“In this heat,” she said.
“Yes, but the tie’s all right.”
“It looks fine.”
He had some intention, clearly. That was probably a good thing, all in all. There was a kind of tense composure about him that seemed like morale. He said, “What’s for dinner?”
“Creamed chicken on toast. Leftovers. No dumplings this time. I made a peach cobbler, though.”
“Well,” he said, “I thought we might eat in the dining room. If that’s all right. With candles. The light seems so bright in here. To those of us who fear the light and love the darkness.” He laughed.
She thought, He doesn’t want Papa to be pained by the sight of him. Of course. She said, “Whatever you like. I’ll open the windows and put the fan in there. It gets stuffy in this weather.”
“I’ll take care of that.”
She went into her father’s bedroom and found the old man lying there pensively awake. When she spoke to him, he said, “I love hearing all the voices. Your mother says this house is like an old fiddle, what it does with sound, and I think that’s true. It is a wonderful house.” He was still worn from that long night, she thought, still half asleep.
“Would you like to get up now, Papa? I’ve made supper. Jack got some rest this afternoon, and he’s up and setting the table.”
He looked at her. “Jack?”
“Yes. He’s feeling a lot better.”
“I didn’t know he was ill. Yes, I’d better get up.” His concern was such that he seemed to have forgotten the recalcitrance of his body and to be surprised to find himself struggling to sit upright.
“Here, I’ll help you,” she said.
He looked at her with alarm. “Something’s happened.”
“It’s over now. We’re all right.”
“I thought the children were here. Where are they?”
“They’re all at home, so far as I know, Papa.”
“But they’re so quiet!”
She said, “Just a minute. I’ll ask Jack to play something while we get you ready for supper.”
“So Jack’s here.”
“Yes, he’s here.”
She stepped into the dining room and asked Jack to play, and then she went back to help her father. “‘Softly and Tenderly,’” the old man said. “A very fine song. Is that Gracie?”
“No, it’s Jack.”
The old man said, “I don’t believe Jack plays the piano. It might be Gracie.”
She brought her father down the hallway. He stopped at a little distance from the piano, released her arm, and stood looking at Jack with puzzled interest. He whispered, “The fellow plays very well. But why is he here in our house?”
Glory said, “He’s come home to see you, Papa.”
“Well, that’s very nice, I suppose. No harm in it.”
Jack played the hymn to the end, then he followed them into the dining room. He had put the jacket back on. He helped his father with his chair, Glory with hers, then seated himself by his father. The old man looked at him as if he had taken a liberty, not offensive but surprising just the same, in sitting down with them. He said, “Glory, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes. All right.” She closed her eyes. “Dear God in heaven, please help us. Dear God, please help everyone we love. Amen.”
Jack looked at her and smiled. “Thank you,” he said.
The old man nodded. “That pretty well sums it up.”
Her brother leaned out of the candlelight while she served. He pushed back his hair and settled his tie down the front of his shirt, and then folded his hands in his lap, as if remembering to keep them out of sight. His father glanced at him from time to time, sidelong. Glory cut up her father’s toast, and then they ate in silence, except when Glory asked if they would like more of anything. She hadn’t read a newspaper in days or turned on the television set or the radio, so she could not think of a way to bring up Eisenhower or Dulles or baseball or Egypt, the things that focused her father’s attention, lured him out of his dreams. At least he and Jack were eating.
Finally, Jack cleared his throat. Still, his voice was a throaty whisper. “Sir,” he said, “there are some things I’ve wanted to say to you. If this is a good time. I thought it might be as good as any.”
His father smiled at him kindly. “No need to be so formal. I have been retired for a number of years. Just call me Robert.”
Jack looked at her.
She said, “Papa, can I get you some coffee?”
“Not for me, thanks. Our friend might want some.”
After a moment Jack said, “If I could talk to you about something. I wanted to tell you that after considerable reflection, after giving the matter some careful thought—” He looked at Glory and smiled.
His father nodded. “Are you considering the ministry?”
Jack took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. “No, sir.”
“There’s quite a return to the ministry these days. Many young men are drawn to it now. It’s wonderful. You might want to think about it.”
Jack said, “Yes, sir.” He toyed with his water glass, reflecting. Then, “I’ve made an effort, for a number of reasons. To believe in something. I’ve read the Bible I don’t know how many times. And I’ve thought about it. Of course I have been in situations where it’s the only book they let you have, where there isn’t much else to think about. That you’d want to think about.” He looked at Glory. “I have tried, though. Maybe that just makes me—obdurate. Isn’t that the word? I don’t know why I am what I am. I’d have been like you if I could.”
His father looked at him, solemnly uncomprehending.
Jack said, “I meant to tell you that I had—after careful thought, I had become persuaded of the truth of Scripture. Teddy said it would be all right to say that. I wanted you to stop worrying about me. But all I can really say is that I’ve tried to understand. And I did try to live a better life. I don’t know what I’ll do now. But I did try.”
The old man looked at him intently. Then he said, “That’s fine, dear. Have we talked before? I don’t believe so. I may be wrong.”
