Benediction

by Kent Haruf

  He hadn’t been able to make himself kick the box out from under his feet. Then he discovered that he couldn’t untie the knot behind his head without moving the box. If he moved at all the box tipped. He began to cry, without daring to move, as the room darkened. The tears left runnels in the charcoal on his face. He watched afraid, as the light seeped out of the room. He couldn’t hear anything outside.

  It had been completely dark for an hour when his father came home and the headlights of the car came tipping and rocking up the gravel drive. Then the headlights went off and he heard the car door shut and heard his father going up the back steps into the house. He called to him, but there was no answer. Then after a while Lyle came back out of the house to the garage and tried to open the door. He peered in through the window.

  Dad.

  What’s going on? Are you in there?

  Help me, Dad.

  Why? What are you doing?

  Help me.

  Lyle smashed the window with a rock and reached in and unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  Dad, don’t touch me.

  What is this? What are you doing?

  You can’t touch me. You might push me off.

  My God.

  Help me get down. You’ll have to cut the rope.

  I’ll turn the car lights on.

  No, don’t. Somebody might see me. Just get a flashlight. Please.

  Lyle stood looking up at his son’s dark face. I’ll be right back, he said. Don’t move.

  He rushed into the house and came back with a flashlight and a kitchen knife and played the beam over the boy’s face, blackened and smeared, tracked by tears.

  God Almighty, son. Oh my Lord.

  You can’t tell Mom. You promise?

  What do you mean? She has to know.

  I don’t want her to know. Promise me, Dad. Nobody else either.

  I have to get you down from there first. He got a stepladder from the side of the garage and stood it next to the rope.

  Dad. Don’t bump me.

  I know, son. Be quiet.

  You can’t even touch me.

  Stay quiet now. Hush.

  He climbed the ladder slowly and shone the flashlight up and down the rope and over the boy’s frightened face and cut the rope loose with the knife. The end fell away. The boy began to cry, and he stumbled off the box and fell down in the dirt. Lyle climbed down and pulled the rope from his neck.

  You’re all right now, honey. He held him tight. It’s all right now.

  I want to go with Mom.

  Yes, you can go with her. You’re safe now.

  But you won’t tell her.

  No. Not if it’s important to you.

  37

  IN THE EVENING, on the following day, Dad lay awake with the window open, the smell of dust and mowed grass drifting in.

  Mary came in the room with a pan of hot water and set it on the chair next to the bed and brought in a second pan and set it on another chair and went out again and returned with towels and washcloths. She switched on the bedside lamp and got Dad out of his pajamas and his diaper and covered him with a flannel sheet. Are you ready to get cleaned up, honey?

  That water isn’t too hot, is it? he whispered.

  No. But I don’t want you to get chilled.

  She began by washing his face and head with a soapy washcloth and rubbed his face and head with a washcloth from the rinse water and dried him with a towel. She washed his chest and arms and hands and rubbed him dry, and pulled the flannel sheet up, covering his upper body to keep him warm, and washed his wasted legs and feet and rinsed and dried them. Roll over on your side now, honey. Hold on to my hand. He made a little moan in pain and turned slowly to his side and she washed his back and his gaunt behind and cleaned him thoroughly and dried him, then he turned back and she washed between his legs.

  Nothing there, he whispered.

  There used to be, she said. We had us some fun, didn’t we.

  She put a new diaper on him and helped him into his pajamas and drew up the sheet and summer blanket, then he lay back and looked at her.

  I appreciate all this, he said.

  You’re welcome.

  I wish I could do something for you.

  You have. All these years. I’ll just clean this up and come back and lay down with you.

  She took the pans to the bathroom and wiped them clean and put the towels and the flannel sheet in the laundry and washed her hands. She put on lipstick and brushed her hair, then came back and switched the lamp off and lay down beside him.

  He had dozed off but he woke now. He drew his hand out from under the cover and reached for her.

  I don’t have long to go, he whispered.

  Oh, honey, don’t you think so?

  I’m tired. I want to go on. I need to let you be. So you can have some peace and rest.

  Oh, don’t say that. I’m still all right. I just want you to be comfortable. Are you hurting?

  Yeah.

  She got up and got him another of the pills and a sip of water, then got back into the bed and took his hand.

  Everything’s taken care of, isn’t it? he whispered.

  Yes. Everything’s fine. Nothing to worry about.

  The store and the money?

  It’s all done. You’ve done everything. We’re all right. You can rest about that. Are you worrying, honey?

  I been thinking about Frank.

  I miss him, she said. I want you to see each other before you go. I wish he’d come.

  He wouldn’t come even if he did know. Maybe you won’t see him now either.

  I refuse to think that, she said. I won’t. She sounded close to tears.

  Dad turned his head to look at her. Then maybe he’ll come. After I’m gone out of here.

  At least Lorraine’s here, she said. That makes a difference.

  I wish she had a different choice of men, Dad said. I don’t care for the one she’s got now.

  It’s not our decision. It’s up to her.

  I know.

  They didn’t speak for a while after that. She thought he’d gone to sleep again. Then he whispered, You’ve been everything to me. All these years. Everything. I want you to know that.

