Eventide

by Kent Haruf

  The boy went out into the hall and they could hear the sound of his rapid steps going away on the tiled floor. The old man looked across at Raymond. It ain’t even decent what they make you wear in this place.

  No sir, Raymond said. I’ll have to agree with you on that.

  It’s goddamn indecent is what it is.

  The boy came back with the nurse. She was carrying a sterile tray that she set on the bedside table and then she looked at the old man. Are you ready, Mr. Kephart?

  For what?

  To get into bed.

  I ain’t planning on just setting here, he said.

  No, I didn’t think you’d want to do that.

  She helped him swing his legs onto the bed and drew the sheet up and arranged the pillow under his head. Then she opened the sterile tray and wiped the back of his hand with a swab. This may sting, she said.

  What’s that you’re doing?

  I’m going to start the antibiotics now.

  Is that what the doctor said?

  Yes.

  She poked the needle into the loose skin at the back of his hand and he lay in bed and looked up at the ceiling without moving. The boy watched from the foot of the bed, biting his lip when the needle went in. The nurse taped the needle to his hand, then hung the bags of fluid on a metal stand and connected the tubes and adjusted the steadily dripping fluid in the drip chamber and stood watching for a moment, and then inserted the thin oxygen prongs into the old man’s nose. Now breathe in, she said. Take some deep breaths. I’ll come back to check on you in a little while.

  What good’s this thing suppose to do me?

  It’ll help fill your lungs. Until you can breathe normally again on your own.

  It don’t feel right. His voice sounded high-pitched and unnatural, on account of the nose prongs. It tickles my nose.

  Breathe, the nurse said. You’ll get used to it. And when you need to spit, here’s a box of Kleenex. Don’t be spitting in that dirty handkerchief.

  After she was gone the boy came forward and stood beside the bed. Did she hurt you, Grandpa? The old man looked at him and shook his head. He went on breathing and lifted his hand to adjust the oxygen tubes.

  From across the room Victoria Roubideaux asked the boy if he didn’t want to sit down. There’s a chair over there, she said. You could bring it up next to the bed. But he told her he was all right, he said he wasn’t tired. An hour and a half later when the orderly brought in the dinner trays, he was still standing beside the bed and the old man was asleep.

  IN THE EVENING GUTHRIE AND MAGGIE JONES CAME INTO the room together with Guthrie’s two boys, Ike and Bobby. They all stood around the bed and talked quietly with Raymond. Victoria was still in her chair, with Katie sleeping in her lap. Guthrie explained what he and the boys had done out at the ranch that afternoon. The cattle in the pastures out south all seemed fine, and they had checked on the bulls and horses. The water levels were what they should be in the stock tanks.

  I thank you, Raymond said. I don’t like to have to bother you.

  It’s no bother.

  Well I know it is. But I thank you anyway. He looked at Ike and Bobby. Now what about you two boys? How you doing these days?

  Pretty good, Ike said.

  I’m sorry you got your leg hurt, Bobby said.

  I appreciate that, Raymond said. It’s kind of a ugly thing, ain’t it. But it was a bad thing that happened. You boys remember you got to be careful around animals. You won’t never forget that, will you?

  No, sir, Ike said.

  I’m sorry about your brother, Bobby said softly.

  Raymond looked at him and looked at Ike and nodded to them both, then he shook his head once very slowly, and didn’t say anything. Ike gave Bobby a hard poke in the side when no one was looking, but in the awkward silence Bobby was feeling bad enough already and wished he had never said any word at all about the old man’s brother.

  Finally Maggie said: But how are you feeling this evening, Raymond? Are you feeling any better? You look a little more like yourself, I think.

  I’m all right. He turned slightly under the bedsheet, adjusting his leg.

  No he’s not, Victoria said. He won’t tell anybody the truth, not even the nurses. He’s in a lot of pain. He just doesn’t talk about it.

  I’m all right, honey, he said. This ain’t the worst of it.

