on that Alabama farm, writing their damned popular music. And Ralph and Violette are still batting around the world, with Ralph designing bridges all over the place and forgetting his ‘art.’

  “Robert is going into the business after he’s graduated in June, and he’ll be in New York at least half his time while I manage things here with the help of old William. Gertrude’s marrying André in June, and they insist on that flat at the Clinic, and I hope they get sick of it and decide to come back home! But I don’t interfere any longer. Besides, they’ll probably end up in New York. What’s there for a writer in Waterford?

  “So Margaret and Ma and I will be alone. I’d like to have you nearby for masculine company, though you, too, will be with Margo a lot of the time in New York. I’d like to give you a house, on this land, as a reconciliation present. You’ll have to have a quiet place to write, you know.”

  Gregory, buoyant and excited, glanced at his watch. “I can just about make the Empire State Express!” he exclaimed. His broad face had flushed. He started for the door, then swung back and caught Edward’s hand.

  “I said, don’t get emotional.” But Edward smiled. “Go on. Pack your bag. And don’t come back without Margo. I’ll bet she isn’t reading the Daily Worker any longer.”

  Gregory ran out of the room, and Edward could hear the rapid pounding of his footsteps, and the sound was the sound of a young man.

  Margaret came in briskly and kissed him. All the worn anguish of her face had gone, and it was blooming again. Her blue eyes sparkled, and she sank into a chair with a wide gesture of her arms, simulating exhaustion.

  “That girl’s trousseau!” she said. “It’s killing me. I bought millions of sheets and other linens today. And she’ll have only two weeks when she comes home from school to do her personal shopping and get her wedding dress. This’ll be a madhouse. Darling, have you been very lonely while I was away?”

  “I’m never lonely any longer,” Edward replied, and reached out and took her hand. They gazed at each other with deep happiness and eloquent silence. Then Margaret put the back of Edward’s hand against her cheek and held it for a long moment.

  “Oh, darling,” she whispered at last. “I’m so happy these days. So terribly happy. It scares me.”

  Her voice caught, and she kissed his hand before releasing it.

  “Nothing scares me any longer,” said Edward. “By the way, I received our itinerary for our jaunt to Europe today. I want you to look it over. Now, darling, wipe your eyes. We have a lot of planning to do, not only for ourselves, but for the children. We’re going to be busy.”

  Margaret dropped to her knees beside him and put her head on his chest and he held her to him, feeling the trembling in her slight body. She was still fearful for him; she was not getting over her terror, and he knew it. It was wrong that anyone should put a whole life into the keeping of another, and all that he had said to her in these weeks was as nothing to her. She had been stricken too deeply, and now for the first time since his illness he was afraid for her.

  He looked at the deepening sky. A single star pulsed there in pure grandeur. The birds called and wove themselves in melodious patterns in the twilight, busy about life, joyful in life, innocent and delighting in life. But men were not birds, short of existence and memory. They were creatures of grief and despair, inheriting sorrow with soul, anguish with knowledge, torment with immortality. And terror, with God. For his spirit man paid with blood and tears, and for his happiness he paid with the knowing that happiness in the world was eternally threatened and must have an end.

  Edward prayed. Dear Father, I know now that we are here to know and love and serve You in this life, and that there is nothing but You, and life has no meaning without You, and that we’ll join You after the death of our bodies. I know that as a part of You we’ll return to You, for it was out of You that we came and nothing can separate You from us.

  This I know. But this dear wife of mine has forgotten, because she is afraid. Afraid for me. I don’t know the mystery of Your plans or how long I shall live, or whether or not I shall die tomorrow or a year from now or twenty years from now. So far as I am concerned, I’m content.

  His arms tightened about Margaret, who was so very still and tense and who crouched against him, clutching him as a frightened child will clutch its father. He kissed the bright hair with its streaks of gray, and his heart beat strongly.

  He continued his prayer. Yes, I am content, about myself. But I am praying to You now for only one concession.

  Permit my wife to die before me, and give assurance to her that I will not leave her, not once, all the days of her life and mine.

