Jack

by Marilynne Robinson

  “My great-grandmother died at ninety-two. My father used to say, ‘We who are young will never see so much nor live so long.’ She came over in steerage and blamed us all for it for the rest of her life. We didn’t justify the bother.”

  “How old is your father?”

  “Sixty-five on the fourth of January. Threescore years and five. There is that exceptional-strength clause. He could make it to fourscore without casting any shadow on Moses. I’m sure he’s aware of that.”

  “Is he exceptionally strong?”

  “No. Not at all. But he is exceptionally determined.” He said, “He’s waiting for me.”

  Quiet. He could see her just well enough to know she had lowered her head, thinking about what he had said, what she might say, considering it all gently, since they were deep into night by then. He said, “I know. I should go home.” Then he laughed. “I’m afraid that might put an end to him.”

  “Really? You really think that?”

  “He lives on hope,” he said. “He does. He’s always been that way. So I show up, confirm his worst fears, tip my hat, and leave again. I couldn’t stay there. He might not want me to, anyway. Then what would he have to hope for?”

  “You have brothers and sisters. They come home, don’t they?”

  “Yes, well, we hope for things unseen. Me, in this case.”

  “You said you’d stop talking that way.”

  “Sorry. It’s true, though. I will go home. COD. I have that address in my pocket. But I have to time it right. I have to outlast him. That may be my primary object in life!” He laughed. “He’s not going to make it easy for me, I know that.” He thought he must have sounded strange, but she didn’t take her hand away. She was considering.

  She said, “It’s interesting to think about that. Things unseen. The reality is always different.”

  “Worse.”

  “Different. Unlike. Not necessarily worse or better.”

  He said, “I’m at my best unseen. The Prince of Darkness. The Prince of Absence, for that matter. You won’t answer this, but just to clarify the point—the way you thought of me for the last few months—if you did think of me, but assuming you did. I know that isn’t something I ought to assume. Never mind.”

  “Did I remember you as—what?”

  “Oh, more presentable, I suppose.”

  “I never gave it a thought.”

  “Of course you didn’t. And I’d have expected you to be a little taller.”

  “I’m barefoot, remember.”

  “True. But you actually weren’t sure who I was, back there, when you first saw me.”

  “Oh, I knew who you were.”

  “But you thought about running.”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “I see.”

  They were quiet. Then she said, “Maybe I’m remembering you now, since I can’t really see you.”

  “All right, I suppose. Which me are you remembering? Do I have that scar?”

  “The scar is there. I’m sorry about it. Other than that, it’s just your—atmosphere.”

  “Cheap aftershave. Not that I’ve shaved. It spilled down my sleeve. Weeks ago. And cigarette smoke. And so on. A little atmosphere has to be expected, I guess. Sorry.”

  “You know I didn’t mean that.”

  “Then what? My spirit?”

  “You said we’re like spirits.”

  “I should have said ghosts. Ectoplasm.”

  “They’re spirits.”

  “Mine isn’t.”

  “Mine is.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “You seem to think so.”

  “True enough.” He said, “You’re very sure of yourself. At ease in your skin. While I—”

  She stopped. “You actually said that.”

  “What? Well, yes, I suppose I did. I’m—not really sorry. That would probably give the wrong impression. It’s a thing people say, isn’t it? Or they say the opposite. Depending on cases. I’ve offended you. I’m terribly sorry. It’s true, though, isn’t it?”

  “No. Much of the time it isn’t true. When I find myself trapped in a white cemetery, it definitely isn’t true.”

  He said, “You may not believe this, but I have had something of the same experience. A number of times.”

  She laughed. “I’m sorry, but I actually do believe you.”