  I know it isn’t. But you’re in a lot of physical pain too. I know you are.

  Maybe a little, he said.

  Across the room DJ stood beside his grandfather’s bed, listening to them all talking. He knew the Guthrie boys and didn’t like them seeing him like this in the hospital room. His grandfather was dozing and he kept making noises in his throat and coughing and mumbling strangely. DJ had said nothing to Ike and Bobby when they came in but stood silently beside the bed, with his back turned to them, and his grandfather kept going in and out of his fitful sleep, with the nose prongs in his nose, the needle still taped to his hand, and then the old man would wake and look around in confusion until he remembered where he was, that he was still in the hospital, and the boy would lean over and ask quietly if he wanted something and the old man would shake his head and look away and drift off to sleep again, then DJ would stand and wait, listening to them talk across the room, waiting for them to leave.

  AT EIGHT-THIRTY THE NURSE CAME IN TO ANNOUNCE THAT visiting hours were over. Guthrie and Maggie and the two boys told Raymond good night and went out. Victoria leaned over the bed, holding her thick black hair out of the way, and kissed Raymond on the cheek and gave him a hug, then he patted her hand and she carried the little girl out of the room.

  DJ’s grandfather was awake now. You better go too, he said to the boy. You’ll do all right by yourself, won’t you?

  Yes sir.

  You can come back tomorrow after school.

  The boy looked at him and nodded and went out. Victoria was waiting in the hall, with Katie asleep in her arms. Is somebody expecting you at home? she said.

  No.

  Aren’t you afraid to be by yourself?

  No. I’m used to it.

  Let me give you a ride anyhow. Will you do that?

  I don’t want to take you out of your way.

  It’ll only take five minutes. You don’t want to walk home in the dark.

  I’ve done it before.

  But you don’t want to do it tonight.

  They went down the hall and out the front door onto the sidewalk. It was cold outside but there was no wind. The streetlights had come on and overhead the stars winked clean and hard. Victoria strapped the sleeping child into her car seat in the back and they drove off up Main Street. You’ll have to tell me where to go, she said.

  It’s across the tracks. Then you turn left.

  She looked across at him where he was sitting close to the door with his hand on the handle. I would’ve thought you knew the two Guthrie boys. They’re your age, aren’t they?

  I know them a little. I know Bobby anyway. He’s in the same class with me. Fifth grade.

  Aren’t you two friends? You didn’t say anything to each other.

  I just know him from school.

  He seems like a nice boy. Maybe you could get to be friends.

  We might. I don’t know.

  I hope so. You shouldn’t be alone too much. I know what that’s like, from when I was your age and later on in high school. This can be a hard place to be alone in. Well, I suppose any place is.

  I guess, he said.

  In the backseat Katie had begun to fuss, reaching her hands out, trying to touch her mother. Just a minute, sweetheart, Victoria said. She watched her daughter in the rearview mirror. It’ll just be a few minutes. The little girl drew her hands back and began to whimper.

  The boy turned to look at her. Does she cry all the time?

  No, she almost never cries. She’s not really crying now. She’s just tired. There’s nothing for her to do at the hospital. We’ve been there for three days.
<
br />   Main Street was almost vacant as they drove along past the small individual houses and on north into the brief business district under the bright lights. Only two or three cars were out on the street. All the stores were closed and darkened for the night except the tavern. To the east when they crossed the railroad tracks the whitewashed concrete cylinders of the grain elevator rose up massively out of the ground, shadowy and silent. They drove on north.

  Here, the boy said. This is where you turn.

  They came into the quiet street and he pointed out the little house.

  Is this where you live?

  Yes, ma’am.

  Really? I used to live near here. Before I had Katie. This was my old neighborhood. Do you like it here?

  He looked at her. It’s just where I live, he said. He opened the car door and started to get out.

  Just a minute, she said. I don’t know what you’d think of it, but maybe you could come out and stay with us tonight. So you wouldn’t have to be here alone.

  Out with you?

  Yes. Out in the country. You’d like it out there.