  I know, honey. You’ve been good to me.

  He breathed quietly and she lay for a long time holding his hand. The room was all in darkness now, all was shadows. She got up and came around the bed and kissed him in his sleep and went out to the kitchen and turned the light on and made coffee. Lorraine came in from outside.

  How’s Daddy?

  I gave him his bath. He’s sleeping.

  When Dad woke he was alone in the dark, the only light in the room was the light coming in under the shade from out at the barn, from the big yard light. The window shade breathed in and out, a little movement. Not much. There was not much of a breeze this night but still there was a little cool air coming in.

  He turned in the bed and looked toward the window, then he saw he was not alone, people were already sitting here in the room looking at him, waiting on three wood chairs at the side of his bed. He knew them all. Frank. And his own old mother and old father.

  His father was as he looked and dressed in the Great Depression and during the war. Sitting on the hard chair, patient, leaning forward a little, his hands holding his hat, wearing his old brown suit with the wide lapels, a stain on the lapel and another one at the old fly of the suit pants, the crotch so long that he always pulled the pants up practically to his chest, his hard-won gut paunch rounded out below the belt at the top of the pants, so that he looked short bodied, foreshortened, misshapen, all long thin legs with only a little upper half to him above his belt, like some comic figure out of a vaudeville show. Sitting with his hands idle, loose, not even turning the hat but just sitting motionless, patient, in the old-fashioned brown suit just as Dad remembered him. No hair on his head to speak of. His face burnt red, from working out in all the weather. Outside all day. Down at the hog pen and the cow
barn and scooping grain in at the narrow slat-wood door of the granary and digging postholes in the ground, and every year planting dryland wheat back in Kansas and every year harvesting what meager crop there was. Working all the days of his life and never enough to show for it, never enough to get ahead.

  And next to him, on her chair, his mother. The silent woman. The uncomplaining unexpressed uninflected woman. Gray hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her Sunday dress, old pearl-colored gabardine buttoned to the neck, shiny in places. Too loose, irreplaceable, out of poverty. And her long thin hands, bony red hands, and red bony wrists. With the scrap of battered adhesive tape wrapped around as guard holding the worn-out wedding ring on her bony finger. Her face wrinkled and lined. Her wire glasses on her nose that was too thin and pinched. Sitting here looking at him. His mother and the old man together just sitting, looking, quiet, as patient as some kind of old work-exhausted animals, waiting.

  Beside them Frank was smoking a cigarette again. He looked worn out this time, tough, ragged, disheveled, unhappy.

  Dad peered at them for some time. What do you want? he said. What have you come for?

  We can’t stay long, his father, the old man, said. We got to be getting on here purty soon now.

  We come to see you, his mother said. We come to see how good you’re faring, son.

  Frank smoked and looked at them and looked at Dad.

  I’m not too good, if you want to know, Dad said. I’m about finished. I’m going down now.

  We come to see you, before you do, she said. We’ll be waiting for you.

  We got to go purty soon, the old man said.

  Where is it you’re waiting for me? Dad said.

  Oh you know, she said. Don’t be worried.

  He turned toward Frank. What about you? You won’t be waiting for me.

  No, I won’t wait for you. I’m still here. I got things to do yet. He exhaled smoke and then dropped the cigarette on the wood floor and twisted it out under his shoe.

  So how you figure you’re doing? the old man said to Dad.

  I just told you. Not very good. I’m going down.

  Well, you sure got you a real fine nice big house here. You done all right that way, didn’t you. This is a real nice big pleasing satisfying house you got here.

  I worked for it, Dad said.

  Well sure. Of course. I know, the old man said. Had some luck too, I believe.

  I had some luck. But I worked hard. I earned it.

  Yeah. Sure. Most people work hard. It’s not only that now, is it. You had you some luck.

  Goddamn it, I had some luck too, Dad said, but I earned the luck.

  Some people got to stay back in Kansas out on the dry prairie, the old man said.

  What are you talking about? This is dry prairie. It isn’t much different. No trees. Dryland farming except where they found water underneath.

  We never had none of that in our piece of Kansas. No sir. We wasn’t so lucky as that. No sir, we never was that lucky where we was.

  That’s all right, Papa, the old woman said. Let it be now. Don’t you fret yourself.

  The old man looked at her. We better get on purty soon. We can’t stay here much longer.

  Do you know my son here? Dad said.

  Of course. Yeah. We know him, the old man said. We met him just now. He takes off of you, don’t he.

  I guess he does, Dad said. I don’t see it myself.

  Well, course he does. You ain’t looking right. You never brought him to see us, did you. Never once.

  No. I didn’t want to.

  No. You never did. Out of spitefulness, wasn’t it. Out of meanness.

  We better go, Papa. It’s getting late. We just stopped in to see how you was faring, son. Don’t be afraid.

  I’m not afraid, Dad said.

  Don’t be afraid, son.

  I’m not.

  It’s not like folks think, she said.

  Is it all right though?

  Don’t worry about it, son.

  I’m not worried about it.

  We’ll be a-seeing you, the old man said. You just take it easy here now. That’s all you got to do.