  “Yes. Here’s an example. I got a draft notice. I was so surprised they’d found me that I thought it must be an omen. Time to pull myself together, learn discipline and so on. So I sobered up, made a kind of habit of breakfast, that sort of thing. It was all I thought about for a week at least. I showed up at the post office, five minutes early. When my turn came, the fellow just glanced up from his notebook and said something I thought was—unnecessarily dismissive.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Next.’ He made a gesture with his pencil, also dismissive. I decided I should consider the whole episode an omen, a sign, you know, that my past would be my future. Though he might just have known me from somewhere.”

  “Well, that’s very sad.”

  “Yes. Humiliating. I don’t know why I told you about it. In general I lie. I tell people I lied my way out of the army, and they always believe me. A bad heart, I say. Flat feet. Religious objections.” Then he said, “But I wanted you to know I was capable of honorable intentions. That’s why I told you.”

  “I knew that already.”

  “You did?” He laughed. “What a waste! I should have saved it for a better time.”

  She said, “There won’t be a better time.”

  Quiet. Or was it silence. Usually he knew.

  There was a bench, and they sat down. She pulled her legs up beside her, so she could partly cover them with the skirts of her coat. This meant that her shoulder was against his. If he put his arm on the back of the bench behind her, both of them would be more comfortable. He thought of suggesting it. They weren’t friends. They were acquaintances, which was a different thing in their case than in others. She had thought of running when she saw him. If they were friends, he could say they would both be warmer if he put his arm, so to speak, around her. He could make a little joke about it, call her girlfriend, and she would say, Don’t you wish, that sort of thing, and settle against him. He didn’t move, and his arm and shoulder and then his neck became stiff with the effort of not moving, maybe with the thought of not moving. After a while, he felt her head tip toward his shoulder. She startled awake. “Still dark,” she said. “Still night.” A little while again and he felt her cheek on his shoulder, her hair against his cheek. His shoulder ached. He had a thought of a kind he had often: If he lived a more orderly life, he could at least keep track of his debts, keep them at bay a little. He was a bad risk, which meant that his creditors wasted no time in applying extreme measures. He was usually putting a little aside to stave off the more terrible threats, when people were thoughtful enough to give him even a dire warning, which meant there was usually some pocket money to be shaken loose by whoever decided Jack owed him something, or owed it to a friend of his. He suspected sometimes this might all be a joke everyone else was in on. It was hard to imagine any kind of future, living where he did, as he did. If he just gave up drinking entirely, that would save him some money and any amount of trouble and embarrassment. He would stay out of bars altogether. Then he would get a job of some kind. Then he would happen by Della’s, and she would be sitting on the stoop all alone, listening to the wind and watching the fireflies, and he would think he had that book in his pocket, Oak and Ivy, and then his reverend father would be standing there with the book in his hands, brand-new, with ribbons in it like a Bible, saying, “The love of a good woman! Yes!” Jack’s cheek had fallen against her hair, well, really, her hat, but when he woke, he did not move. He thought she might be awake, but she didn’t move either. Well, he thought, this is pleasant enough. Why should he trouble hi
mself with thoughts of reformation when mere chance could bring him to this moment, without effort or forethought on his part, without the miseries of anticipation. Yes, that blasted little hat. It was made of something stiff, scratchy, and it seemed to have beads on it. It had tipped away from her hair on one side. It would have been the simplest thing in the world just to slip it off, but she might be awake, and he was only more nervous about seeming familiar when she had been so trusting. Not intentionally, of course, but in fact, which is what matters. Aside from that, it hadn’t begun to rain and no one had come by to bother them. He thought they must have been sitting there an hour at least. He was in the habit of noticing good hours, otherwise swept up in days about which there was not really much good to be said. A quarter hour, if it came to that.

  She said, very softly, “You know, you shouldn’t talk to me the way you do.” And a shock of discomfort passed through him, part shame, part alarm, part irritation, part a kind of panicky bewilderment and reappraisal. The memories he had been storing up for future use, maybe refining a little, were all turning to regret and embarrassment even before he knew what unpardonable thing about them would be hectoring him on his deathbed, in all probability. His lips were suddenly very dry, so he said only, “Sorry.”

