Benediction

by Kent Haruf

  He stood up, a tall man in a light summer suit, staring at Lyle. You must be about as crazy as hell! He turned fiercely and grabbed his wife’s hand, pulling her to her feet and gesturing angrily at their little boy. They came out of the pew and went hurrying back up the aisle through the doors and out of the church.

  The congregation all watched them leave. Then they began to look around at one another. They looked again at Lyle.

  What do the rest of you think? Lyle said. What do you say? He was standing next to the pulpit now.

  I’m not afraid to say, a man said. You’re a damn terrorist sympathizer. He rose up in the middle of the sanctuary, holding on to the pew-back ahead of him. A big heavyset man. We never should of let you come out here. You’re an enemy to our country.

  The old usher who had been sitting at the back stood up now from his customary chair and came rushing, limping down the aisle. Wait! Stop! You can’t talk that way in church!

  The big man in the pews turned and looked briefly at the old man in his dark suit, shiny with age. Go back and sit down on your chair there, Wayne. I’m not talking to you. But I’m not staying in here. No by God, I don’t have to listen to this damn fairy tale on a Sunday morning. He looked around the room. And if the rest of you know what’s good for you, you won’t either. He shoved out of the pew and went out.

  The two Johnson women were sitting down front. Willa stood up, her white hair pinned in a bun, her eyes glinting behind her thick glasses. Let them go, she said. If that’s how they are, let them leave and good riddance. We have to listen to what the minister is saying. Even if we don’t agree with him, we need to listen and consider. We have to be civil to one another.

  No! a woman cried from the back. You be quiet. You shut your mouth.

  What? No. I won’t be quiet, Willa said. She turned all around, looking at the congregation. I’m going to speak. Who’s talking to me back there?

  Nobody answered her.

  Then Alene stood up beside her mother and looked around at the people, but now there were others who had begun to rise and glare at Lyle, and these people started to slide out of the pews and to turn up the aisles to go outside. At the back of the church one of them, a man, stopped and turned back. Go to hell! he shouted. You go to hell!

  Still, most of the congregation, more than half of the people in attendance that morning, stayed seated in the pews yet, waiting in shock and disbelief, and curiosity too, for what Lyle would do now. The pianist was still in her place down front and Beverly Lyle and John Wesley were still seated in the middle of the sanctuary, and the two Johnson women, and the old usher remained standing, outraged, in the aisle. Lyle looked out at them all. After a time he spoke. May we have the last hymn now?

  You mean you still want to sing? the pianist said. You still want to?

  Yes, would you play the hymn, please?

  Yes. If that’s what you want.

  She began to play the introduction out loudly, with a kind of flourish. It seemed a sort of madness, a kind of miscalculation of the tone and temper of the moment. Lyle began to sing. He had a good voice. It was one of the old hymns Charles Wesley had written two centuries ago. A few of the others gradually, falteringly joined in. They got as far as the end of the first verse and the first refrain, then Lyle stopped singing and the Johnson women and the old usher and the others ceased—his wife and son had never been singing—and the pianist played a few more measures and then she stopped too.

  Thank you, Lyle said quietly. Thank you for that much.

  He stepped down off the dais and walked back up the aisle, staring straight ahead, looking at none of them, while in the pews they followed him with their eyes, turning their heads as he passed, then he stopped at the rear of the church and raised his hand in the ancient gesture of benediction.

  The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you; the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace; both now and forevermore. Amen.

  Then he turned and opened the big oaken doors behind him and stood in the doorway. A hot wind blew in from outside. At the front of the sanctuary the pianist closed up the piano, folding the lid over the keys, and slipped out a side door. The old usher limped up.

  Should I close up now?

  Yes, if you don’t mind.

  This won’t last. People get upset.

  Yes. I know.

  They shouldn’t be saying what they said. That kind of language in church. That’s not right.

  They weren’t prepared for it.

  It won’t last. I’ve seen worse, the old man said. He turned and went back down an outer aisle and began to shut the high windows with his long pole with its hook at the end.

  The congregation began to shuffle out. Sullenly, uncomfortably, not talking to one another, moving in an uneasy mass. A few of them stopped to look at the preacher, a few said a word or two but most of them didn’t, and went silently out. The Johnson women stepped up and shook Lyle’s hand.

  It’s always this way in time of war, Willa said. It was like this in the 1940s. And during Vietnam. This mix of nationalism and hate and fear.

  What will you do now? Alene said.

  I’m not sure, Lyle said. This doesn’t change what I believe.

  No. Don’t be disheartened.

  You won’t be, will you? Willa said. They shook his hand again and went on outside.

  The usher had shut all the windows and had gone down the back stairs to close up the basement. Lyle’s wife and son, the last in the church, came toward him, John Wesley in front, taller than his father. Lyle reached to take his hand.

  Don’t, the boy said. Don’t touch me. God, how I hate you when— He broke off. How could you? He swung violently away and rushed down the concrete steps to the street, running past the Johnson women and all the others going to their cars, running on toward the parsonage and his bedroom two blocks away.