Jack leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He looked at Glory and smiled. He said softly, “Tears!”
Glory said, “Jack wants to talk to you, Papa. He’s trying to tell you something.”
“Yes, you said Jack is here. That would be very surprising. He’s never here.”
After a long breath, “I’m Jack.”
The old man turned stiffly in his chair to scrutinize his son. He said, “I see a resemblance.” He reached out painfully and took hold of the candlestick, to move it closer to Jack, who put his hand to his face and laughed. His father said, “There is a resemblance. I don’t know.” He said, “If you could take your hand away—”
Jack dropped his hand into his lap and suffered his father’s scrutiny, smiling, not raising his eyes.
The old man said, “Well, what did I expect. His life would be hard, I knew that,” and he fell to brooding. “I was afraid of it, and I prayed, and it happened anyway. So here is Jack,” he said. “After all that waiting.”
Jack smiled at her across the table and shook his head. Another bad idea. Nothing to be done about it now.
Glory said, “It’s been hard for him to come here. You should be kinder to him.”
A moment passed, and her father stirred from his reverie. “Kinder to him! I thanked God for him every day of his life, no matter how much grief, how much sorrow—and at the end of it all there is only more grief, more sorrow, and his life will go on that way, no help for it now. You see something beautiful in a child, and you almost live for it, you feel as though you would die for it, but it isn’t yours to keep or to protect. And if the child becomes a man who has no respect for himself, it’s just destroyed till you can hardly remember what it was—” He said, “It’s like watching a child die in your arms.” He looked at Jack. “Which I have done.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that. I didn’t—�
�� He put his hands to his face.
Glory said, “No. This is terrible. I won’t let this happen.”
“Let it happen,” Jack said softly. “I don’t have anything to lose.” And he dropped his hands, like a man abandoning all his defenses.
The old man was groping for his napkin, which had slipped to the floor. Jack gave him his. “Thank you, dear,” he said, his voice ragged with tears, and he blotted his face with it.
“That wasn’t Jack’s fault,” Glory said. “You know it wasn’t.”
Her father said, “Then why did you slap old Wheeler’s face? She did, she slapped him. Because his house was no fit place for a child, that’s why. Broken things, rusted things on the ground everywhere. Just everywhere! We could have brought her home! If Jack had owned up to her at all. He knew what kind of place it was,” he said bitterly. “He’d been there.”
Jack leaned back in his chair and shielded his eyes with his hand.
Glory said, “That was so long ago. Can’t we put it aside, Papa?”
“Have you put it aside? We thought you never would get over it. It nearly scared your mother to death the way you mourned for that child.”
She said, “But Jack is here now. His life has been hard. It’s been sad. And he’s home now. He’s come home.”
“Yes,” the old man said, “and he’s telling us goodbye. You know he is. He says he’s read the Bible. Well, any fool could see that. He knows it better than I do. Why would he bother to say that to me? So I’ll think maybe he’s been working out his salvation. Well, maybe he has. I hope he has. But that isn’t why he spoke to me about it. He doesn’t think he should leave me here worrying about his soul. He has a few chores to finish up around the place. He’s going to toss the old gent an assurance or two, and then he’s out the door.”
Jack laughed. He said, very softly, “That’s not quite the way I thought of it.” He cleared his throat. “But I probably will be leaving. That’s true.”
Her father hung his head. “All of them call it home, but they never stay.”
After a moment Jack said, “You don’t want me hanging around here. Reminding you of things you’d rather forget.” His voice was still barely more than a whisper.
“I never forget them. Hard as I try. They’re my life.” He looked up at his son. “And so are you.”
Jack shrugged and smiled. “Sorry.”
His father reached over and patted his hand. “It worries me sometimes. I don’t know what’s become of my life.” Then he said, fingering Jack’s sleeve, in a tone of rueful admission, “I lost my church, you know.”
Jack said, “Well, I knew you were retired.”
The old man nodded. “That’s one way to look at it.” The candles had begun to flicker in an evening wind. The wind toyed with the crystal droplets on the light fixture. He said, “I lost my wife.”
Jack shifted away as if he expected another rebuke, but his father just shook his head. “Why did I ever expect to keep anything? That isn’t how life is. I’m”—he said—“I’m awfully worried about Ames. There he’s got that little boy. I don’t know.” After a moment he looked up. “I’ve left the house to Glory. All the rest of them are settled. There’s some money you’ll each get a share of, and some for the Ames boy. It’s not much. I know Glory will be glad to see you if you ever feel like coming home again.”
Jack smiled at her across the table. “That’s good to know.”
The old man closed his eyes. “I can’t enjoy the thought of heaven like I should, leaving so much unattended to here. I know it’s wrong to think your mother’s going to ask me about it.” He was silent for a while, and then he said, “I was hoping I would be able to tell her that Jack had come home.”
Jack sat pondering his father, and there was something in his face more absolute than gentleness or compassion, something purged of all the words that might describe it. Finally he said, whispered, “I hope you will give her my love.”