  The star flamed more radiantly as the sky darkened, and now the thin edge of the moon quivered in silver fire as it rose above the trees.

  Margaret raised her head from Edward’s chest, and her eyes were shining. She drew a deep breath and smiled peacefully.

  “Do you know something, darling?” she asked, and her voice shook. “All at once I’m not afraid any more. Not any more!”

  A Biography of Taylor Caldwell

  Taylor Caldwell was one of the most prolific and widely read American authors of the twentieth century. In a career that spanned five decades, she wrote forty novels, many of which were New York Times bestsellers.

  Caldwell captivated readers with emotionally charged historical novels and family sagas such as Captains and the Kings, which sold 4.5 million copies and was made into a television miniseries in 1976. Her novels based on the lives of religious figures, Dear and Glorious Physician, a portrayal of the life of St. Luke, and Great Lion of God, a panoramic novel about the life and times of St. Paul, are among the bestselling religious novels of all time.

  Born Janet Miriam Holland Taylor Caldwell in 1900 in Manchester, England, into a family of Scotch-Irish descent, she began attending an academically rigorous school at the age of four, studying Latin, French, history, and geography. At six, she won a national gold medal for her essay on novelist Charles Dickens. On weekends, she performed a long list of household chores and attended Sunday school and church twice a day. Caldwell often credited her Spartan childhood with making her a rugged individualist.

  In 1907, Caldwell, her parents, and her younger brother immigrated to the United States, settling in Buffalo, New York, where she would live for most of her life. She started writing stories when she was eight years old and completed her first novel, The Romance of Atlantis, when she was twelve, although it was not published until 1975. Marriage at the age of eighteen to William Combs and the birth of her first child, Mary Margaret—Peggy—did not deter her from pursuing an education. While working as a stenographer and a court reporter to help support her family, she took college courses at night.

  Upon receiving a bachelor of arts degree from the University of Buffalo in 1931, she divorced her husband and married Marcus Reback, her boss at the US Immigration Department office in Buffalo. Caldwell then dedicated herself to writing full time. Even as her family grew with the arrival of her second daughter, Judith, Caldwell’s unpublished manuscripts continued to pile up.

  At the age of thirty-eight, she finally sold a novel, Dynasty of Death, to a major New York publisher. Convinced that a pre–World War I saga of two dynasties of munitions manufac
turers would be better received if people thought it was written by a man, Maxwell Perkins, her editor at Scribner—who also discovered F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway—advised her to use only part of her name—Taylor Caldwell—as her pen name. Dynasty of Death became a bestseller in 1938 and the saga continued with The Eagles Gather in 1940 and The Final Hour in 1944. Inevitably, a public stir ensued when people discovered Taylor Caldwell was a woman.

  Over the next forty years, Caldwell often worked from midnight to early morning at her electric typewriter in her book-crammed study, producing a wide array of sagas (This Side of Innocence, Answer as a Man) and historical novels (Testimony of Two Men, Ceremony of the Innocent) that celebrated American values and passions.

  She also produced novels set in the ancient world (A Pillar of Iron, Glory and the Lightning), dystopian fiction (The Devil’s Advocate, Your Sins and Mine), and spiritually themed novels (The Listener, No One Hears But Him, Dialogues with the Devil).

  Apart from their across-the-board popularity with readers and their commercial success, which made Caldwell a wealthy woman, her long list of bestselling novels possessed common themes that were close to her heart: self-reliance and individualism, man’s struggle for justice, the government’s encroachment on personal freedoms, and the conflict between man’s desire for wealth and power and his need for love and family bonding.

  The long hours spent at her typewriter did not keep Caldwell from enjoying life. She gave elegant parties at her grand house in Buffalo. One of her grandchildren recalls watching her hold the crowd in awe with her observations about life and politics. She embarked on annual worldwide cruises and was fond of a glass of good bourbon. Drina Fried recalls her grandmother confiding in her: “I vehemently believe that we should have as much fun as is possible in our dolorous life, if it does not injure ourselves or anyone else. The only thing is—be discreet. The world will forgive you anything but getting caught.”