  “We’re just out walking together. You’re not obliged to tell me every worst thing you ever did.”

  He laughed with relief. “I haven’t! Word of honor! But it is very kind of you to think so, Miss Miles.”

  She said, “When the world ended, nothing would matter but what you wanted to matter.” She was talking into the darkness. “No more dragging around all the things you regret. Just regretting them would snuff them out.” She made a gesture with her hand, like a bubble bursting. “That’s one new rule.”

  “You don’t seem like someone who would have much to regret. I mean, I have sisters like you. I told you. Four of them. They teach and play piano and remember everybody’s birthday and send thank-you notes. When I was a kid, I thought it was an amazing thing to watch. One after another, passing from childishness to impeccability. A long time ago, of course, but people like that don’t change. I suppose my sisters think they have regrets. That they know the meaning of the word.”

  “Well, I do know the meaning of the word.”

  “I’m not asking for a confession or anything.”

  “Good.” She sat up, and stood up. “I hear that man singing.” They were both stiff and cold from their hour of rest, pleasantly miserable, walking up the hill to the deeper darkness, laughing a little, quietly, at their awkwardness. She was leaning on his arm. Tell St. Peter at the Golden Gate that you hate to make him wait. She said, “I guess he doesn’t know another song.”

  “I suspect he sings like that to give us disreputable types a chance to avoid him.”

  “Very thoughtful.”

  “People can be like that. I’ve noticed, from time to time.”

  They waited together, very still and quiet, till the man passed by. As is our custom, Jack thought. How quickly things can become understood sometimes. “Did you happen upon the lake in your wanderings? You must have. It’s pretty hard to miss. They call it a pond.”

  “I saw it.”

  “It’s really best on a night like this, when you can’t see it. You just hear it breathing, and you feel the breaths on your skin. On a still night, of course. Which this one is, at the moment.”

  “Yes, I saw those little chapels, I suppose they’re tombs, but with stained-glass windows and everything, overlooking the lake, as if there would be anyone there to see it.”

  “Besides me.”

  “And me. I sat there on the step of one for a while, admiring the willows. Very poetic.” She laughed. “That was when I still expected I’d find my way out of here sometime.”

  Jack said, “That is absolutely my favorite tomb. The one that looks like a gingerbread house? I have passed many a not unpleasant hour on that step.”

  “A gingerbread house—it looks like a witch is going to open the door and invite you in.”

  “True. No luck yet.”

  She shook her head. “Jack Boughton, how you talk.”

  “I mean there might be a plate of cookies involved. I believe that’s how the story goes, isn’t it? You’d take one or two, and then you’d just walk away: Tragedy averted.”

  “I don’t think so. Dealing with a witch wouldn’t be that simple.”

  “You speak from experience, I suppose?”

  “I believe I do.”

  “Maybe I know that witch.”

  “You don’t. You have your own witches.”

  “No doubt. I didn’t mean to encroach.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “We could walk over there, anyway.”

  “We’ve been walking that way for a while. We must almost be there by now.”

  “Well, that’s true. I was thinking about the lake, and the willows, and the delectable tomb. Thinking you might want to rest awhile. I guess I wasn’t quite aware of where I was taking you. Not everyone likes to spend midnight on the very porch of extinction, so to speak. The threshold of Judgment, if you prefer. No one with an interest in symbolism, at least. I should have asked.” He laughed, and she was quiet. He wished he could take back every word he had said. “Did you notice? Its gargoyles are cherubs. The water pours out of the jars they’re holding. A nice touch, I think. Gargoyles can be pretty grotesque.” Still quiet.

  Then she said, “I’ve been to so many funerals, so many burials. My father always said, ‘That pale horse is carrying a child home to his Father’s house.’ Quoting somebody. Tombs don’t really bother me.”

  “Me either, in all seriousness. I was attempting a kind of joke.” This wasn’t really true. It was true that he was interested in the way they bothered him.

