outward and descended on him and then swallowed him up and in it he slept and slept and slept and slept!
The battalion of shy Myrmidons was scattered across the lawn and in Mrs. Sweet’s flower beds, some of them lying face down, some of them lying face up. Heracles stood above them, a fallen branch, dead at that, of the hemlock in his right hand. Whooo! Yeaah! Aaargh! Eeee-agh! A series of sounds escaped from him, sometimes angry, sometimes not. He bent down and arranged the battalion of shy Myrmidons. Some of them were missing; some of them had become entangled in the roots of Mrs. Sweet’s hibiscus causing the roots to girdle, growing around and around, viciously entangling themselves and this would end in their death. But the dear and sweet Heracles did not know that, how could he, Mrs. Sweet was his mother, his mother was Mr. Sweet’s wife, Mr. Sweet was his father, Heracles was Mr. Sweet’s son. The dear son of Mr. Sweet looked down on his battalion of shy Myrmidons, they all lay at his feet and some of them had become entangled in the roots of the hibiscus variety “Lord Baltimore,” variety “Anne Arundel,” variety “Lady Baltimore,” all of which were growing in Mrs. Sweet’s garden. Ants crawled all over the shy Myrmidons as they went about their ant business; bees flew in and then flew out of the pollen-laden blossoms of the hibiscus in Mrs. Sweet’s garden, and a hummingbird did this too. And Heracles gathered up the shy Myrmidons and placed them in a large black box, and set them aside for a while, a long while.
3
At dusk one day, the young Heracles was born, and Mr. Sweet, who then appeared to be as tall as a young prince in Tudor times, smiled at his son and kissed his cheeks, and then he cut his young son’s umbilical cord. He looked at the newborn boy and was afraid to hold him close because he had the strongest desire to drop him out of his arms, see him fall to the ground, his body intact except for his head, his brains scattered all over the floor of the delivery room that was in the hospital in the town that was not so far away from the Shirley Jackson house. Mrs. Sweet, lying on the bed, her legs wide open, still in the position she had been when the young Heracles came out of her womb, her womb it is from which the young Heracles emerged, her whole body shivering from the effort of bringing Mr. Sweet’s son into the world, she looked at them, her old husband, her new son, and fell asleep from weariness. “How to secure my kingdom, so that I can give to, leave an inheritance for the young Heracles, who is my only son, so far?” was not what Mr. Sweet thought to himself at all, at all, not at all. He so hated the young Heracles, just born and new and yellow was the color of his skin, for he had jaundice, and his eyes were open wide and they looked as if they saw everything even though everything could not yet be understood. Such eyes, such eyes, said Mr. Sweet to himself, such eyes, they would never see and so lead to an understanding of Beethoven’s concertos and Mozart and Bach, and in any case the young Heracles had hands that were big, suggesting a clumsiness to come, for such hands would never hold a lyre comfortably if at all or linger over a pianoforte or hold a flute to the lips or hold any instruments to the lips or caress any instruments at all; his fingers were big as if meant to hold a javelin and a shield and to tear to shreds things many times his size. So thought Mr. Sweet as he held his son in his arms, his hands, his own fingers were delicate and looked as if they were musical notes rising up and floating freely above empty sheets of notepaper and then landing in an order that resulted in the most beautiful tunes especially when whistled. But Mr. Sweet did not throw to the ground or let fall out of his hands the young Heracles, and so their story continued, with a bitterness for Mr. Sweet that had a taste familiar to the tongue and with a bitterness that had a taste
The battalion of shy Myrmidons was scattered across the lawn and in Mrs. Sweet’s flower beds, some of them lying face down, some of them lying face up. Heracles stood above them, a fallen branch, dead at that, of the hemlock in his right hand. Whooo! Yeaah! Aaargh! Eeee-agh! A series of sounds escaped from him, sometimes angry, sometimes not. He bent down and arranged the battalion of shy Myrmidons. Some of them were missing; some of them had become entangled in the roots of Mrs. Sweet’s hibiscus causing the roots to girdle, growing around and around, viciously entangling themselves and this would end in their death. But the dear and sweet Heracles did not know that, how could he, Mrs. Sweet was his mother, his mother was Mr. Sweet’s wife, Mr. Sweet was his father, Heracles was Mr. Sweet’s son. The dear son of Mr. Sweet looked down on his battalion of shy Myrmidons, they all lay at his feet and some of them had become entangled in the roots of the hibiscus variety “Lord Baltimore,” variety “Anne Arundel,” variety “Lady Baltimore,” all of which were growing in Mrs. Sweet’s garden. Ants crawled all over the shy Myrmidons as they went about their ant business; bees flew in and then flew out of the pollen-laden blossoms of the hibiscus in Mrs. Sweet’s garden, and a hummingbird did this too. And Heracles gathered up the shy Myrmidons and placed them in a large black box, and set them aside for a while, a long while.
3
At dusk one day, the young Heracles was born, and Mr. Sweet, who then appeared to be as tall as a young prince in Tudor times, smiled at his son and kissed his cheeks, and then he cut his young son’s umbilical cord. He looked at the newborn boy and was afraid to hold him close because he had the strongest desire to drop him out of his arms, see him fall to the ground, his body intact except for his head, his brains scattered all over the floor of the delivery room that was in the hospital in the town that was not so far away from the Shirley Jackson house. Mrs. Sweet, lying on the bed, her legs wide open, still in the position she had been when the young Heracles came out of her womb, her womb it is from which the young Heracles emerged, her whole body shivering from the effort of bringing Mr. Sweet’s son into the world, she looked at them, her old husband, her new son, and fell asleep from weariness. “How to secure my kingdom, so that I can give to, leave an inheritance for the young Heracles, who is my only son, so far?” was not what Mr. Sweet thought to himself at all, at all, not at all. He so hated the young Heracles, just born and new and yellow was the color of his skin, for he had jaundice, and his eyes were open wide and they looked as if they saw everything even though everything could not yet be understood. Such eyes, such eyes, said Mr. Sweet to himself, such eyes, they would never see and so lead to an understanding of Beethoven’s concertos and Mozart and Bach, and in any case the young Heracles had hands that were big, suggesting a clumsiness to come, for such hands would never hold a lyre comfortably if at all or linger over a pianoforte or hold a flute to the lips or hold any instruments to the lips or caress any instruments at all; his fingers were big as if meant to hold a javelin and a shield and to tear to shreds things many times his size. So thought Mr. Sweet as he held his son in his arms, his hands, his own fingers were delicate and looked as if they were musical notes rising up and floating freely above empty sheets of notepaper and then landing in an order that resulted in the most beautiful tunes especially when whistled. But Mr. Sweet did not throw to the ground or let fall out of his hands the young Heracles, and so their story continued, with a bitterness for Mr. Sweet that had a taste familiar to the tongue and with a bitterness that had a taste
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