When night came, he stepped into a bar and had a few drinks. He went to a hotel, got a room and a key, and went back to the bar. Then he realized that somebody had walked him out to the sidewalk and left him there, leaning against a wall. His wallet was missing and so was his room key. So was that letter. The name of the hotel was written on the tag thing they attach to hotel keys. There were a number of hotels nearby, and they all looked alike, in fact and because he had been drinking. If he happened into the right hotel, they’d probably put him back out again, anyway. His ticket home was safe in the pocket of his shirt. So at worst it was only a matter of waiting for morning. He curled up in a doorway and fell asleep, until a policeman prodded him with his nightstick and said, “Move along, college boy.” He found another doorway near a streetlamp, but this time he couldn’t sleep. The whole day he had been prey to his thoughts, but at least there were women around to distract him from them, to remind him of his purpose.
A small old black man with the look of a hardened insomniac stood at the doorway for a while, smoking and watching the night, as if there were anything to look at. He glanced at Jack, then he flicked a long ash off his cigarette and said, “What would your folks say, seeing you there like that.” Then he strolled away, leaving Jack to think how steady his hand must be to have kept that ash from falling. Without twitch or tremor, a man of good conscience, he decided. Somewhere someone might have been laughing at that letter—Truly, I have no words to express—No way at all to make it right— It was a confession as much as it was an apology. That might always be true. Pointless in either case. He had felt as if the shame in the letter—it was really all about shame—was connected somehow with the perfervid, sulfurous yellow of the sweater, and he knew he would have thought the same thing sober. The locker key was in the shirt pocket with his ticket back to St. Louis. There was a logic in this he found reassuring, which proved that he was still essentially drunk.
A terrible day, wandering the streets, looking with unwelcome interest into the faces of women who might have any traits in any combination but who were still, good Lord, quite young. The use he had made of that sweater. Teddy’s wholesome aspiring rewarded as it usually was, even while he put on Jack’s tie and jacket, the one with cigarette burns on the lapel, sat in Jack’s lectures, and took his exams. Surely the family knew—that B-plus in geology? They had to have known. But some morning Jack might wake up a new man. He might come into himself, as his father said, and find his life waiting for him, a creditable youth already half lived out, suiting him perfectly, though with certain options thoughtfully left open. He might step like Lazarus back into his own life, so familiar, so astonishing. This had never happened. He’d made sure it would not happen. Perhaps he might, for just a moment, have seen his father’s contempt, an agony to his father, who would have sworn to himself a thousand times it would never come to that.
It was that night he was confronted with the indisputable truth that, all by himself in a strange city, he was in a situation and a condition that would indeed cause his mother sorrow and humiliation, send an icy pang into the warmest depths of her bosom. So with his brothers and sisters, after their fashion. Then it was that he had first realized what an exquisite thing harmlessness must be, what an absolute courtesy to things seen and unseen, to the bruised reed and the smoldering wick. If he could not achieve harmlessness, his very failures would give him much to consider. He would abandon all casuistry, surrender all thought of greater and lesser where transgressions were concerned, even drop the distinction between accident and intention. He was struggling in a web of interrelation, setting off consequences in every direction that he could not predict or control or even imagine with any hope of approaching the truth of a matter. He had no doubt read this somewhere. His brain was at least as sticky as his fingers. That old problem of mine and thine made his thinking a trove of unearned and unwilled pretentiousness, and this, he had learned on a number of occasions, was a thing some people took exception to. So that was another kind of offense to be aware of. He would speak only when necessary.
And so he had lived, more or less, until he met Della. A little thievery when the opportunity was too patent to be ignored, or too interesting. A drinking bout for some reason or no reason. A stint in prison. Then an occasion for him to try out his manners, so long of no use to him, put away with his necktie and his shoelaces. Running after her papers as they blew down the street, then “Thank you, Reverend,” and tea in her parlor with Jesus looking on. She so lovely besides, and a woman of some learning. What more could fate have done to stamp her in his mind as the angel waiting at the door of his tomb? No wonder he could hardly go an hour without thinking about her. And since it was always true of him, truer since prison, that his thoughts were the idle companions of his idleness, his isolation, and were never meant to govern his behavior any more than practicality or ambition could do, he really had believed she was safe in his thoughts, and aloof from him, too, for good measure.
And here he was married to her. Granting that the marriage was only an agreement between them—not “only,” as if it were diminished by secrecy and illegality and the rest. Those were the things that made it pure, or proved that it was pure. He did take a kind of comfort from the fact that there seemed to be little more than loyalty involved, which might come very easily to him in this case. And as for her, if sometime she decided she wanted another kind of life, he would forgive her on account of her youth and love her, anyway, at the same sanctified distance they had agreed to. That moment could come at any time. She would go back to her family and her life with his blessing, with no new experience of sorrow or guilt, uninjured in his care. He would never have imagined that harmlessness could be so sweet and so protective of them both, or that solitude could be the proof and seal of marriage. A few old songs came to mind—Every road I walk along I walked along with you—which had never been true of them and never would be. Something to regret, of course, but they would understand that being apart was the pact they had made, and the sadness they felt would be the secret they shared, always tenderly alive as even shared memories would not be. All this seemed possible, he believed.