  Lyle’s wife stepped up. At first she didn’t speak, she seemed quite calm. Slim, smooth haired, wearing a summer blouse and skirt. You’ve ruined this too, she said, haven’t you. What did you think people would do? Did you actually think they’d agree with you? Be convinced by your eloquence and passion? My God.

  No. No, I didn’t think that. I had to say it anyway.

  Why? For what earthly reason?

  Because I believe it.

  You believe it. You take it literally, you mean?

  Yes. It’s the truth. It’s still the only answer.

  Oh my God. She shook her head and looked away. You’re such a fool.

  He watched her descend into the bright day. The sun was directly overhead now. He pulled the big doors shut again and stood alone at the back of the church looking at the dim and silent and empty sanctuary.

  26

  THERE WERE OCCASIONS when Dad Lewis and Mary went together to Denver to see Frank after he left home and never came back. Once was when he was nineteen and waiting tables in a downtown café, just before Christmas. It was not an expensive or sophisticated place where he worked, but more than a hamburger joint, more of a steak-and-potato and deep-fried-fish sort of place, in a one-story building that ran all the way back to the alley.

  They drove in from Holt on a bright cold Sunday afternoon. They were only a middle-aged couple then, Dad still had most of his hair and Mary’s face was not yet wrinkled and lined. Along the highway snow was drifted in the fields of corn and wheat stubble and cattle were humped up in the freezing air. When they got to Denver they found the café on a corner of Broadway.

  You think this is it? Dad said.

  It must be, Mary said.

  It doesn’t look like much.

  Now don’t start.

  I’m not starting anything.

  Then don’t use that tone.

  What tone is that?

  She looked at him. And don’t be stupid.

  What if I can’t help it?

  Just don’t be stupid on purpose, she said. Be nice. I want this to b
e nice. I’ve been looking forward to it. And you have too, only you won’t admit it.

  You know a lot, Dad said, but you don’t know everything.

  He parked the car and they went inside. The café was not busy, it was too early for the supper trade and they had stopped serving lunch two hours ago. At the front counter was a sign that said Please Seat Yourself. They took a table by the windows overlooking a side street and a used-car lot with a long cord of white lightbulbs that drooped above the hoods of the cars. The lights were already switched on in the late overcast winter day. The interior of the café had a lot of black and white. The stools at the counter were all black plastic and the tables had checkered tablecloths matching the black-and-white tile on the floor.

  I don’t see any waiters, Dad said.

  Somebody’ll come.

  I thought he was supposed to be working now.

  This is his shift, she said. That’s all I know.

  A man with a flattop haircut came out from the kitchen over to their table. I’m sorry, we’re not open for supper yet.

  When will you be? Dad said.

  Another hour.

  What can we get now?

  Whatever’s not listed on the supper menu.

  We don’t have any menus at all yet.

  The waiter went to the register and brought back two plastic-covered menus.

  We were really just wanting to see our son, Mary said. Is Frank here?

  Do you mean Franklin?

  Frank, Dad said. Last name Lewis.

  Well, there’s a Franklin Lewis here.

  Is he nineteen years old? Mary said.

  Maybe. I’d guess about that.

  Could you tell him we’re here?

  He’s out back in the alley on break.

  You think we could have some coffee while we’re waiting? Dad said.

  Of course. I should of offered. He went behind the counter and returned with a coffeepot and two white mugs and poured the coffee and went behind the counter again and through the swinging door into the kitchen.

  Franklin, Dad said. Is that what he’s calling himself?

  I don’t know, she said. Do you want some cream?

  He didn’t bring us any.

  I know. She got up and looked at the tables, then leaned over the counter and found a little metal pitcher.

  This looks fresh, she said.

  She sat down again. Dad poured cream into his coffee and looked in his cup and sipped at it.

  Is it all right?

  He nodded.

  Then Frank came out through the kitchen door. He saw them and came over and stood beside their table. He was tall and very thin, his hair grown out long. There was a bruise on his cheek.

  Well, you made it, he said. You’re too early for supper though.

  That waiter let us know, Dad said. He called you Franklin.

  That’s what I call myself now.

  Why would you do that?

  Because. I’m making changes. That’s part of it.

  Changing your name.

  That’s right.

  It isn’t what you were born with.

  I know. That’s the point, Dad.

  Dad looked out across the street at the used-car lot.

  How long will you be here? Frank said.

  We have to go back tonight, Dad said. He turned back.

  Lorraine’s at home on Christmas break, Mary said. We don’t want to be away while she’s there.

  We don’t close till eight and I have to help clean up. So it’ll be late.

  We can wait for you, Mary said. She looked at Dad. Can’t we.

  They won’t let you off any earlier? he said.

  They might but I don’t want to lose this job. I’ve just had it a month. Do you want anything to eat?

  I guess we can get some hamburgers, Dad said.

  You want some chips too?

  You don’t have any fries?

  Not yet.

  Frank left and went back to the kitchen.

  He looks too thin, Mary said.