The old man nodded. “Yes. I will certainly do that.”
AFTER HE HAD PUT HIS FATHER TO BED JACK CAME OUT TO the kitchen. He said, “Feel like a few games of checkers? I really can’t imagine going to sleep right now.”
“Neither can I.”
He said, “I’m sorry about that, Glory. These things never go the way I expect them to. You’d think I’d have learned by now. Not to expect.”
“You meant well.”
“I believe I did.”
“You did.”
“Yes,” he said, and nodded, as if he had steadied himself against this minor certainty. “I checked with Teddy. And it was your idea to begin with.”
“We both thought it was worth a try.”
“I didn’t try, though. Did you notice that? To lie to him. I lost my nerve.”
“That’s probably just as well.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
They played three wordless games, Jack so distractedly that Glory won despite her best efforts. She thought, There ought to be a name for this. Boughton checkers. Gandhi checkers.
He said, “You probably want to get some sleep.”
“Well, Jack, I just found out that I will inherit this house. I never meant to stay in Gilead. I mean I positively intended to leave Gilead. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I’m—‘horrified’ is too strong a word, but it’s the one that comes to mind. So I doubt I could sleep if I wanted to.”
Jack leaned back in his chair and looked around him, almost objectively. “It’s a pretty decent house. Free and clear. You could do worse.”
She said, “This is a nightmare I’ve had a hundred times. The one where all the rest of you go off and begin your lives and I am left in an empty house full of ridiculous furniture and unreadable books, waiting for someone to notice I’m missing and come back for me. And nobody does.”
He laughed. “Poor Pigtails.” Then he said, “When I have that dream, I’m hiding in the barn hoping someone will find me, and nobody does.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m going to get that barn torn down. If I inherit this place, that’s the first thing I’m going to do.”
“Fine. Should I make some coffee?”
“Might as well.”
Jack filled the percolator. Then he leaned against the counter. “It’s your barn. Of course, if you had somebody work on the roof a little, it would last a few more years. That’s just a thought. Paint would help.”
She laughed. “So you want me to keep the barn. What else should I keep?”
“What else are you planning to get rid of?”
“Oh, the rugs, the drapes, the wallpaper, the lamps, the chairs and sofas—a few dozen of the souvenir plates. The figurines.”
“Fine,” he said.
“Some of the bookcases. And Grandpa’s old theology books. There must be five hundred of them.”
“You’ll keep the Edinburgh books, I suppose.”
“Yes, I will keep them.”
“Some of the rest of it you could just put in the attic. I could move things around to make more room up there.”
“That’s a thought.”
He went across the hall to the dining room and flipped on the light, and stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips. “I see what you mean.”
“It looks like something out of The Old Curiosity Shop.”
“True.” But he kept looking around at it, the table and sideboard with their leonine legs and belligerently clawed feet, like some ill-considered, doily-infested species of which they were the last survivors. The wall sconces that were lotus blossoms with lightbulbs where their stamens ought to have been. She thought, Dear Lord, he is missing it all in anticipation. She thought, As long as he is alive in the world, or as long as no one knows otherwise, I will probably have to keep all that sour, fierce, dreary black walnut. That purple rug. And if he dies I will still have to keep it, because I have seen him look at it this way.
She said, “You want it to stay the same.”
“What? No, no.
It doesn’t matter to me. Maybe I’ll be back here sometime,” he said, and it was clear from his tone that he doubted he would be. That he seemed to entertain doubt only for politeness’s sake. He said, “I’ve thought about this place now and then,” and he shrugged. The coffee was done and he gave her a cup and filled it and took one for himself.
She said, “No one will want me to change anything. When Papa’s gone they’ll come here twice a year or once a year or never, but they’ll want it all to be the same.”
He nodded. “You could sell it. Let someone else tear down the barn. Let the memory of Snowflake vanish once and for all. It would probably be best for everybody if you did that.” He knew he was proposing the unthinkable, and he smiled.
“Ah!” she said, and she rested her head on her arms. “I don’t want this to happen. Somehow I always knew this would happen to me.”
“It doesn’t have to. You could just light out, make a run for it. Let the others deal with it. No one would blame you. I wouldn’t, anyway.”
“No, I really couldn’t do that.”
“Sorry,” he said. And then he said, “It’s a relief to know you feel that way, Glory. I know I have no right to say this, but it is a relief to me. Of course, you can always change your mind.” He got the deck of cards and laid out a hand of solitaire.
WHEN SHE DID FINALLY GO UP TO HER ROOM AND LIE down as if to sleep, she fell to pondering the fact that she had almost promised him she would stay in Gilead and keep the house as it was, the grounds as they were, more or less weedy, more or less unpruned, but essentially the same. Even though he might never see it again. All that helpfulness of his, now that she thought about it, was restoration. Mother’s iris garden reclaimed, the Adirondack chairs repaired, the treads replaced on the back porch steps. It was a little like having the family come to life again to have him there, busy about the place the way her father used to be. When he had first come home, fearful as he was that he had become a stranger, he still came around to the kitchen door, that old habit.
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