* * *
That was a Wednesday, or it became a Wednesday as he washed and dressed and buffed his shoes, and walked out into a world oddly untransformed. Miracles leave no trace. He had decided, hearing his father preach on the subject, that they happened once as a sort of commentary on the blandness and inadequacy of the reality they break in on, and then vanish, leaving a world behind that refutes the very idea that such a thing could have happened. He left the bright day behind for the twilight of the big upstairs room with its mirror ball and its smell of wood and wax. First to arrive, an effect of his resolve to embrace conscientiousness in every circumstance, he sat down on a bench with his hat beside him and thought what it might be like if the miraculous became the natural order of things. Loaves and fishes in inexhaustible supply. Troops of Lazaruses putting off their cerements. Infinite hours where Della was always waiting for him, and he was always somehow not a disappointment.
The boss walked in and pulled the chain that started the mirror ball, and tawdry spangles swept the room. First there were the ladies who came in after lunch, and then a few high-school girls who stood at the door laughing among themselves, perhaps at the fact that his jitterbug was brisk and exact and his hair was thinning. On the street they might have avoided him, hid their laughter behind their hands if he smiled at them. Then there was the unaccountable Della. While I think on thee, dear friend. How could anyone promise to be loyal to anyone? Loyalty is fragile. A change would come over her face and she would never look at him that way again, with that sweet trust he had done nothing to deserve and could lose in a moment of ill-considered honesty.
By Thursday he had begun telling himself that there wouldn’t be any harm in a drink or two, so he went to the library, found a book on orchids and a fussy little volume of poetry whose flyleaf had mellowed to cream through its many years
of deserved neglect. It tore out nicely. He copied an especially flamboyant blossom, enhancing it a little, with all due respect to the Creator or evolution or some combination of the two. His hand was still clever. He could still please himself with a sense of the sketch answering back to him, a pretty line, shading that did look like shadow. This would be the flower he brought her, and she would laugh and put it aside somewhere to keep it safe, and then she would go look at it again. It occurred to him to wonder how long ago this seraphic bloom had been translated into the ghost of itself, an unusually slight change. Thy eternal summer shall not fade. He wondered if he might love Della less if that look of gentle trust passed out of her eyes. One way to find out. No one would ever see it again. There would always be a shadow, her memory of him. When he was a kid, he used to know if there was something he was going to steal or break. He resisted just enough so that there was a certain relief in actually doing it. Ah, Jesus, not this time.
But when Friday came, he took the day off work, did as much as scrubbing and shaving and brushing and buffing could do for his appearance and self-respect, then did it all over again. He wished there were such a thing as a warm and manly scent, and that he had a bottle of it. Don’t let me get arrested, don’t let me get drunk.
He knocked on Della’s door at six. She kissed him before he had even put down his hat. So there he was, with Della in his arms, on time and sober. She had roasted a chicken. She had made biscuits. The table was set, with candles and what he supposed was a vase for flowers. Everything else was exactly the way it always was, but perfect. He knew there was no mote of dust in that room. There was no slightest sign of rumple or displacement in the couch cushions. “Here,” he said, taking the page from his pocket, “this is what I have for flowers. Sorry.” And she unfolded the page and said “Oh!” and then she said, “Another angel!” which pleased him, because seraphic was his thought as he made the drawing.
He stood beside her in the warm little kitchen while she finished the gravy, carried their plates to the table, watched the effects of candlelight on her hair and her eyes while they talked about something wonderful, to judge by the laughter and then the silence that came over them when he reached across the table to stroke her hand. Eight o’clock came and went. In fact, he woke up the next morning with her cheek against his shoulder and her arm across his chest.
He went to work that afternoon to make up for missing Friday. So Saturday passed, and on Sunday he went to church. He sat in his pew next to that man, whose name was Arnold and who said good morning to him. The pulpit was a fair distance away, but of course the minister saw him, noticed him, was clearly aware of him. There was no hint of cordiality in his expression.
Singing and praying. Then the preacher stepped into the pulpit. He said, “This morning I’m going to speak my mind. That’s my job. Maybe sometimes I let you all forget what you are paying me to do. So today I’m going to remind you. I’m going to talk to you about your debts. I’m not talking about money you owe. Nothing like that. I’m talking about the debts you rack up when you lie, when you make promises you don’t mean to keep, when you disturb a peaceful home.” Jack had not felt so targeted by a sermon in years. Of course he hadn’t been to church in years. Still, Jack Boughton seemed to be as fruitful a sermon text as the Lost Sheep, the Prodigal Son, the Unfaithful Steward. When he was young, the feeling had made him smile. Now it made him sweat.