  That man again, singing. “I—wish I didn’t love you so. My love for you should have faded long ago.” They were very quiet. “I—wish I didn’t need your kiss.”

  Jack said, “He says it like he means it,” and then regretted speaking at all because she seemed intent on the song and then on the silence that followed it.

  Finally she said, “You can’t sing that song without sounding like you mean it. You can’t even say the words.”

  “It’s a good song.”

  “It’s a terrible song. I hate that word ‘wish.’ It sounds like somebody’s dying breath! Like it’s taking the wind right out of you.”

  “Yes. But it’s still a pretty good song.”

  Then she said, “I did a foolish thing. I tried to use it in class. Expressive language that you’d hear right on the radio. Perfectly ordinary language. I thought it might help them like poetry better if I used that kind of example.”

  “I guess it didn’t work.”

  “Well, they got embarrassed. Some of them started whispering and laughing behind their hands. Notes passed. At their age, I don’t know how I could have expected anything else.”

  “They suspected you of romantic longings, I suppose?”

  “I tried to talk my way out of it, whatever it was they suspected. Are the words of the song spoken words, or are they just thoughts in someone’s mind? How do you feel when you wish for something? I was going to talk about that word ‘so.’ Most of the time you would say ‘so much,’ ‘so well.’ Something that finishes the thought. But just saying ‘so’ like that. It could mean a hundred things. All at the same time.”

  “Tenderly. Hopelessly.”

  “I was going to ask them whether they would be sorry or glad to have feelings like that. I don’t know what I thought I was doing.”

  “Deeply. Utterly. Irrationally. Passionately. Futilely.”

  “Tenderly.”

  So after a minute, he asked her, “What would you say? Sorry or glad?”

  She was quiet. Then she said, “I don’t know. Those things can be hard to tell apart sometimes.”

  “Where tenderness is involved, definitely.”

  “Definitely
.”

  He brought her up a hill. “Our lovely little tomb,” he said. “And a fine view of the lake.” He actually carried a handkerchief, as his father had told them all to do. Excellent advice. He used it to wipe down the steps, and then he shook it out and folded it. Too damp to put in a pocket. No place else to put it. “Please,” he said, “make yourself comfortable.”

  She sat down on one side of the top step. “Now you sit down, too. There’s room. I can move over a little more.”

  “I actually forgot—I thought we’d have more spacious accommodations, I really did. This is the first time I’ve brought a guest.” “Masher” is the word his father would have used. A man who contrives to make himself familiar. A masher would be thinking, “Clever of me.”

  She said, “That’s fine. But you can’t keep standing there. We could go find a bench if you want to.”

  He said, “We’re a little bit out of the rain here, if it rains.” She moved over some more, pulling her coat around her. He sat down on the second step, rested his folded arms on his knees, and looked at where the lake was. They were quiet.

  Then she said, “It’s best when we talk. For passing the time.”

  “Yes. I was about to mention that.”

  They were quiet. The lake was darker than the darkness, visible because it was absolutely invisible. Like the sky on a night that was moonless and clear, a strong, present black. On one such night he had thrown a rock at a streetlamp, just to see the sky he knew was up there. He hadn’t even been especially drunk. He had been asserting a fundamental human privilege, as he explained to the cop. The cop had said, “Drunk and disorderly,” predictably enough. Was that a year ago? Five years ago? It all ran together.

  He said, “The word ‘lake’ is related to the word ‘lack.’ An absence. No kidding, I looked it up. Long hours in the public library, out of the weather. The intellect can share its wealth without diminution. Somebody said that, if I remember correctly. So I always feel a little at ease in a library. I can take the best they have and no one is the worse for it. I mean, you know, things to think about. Not actual books. Well, I do get attached to certain things, books, but I bring them back sooner or later.” Then he said, “I owe you one Paul Dunbar. With interest by now, I suppose.”