Stoner

by John Williams

Finally his father moved in his chair. Stoner looked up. His parents’ faces confronted him; he almost cried out to them. “I don’t know,” his father said. His voice was husky and tired. “I didn’t figure it would turn out like this. I thought I was doing the best for you I could, sending you here. Your ma and me has always done the best we could for you.” “I know,” Stoner said. He could not look at them longer. “Will you be all right? I could come back for a while this summer and help. I could—” “If you think you ought to stay here and study your books, then that’s what you ought to do. Your ma and me can manage.” His mother was facing him, but she did not see him. Her eyes were squeezed shut; she was breathing heavily, her face twisted as if in pain, and her closed fists were pressed against her cheeks. With wonder Stoner realized that she was crying, deeply and silently, with the shame and awkwardness of one who seldom weeps. He watched her for a moment more; then he got heavily to his feet and walked out of the parlor. He found his way up the narrow stairs that led to his attic room; for a long time he lay on his bed and stared with open eyes into the darkness above him.