“If you are honorable people,” the preacher said, “you will know that other people’s lives are fragile and precious and important to everybody who loves them, and that means precious to our Lord Jesus Christ. Do you think you can do harm to the least of his brothers and sisters and He will not feel it as an insult to himself? Then you better read your Bible. If you think your sins are just going to vanish away like they never happened because Jesus loves you—well, I’ve got news. Jesus loves lots of people. He loves the man you cheated and the woman you made fun of behind her back. Little sins, you say. Little wounds in the heart of Christ. Think about it. He wants his own to have abundance of life, and you steal from that abundance—maybe not money or goods, but the peace and trust and love that are theirs by right. You see women, we all see this, women putting up with everything, forgiving everybody. They’re saints! Everybody says it. Sister Smith, Sister Jones, she’s a saint on earth! That could well be the truth. And how do we treat these saints? I borrow a little something from her, well, she’ll never ask for it back. She’s a saint! I see her hopes valued at nothing. I see her loving heart fixed on some unworthy fool who will just turn away from her, abandon her. She’ll forgive, she’s a saint. And what do we learn in Matthew 25? That Christ our Lord is a judge. A judge. And He is also the injured party! Look at the text. Do you think He does not feel the hunger of loneliness, the nakedness of abandonment, the prison of faithfulness that is not answered with faithfulness? Is He not sick at heart, together with a mother, or a father, whose child makes nothing of his life but a shame and a sorrow?”
Arnold was slumped in the pew, hand over his eyes, possibly weeping. Wonderful! That could mean that the sermon was meant for him! There was comfort in the slenderest possibility. So he went downstairs to lunch, took his place in line to have his plate filled, and thought about what he would say to the preacher if he had a chance to speak to him.
People were quiet, subdued, no doubt dealing variously with this rebuke, turning over in their minds whom it had been meant for and what had provoked it. Some of the women seemed to Jack to be smiling to themselves, pleased that sainthood was mentioned, to justify the grudges they held against an unappreciative world. Or what he sensed might have been a discreet satisfaction at hearing the preacher give that white man a good talking-to. Who knows what might be known or believed among them, up to and including the plain truth. It might be appropriate to show a few signs of shame, to concede the point without surrendering too much dignity. He could have grabbed his hat and ducked out into daylight and left them to talk it all out. It was not only because there were beans on his plate by the time he decided he probably should have left. It was also because Della had said, before he left her that Saturday morning, “Now you’re a married man! You have a wife!,” straightening his collar, which he had always been careful to keep straight, and tightening the knot of his tie, a half-Windsor. But he knew what these gestures meant—You don’t face the world alone, you have a wife who invests care and pride in letting the world know you aren’t just wandering around on your own, mattering to nobody, killing time, maybe cadging a little small talk here and there. A married man! A higher order of loneliness altogether! If it were not for the criminal code of the state of Missouri, he could very reasonably have shouted it from the rooftops. He found it all difficult to believe, except for the criminal code.
The minister came down to lunch, put his plate on another table, and involved himself in talk with the people there, never casting a glance at Jack, as if he knew Jack hoped to catch his eye. Finally, Jack carried his plate to the kitchen and walked over to the minister’s table. He said, “Reverend, if you could spare a few minutes, I’d like to speak to you.” There was a pause, felt and understood around the table, and then the preacher said, “Why, Mr. Ames! Or is it Boughton today. You’re in luck. I can spare a few minutes.” He stood up. “Here or in my study?”
“The study, if that’s all right. I don’t want to interrupt—”
“I’m sure you don’t,” he said. “You know where to find my study.” And he stayed behind a little to shake hands and send good wishes to relatives and so on, prolonging the time Jack stood waiting in the study, even after he had delayed awhile in coming up the stairs. The minister finally came into the room, gestured to a chair, and sat down at his desk.
Jack said, “Boughton. That is my actual name.”
The minister nodded. “So we’ve settled that. Now, what is on your mind today, Mr. Boughton?”
Jack cleared his throat. “I believe your sermon this morning may have been directed at me. In
some part.”
“You’d be the best judge of that. There are entirely too many people who might feel that way. That makes it worth preaching about.”
“Yes. Well, I intend to reform my life. There have been other attempts, not well grounded, I believe. Not quite serious, though I didn’t really realize this at the time. I lack moorings, somehow. What you said this morning will be a great help, I feel quite sure.”
The preacher nodded. “I know I’ve said this before, but you probably need to go home and talk to your father.”
“I will, at some point. When I can tell him I’ve reformed, at least enough to look him in the eye while I say it.” The preacher smiled, and Jack said, “That’s a problem I have.”
“Yes, I see.”
There was a silence long enough that Jack half expected the preacher to push back his chair and check his watch and wish Jack success in his efforts at self-betterment or something. Finally he said, “Can I take it that you’re seeking me out again because the advice I gave you last time we spoke has been useful to you?”
“Yes, sir. Very useful.”
“You have followed it, then.”
“No, sir. I can’t really say I have. But it has given me a lot to think about.”
“Wonderful,” the preacher said, by which he did not mean wonderful. Then, “I happened to speak to Miss Miles’s pastor about her the other day. Not about you, just her. He thinks the world of her, of course. Her accomplishments, and also her Christian character.”
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