  He shrugged. I don’t know.

  All right, she said. She smiled at him. I’ll just wait until you’re inside and get the light on.

  Thanks for the ride, he said.

  He shut the car door and started up the narrow sidewalk. He looked very small and much alone, approaching the dark house with only the streetlamp shining from the corner illuminating the front of the house. He opened the door and went inside and then a light came on. She thought he would come to one of the windows and wave to her, but he didn’t.

  AT THE HOSPITAL THE NURSE ON NIGHTSHIFT CAME INTO the room and Raymond was still awake. She was a good-looking woman in her late forties, with short brown hair and very blue eyes. She bent over the old man in the bed next to the door, who was asleep on his side and still breathing the oxygen through the prongs in his nose, his face red and damp. She checked the level of the fluid in the plastic bags hanging from the stand, then came over to Raymond’s bed and looked at him with his head raised up on the pillow, watching her. Can’t you sleep? she said.

  No.

  Is your leg hurting you?

  Not now. I reckon it’ll start again directly.

  How about your chest?

  It’s all right. He looked up at her. What’s your name? he said. I thought I knew all these nurses in here by now.

  I just came back on duty, she said. I’m Linda.

  What’s your last name?

  May.

  Linda May.

  That’s right. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. McPheron. Is there anything I can get for you right now?

  I could take some of that water there.

  Let me get you a fresh pitcher. This isn’t very cold. She left the room and came back with a pitcher filled with ice, and poured water in the glass and held it out to him. He drew on the straw and swallowed, then drew again and nodded and she set the glass on the bedside table.

  He looked across the room. How do you think he’s doing over there?

  Mr. Kephart? All right, I think. He’ll probably recover. Older people get pneumonia and don’t do well sometimes, but he seems pretty strong. Of course I haven’t seen him awake yet. But when we changed shifts they said he was doing okay.

  She smoothed the blanket, making sure to keep it free of his casted leg. Try and get some sleep now, she said.

  Oh, I don’t sleep much, he said.

  People are always coming in and waking you up for one thing or another, aren’t they.

  I don’t like that light shining.

  I’ll shut the door so it’s darker. Would that be better?

  It might. He looked at her face. It don’t matter. I’m getting out of here tomorrow anyhow.

  Oh? I hadn’t heard that.

  Yeah. I am.

  You’d have to ask the doctor.

  They’re burying my brother tomorrow. I won’t be in here for that.

  Oh, I’m sorry. Still, I think you’ll need to talk to the doctor anyway.

  He better get here early then, Raymond said. I’ll be gone before noon.

  She touched his shoulder and crossed to the door and closed the door behind her.

  Raymond lay in the bed in the darkened room looking out the window at the bare trees in front of the hospital. Two hours later he was still awake when the wind started up, whining and crying in the higher branches. He thought about what the wind would be doing out south of town and he wondered if Victoria and the little girl had been wakened by it. He expected they hadn’t. But out in the south pasture, the cattle would all be standing awake with their backs to the wind, and there would be dry little dust storms blowing up in the corrals, shifting across the dry clumps of manure and the loose dirt around the barn. And he knew if things were as they should be, he and his brother would step outside in the morning to begin work as usual and they would stop to smell the dirt in the air, and then one or the other of them would say something about it, and he himself might comment on the likelihood of rain, and then Harold would say that a blizzard would be more likely, this time of year, given the way things were going of late.

  18

  WHEN THE DOCTOR ENTERED THE ROOM IN THE MORNING he was of a mind not to allow Raymond permission to leave the hospital, but when Raymond said he was going to leave regardless the doctor relented and said he could go for half a day but would have to return after the funeral. Just past noontime at the front desk Raymond signed the papers and they released him into the care of Victoria Roubideaux. She had put Katie with Maggie Jones, and earlier that morning she’d brought him the clean clothes he’d asked for. Now she pushed him in a wheelchair out to where her car was parked at the curb in front of the hospital. One leg of his dark trousers was slit to the knee to accommodate the cast, and he wore a blue shirt with pearl snaps which she had pressed freshly that morning and he had on his plaid wool jacket and the good Bailey hat that he wore only to town. Balanced across his lap were the aluminum crutches the hospital had loaned him.

