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As if this weren't enough, Mrs. Young had to watch Sam going to pieces again, losing the strength and self confidence he had regained in Chicago, having it torn from him slowly, steadily, by the daily accumulation of little defeats, disappointments, failures.
The weeks dragged by, Mrs. Young had counted so much on Sam's recovery. She had hoped so much that he would get back on his feet and make some sales. She had been waiting for him to do that, so she could tell him the secret she had been keeping so fearfully — that Mr. Walters, the real estate agent, was going to be forced to sell their house unless they could make a down payment toward buying it themselves.
But there were no sales. Every day Sam found it harder to face the world. Every day he started out later and with less hope. Every day he seemed to expect and accept defeat a little more. She couldn't bring herself to tell him about Mr. Walter's visit and what he had said about having to sell the house to someone else.
Summer came and to Mrs. Young that whole time seemed like a slow, steady period of deterioration, as though the persistent heat, the constant, beating sunlight, the breathless, heavy nights, were having the same effect on the spirits of her family, as on her lovely garden — burning them dry and brittle.
And she wondered how long they could go on this way, without some eruption, some breaking out.
Then, on a hot, oppressive evening in August, Mr. Walters arrived with a young couple who wanted to see the house.
Mrs. Young had answered the door and Mr. Walters had announced his purpose in a loud voice, before she had recovered sufficiently to ask him to come another time. Sam heard him and came to the door of the living room. He just stood there while Mrs. Young suggested that Mr. Walters show his prospective buyers the top of the house first.
When the three people had gone upstairs, Mrs. Young drew Sam into the living room. It wasn't easy to tell him. It wasn't easy to tell any of them that she had known for months that they might have the house sold out from under them at any moment.
"Why didn't you tell me right away?" Sam asked.
"I — I didn't want to worry you," Mrs. Young explained feebly. "I — I hoped you'd make a sale and we could put down a first payment toward buying back the house. That's all Mr. Walters wants — to know how much money he can count on."
"Huh!" Sam said bitterly. "He's got a fine chance of getting any money from us!" Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the house.
"They can't sell our house!" Pepper said.
"I'm afraid they can," Mrs. Young said. "It could have been sold any time in the past two years."
"But it's our house," Peggy said. "We've never lived anywhere else."
Mrs. Young felt very close to tears. If anything, the house meant more to her than to any of the rest of them. She felt almost as if she had built it, she had worked so hard to make it a special place.
"Well," Pepper said, "we can keep them from buying it."
OCTOBER. 1942
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