  Enjoy all of it while you can, she said.

  Take her good and easy, boy. We got to go on.

  When Dad woke again the old man and the old woman in their old Sunday clothes were gone. Frank was sitting next to the two empty chairs in the low barn light coming in from under the shade.

  They left, I guess, Dad said.

  They said they had to go, Frank said. They weren’t so bad. Not like you said. You always made them sound like they were terrible people.

  You never met them before now.

  No. When would I?

  Well, you saw them now.

  They weren’t so bad. They didn’t bother me.

  It was because he wanted to beat me again, Dad said. I wasn’t going to have it. I was fifteen and I run away. I never went home after that.

  History repeats, Frank said.

  What?

  I’m saying I know that story. A version of it, anyway.

  Maybe so, Dad said. He looked at Frank for a while. Goddamn it, I didn’t even know how to cut my meat or eat my potatoes right, I chased my peas around the plate with a knife. I come out of that kind of life, out of their house, knowing nothing but hard work and sweat and paying heed and dodging cow shit and taking orders. I cut my meat about like it was a piece of stove wood.

  None of that matters, Frank said.

  No. That don’t matter, Dad said. But it matters what it stands for. He talks about luck. Your mom was my luck. I was lucky in your mom.

  I know, Dad.

  Your mom helped me change.

  Well, I don’t like to tell you, but you’re not all that sophisticated yet, Dad. If that’s what you’re talking about.

  What?

  Never mind. That doesn’t matter either.

  Wait now. I know what you’re talking about. I know what you mean. But you don’t know where I come from. I wanted more. I wanted out of that. I wanted to work inside someplace. Talk to people. Live in a town. Make a place for myself on Main Street. Own a store, sell things to people, provide what they needed. I worked hard, like I told him. It wasn’t just luck. Your mom was my luck. I know that but I worked hard too.

  Dad, who are you talking to? Don’t you know who you’re talking to? I know all that. I was here, remember?

  Dad stared at him. All right. I’ll pipe down. He looked around the shadowy room. You want some coffee? I know you drink coffee.

  No. Not now.

  Go ahead and smoke if you want. I don’t care. What difference does it make now.

  All right. I’ll do that.

  Frank took a pack from his shirt pocket and lit a cigarette with a match and blew smoke toward the window. The smoke was sucked out by the night air.

  Your mom went to find you in Denver, Dad said.

  I know she did.

  How do you know?

  They told me.

  Who?

  At the café.

  I thought you weren’t there no more.

  I’m not. But I drop in.

  They didn’t tell your mom.

  I drop in once in a while.

  What are you doing now?

  I’ve been out in California where most of us end up. Where else?

  I guess it’s nice and warm all year long out there, Dad said.

  It’s warm. Yeah. But we’re out there in numbers. That’s what I’m talking about.

  You mean others like you.

  Yeah. Other weirdos and cocksuckers.

  Don’t talk like that about yourself, Dad said.

  It’s the truth, isn’t it. Isn’t that what you think?

  I did once.

  What do you think now?

  Not that.

  What then?

  I don’t know. I don’t understand it. I’m too ignorant. I don’t know nothing about it. I told you, I come off a farm in Kansas. That’s all I k
new where I come from. It took all I had to get this far, a little plains town, with a store on Main Street.

  You did all right, Dad. You’ve come a long way.

  Not far enough.

  No. That’s true. Not yet you haven’t.

  Dad looked at him, his eyes watering again.

  What’s wrong? Frank said.

  Nothing.

  I thought you were going to cry.

  That’s the first kind thing you’ve said to me in forty years, Dad said. About me doing all right, coming a long way.

  Well, I must have forgotten myself. I let my guard down. Don’t count on it happening again.

  I know. I learned that much. I’m not ignorant about everything.

  He woke once more. Frank had moved his chair to a place closer beside the bed. The other two chairs were gone now. The air was fresh and pleasant coming in the window, the light still shining from the barn outside.

  You’re still here, Dad said.

  Yeah. I’m here. I haven’t left yet.

  My old mother and old dad didn’t come back.

  No. They’re gone now.

  Those others didn’t come back either.

  Who?

  Tanya. And Rudy and Bob.

  No, they aren’t with me.

  Dad looked at him for a while. Frank had turned sideways so he could see out the window. The shade had been drawn up now. Son, are you doing all right? Dad said.

  Me?

  Yes.

  I’m all right, more or less. I could use a better job. I never could get going right. I get dissatisfied and take off.

  You always could do a lot of different things.

  Maybe. But I don’t know what. I don’t have any college degree like Lorraine does.

  You could of.

  You think so?

  We would of helped you like we helped her.

  I couldn’t do it back then.

  Why was that?

  I wasn’t thinking about studying. I didn’t have the time. Or the desire for it.

  You wanted out of here, Dad said. Didn’t you. That’s what you wanted.

  That was part of it.

  Away from me, you mean.

  Not just that. Away from this little limited postage-stamp view of things. You and this place both.

  But you still could of gone to school. That would of helped.

  I didn’t think so then. I just wanted out on my own.