  When he came out of the hospital into the fresh autumn air he looked at the sky and looked all around and breathed in.

  Well, goddamn, he said. It feels about as good as church letting out, to get shut of that damn place. Now you’ll have to pardon my language, honey. But by God, it does.

  And it’s a good thing to see you come out of there, she said. I believe you look better already.

  I feel better already. And I’ll tell you another thing. I ain’t going back in there. Not today, not ever.

  I thought you agreed to go back this afternoon. That’s why they let you out.

  Oh hell, honey, I’d say anything to get them to release me from that place. Let’s get going. Before they change their minds. Where’s your car at?

  Down the street here.

  Let’s go find it.

  AT THE METHODIST CHURCH ON GUM STREET TOM Guthrie was standing at the curb in the bright sun waiting for Raymond and Victoria. They pulled up and Raymond opened the door and Guthrie helped him climb out. He stood up onto the sidewalk, but when Victoria opened the wheelchair behind him he refused to use it, telling them he would walk. And so with Victoria on one side and Guthrie on the other he fit the rubber cushions of the crutches under his arms and hobbled across the wide walkway into the church.

  Inside, the organist hadn’t started playing yet and there was no one in the sanctuary. They moved slowly down the carpeted center aisle between the rows of glossy wooden pews toward the altar and pulpit, Raymond stepping carefully with his head down watching his feet, and they reached the front and he shifted sideways into the second pew. Victoria went out to the nursery to see if she could find Maggie and Katie, and Guthrie sat down beside Raymond. Raymond appeared to be exhausted already. He removed his hat and set it next to him on the pew. His face was sweating, his face was even redder than usual, and for some time he only sat and breathed.

  You all right? Guthrie said, looking at him.

  Yeah.
I will be.

  You’re not going to keel over, are you? Tell me if you feel like you’re going to.

  I ain’t going to keel over.

  He sat breathing with his head down. After a while he looked up and began to survey the objects in the high silent sanctuary—the outsized wooden cross attached to the wall behind the pulpit, the colored windows where the sun streamed in—and now he saw that his brother’s casket was resting on a wheeled trestle at the head of the center aisle. The casket was closed. Raymond looked at it for some time. Then he said: Let me out of here.

  Where you going? Guthrie said. If you need something, let me go get it for you.

  I want to see what they done to him.

  Guthrie stepped out of the way and Raymond grabbed the back of the pew ahead of him, pulling himself upright, and fit the crutches in place and hobbled out into the aisle up to the casket. He stood at the long smooth side of it. He set his hands on the dark satiny wood and then tried to raise the top half of the lid but couldn’t manage to move it without dropping his crutches. He turned his head to one side. Tom, he said. Come help me with this damn thing, would you?

  Guthrie came forward and raised the upper half of the polished lid and propped it back. There before Raymond was his brother’s dead body, stretched out lying on his back, his eyes sunken in the waxy-looking face, his eyes closed forever under the thin-veined eyelids, his stiff iron-gray hair combed flat across his pale skull. At the funeral home they had called Victoria to ask her to bring them something appropriate for them to put on him, and she had located the old gray wool suit in the back of his closet, the only one he had ever owned, and when she had brought it to them they had had to cut the coat down the back seam to get him into it.

  Raymond stood and looked at his brother’s face. His thick eyebrows had been trimmed and they had dabbed powder and makeup on his cheeks over the scratches and bruises, and they had wound a tie around his neck under the shirt collar. He didn’t know where they had gotten the tie, it wasn’t anything he remembered. And they had folded his brother’s hands across his suited chest, as if he would be preserved in this sanguine pose forever, but only the heavy callouses visible at the sides of his hands seemed real. It was only the callouses that appeared to be familiar and believable.