  He always was thin. He’s probably always going to be thin.

  You saw that bruise on his cheek?

  He must of got hit, Dad said. In a fight or something.

  Why would someone want to hit Frank?

  I advise you not to ask him.

  I know. I don’t intend to.

  Maybe it wasn’t too bad, Dad said. Maybe he didn’t get the worst of it.

  Frank came back carrying two thick crockery plates with the hamburgers and chips, lettuce and tomato and onion on the side. He stood for a while next to the table, talking. Then a boy about his age came out from the kitchen and stood beside him.

  This is Harlan, Frank said. He wanted to meet you.

  How do you do, Mary said.

  The boy reached and shook her hand. His hair was long too.

  This is my dad, Frank said.

  He shook Dad’s hand. You’re from here in Denver? Dad said.

  Yes, sir. I was working here before Franklin ever started.

  Then you’ve been here a while, Mary said.

  Too long. He looked at them. Well, it’s good to meet you. I’ve got to get back to the kitchen. He popped Frank on the back of the head and Frank turned and said, You better be careful, you might get in trouble, boy. The boy laughed and went back through the door. Frank watched him until he was gone and then looked at his parents. They were looking at each other. Then two women and a man entered the café and Frank went to meet them. They watched him and it was clear that he was good at meeting people, and soon the café got busy. Outside the light began to weaken along the street and Dad and Mary ate their food and when Frank came back they ordered pie and presently he brought the pie and set it down.

  I asked Howard. He said I could get off at seven thirty if we aren’t too busy.

  A half hour earlier than usual, Dad said.

  Yes, plus missing out on cleanup. What do you want to do?

  We’ll meet you out front, Dad said.

  When they finished eating they left money on the table and went out to the car and drove to Civic Center. Colored lights were shining up from big lamps, flooded onto the fronts of the government buildings. Dad parked and they walked along the sidewalk in front of the buildings with other people, the families and their kids in heavy coats and caps. The buildings were all lit up for the holiday and the trees had colored lights strung in the bare branches. They walked by the museum and the public library and back to the car. They were sitting on the side street near the café for an hour before Frank came out. They waited and looked at the car lot and watched the diners through the big windows and saw Frank working at the tables. Everybody was eating and talking and they could see Frank talking. They all looked festive and happy.

  It’s after seven thirty, Dad said.

  He’s still busy, Mary said.

  Then Frank finally came out. He was only wearing a thin jacket with a long dirty scarf wrapped around his neck, he got in the backseat and they drove over to his apartment.

  The street was dark with old tall wooden houses. One of the street lamps was broken out at the corner. They got out and Frank used his key and they climbed the stairs to the third floor, where there was a wide bare hallway with a single shared bathroom. Frank’s apartment was just one room looking out onto the dark street, with a narrow bed and a chest of drawers and a curtain hung across the corner for a closet, with an electric hot plate on a stand and a half-size refrigerator, a bare table and two chairs. A poster of the night lights of New York was taped on the wall. Opposite was a poster showing an Indian girl above a caption that said Better Red Than Dead.

  Sit down, Frank said. I can make you tea or coffee.

  Tea would be good, his mother said.

  They sat at the table and Frank put a pan of water on the electric burner and got out tea and sugar, then stood and waited for it to boil. Dad was looking at the poster across the room. You believe that? he said.

  What?

 
What that poster says.

  I don’t want to kill anybody, Frank said.

  That’s not what I’m talking about.

  Don’t worry, Dad. My lottery number’s a low one. They’re not going to call me.

  When did you hear that? Mary said.

  A couple months ago.

  You didn’t tell us. We’ve been worried.

  I got lucky.

  The water boiled and Frank poured out three cups and they made their tea. He took his across the room and sat on the bed.

  It was warm in the room. They looked around at the spare furnishings.

  Have you seen your sister lately? Mary said.

  She came down and stayed a weekend with me. And I went up to Fort Collins.

  She seems to be doing all right. Don’t you think?

  Yeah. She’s good.

  Have you decided if you’re coming home for Christmas at all? We’d like to see you.

  I have to work, Mom.

  You can’t get off for even one day?

  Maybe. I’ll have to see what he tells me. We’ll see.

  That means you won’t, Dad said.

  It means I don’t know, Frank said.

  He got up and carried his cup back across the room.

  Are you done?

  He took their cups and stacked them in the little sink in the corner.

  I’ve got you something for Christmas, Mary said. I didn’t know what you needed. She opened her purse and took out an envelope, she’d written his name on it in red ink and handed it to him and he opened it, a Christmas card with a fifty-dollar bill inside.

  Thank you, Mom. He bent and kissed her. You too, Dad.

  You’re welcome.

  I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything.

  It doesn’t matter, honey.

  I think I’ll go down and get the car warmed up, Dad said.

  Do we have to go so soon?

  It’s late. We still have two and a half hours of driving ahead of us.

  Dad looked at Frank. I’ll see you, he said, take care of yourself, and he went out the door and they heard him going down the wood stairs.