Jack

by Marilynne Robinson

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  To Ellen Levine

  My friend and agent for forty years

  He was walking along almost beside her, two steps behind. She did not look back. She said, “I’m not talking to you.”

  “I completely understand.”

  “If you did completely understand, you wouldn’t be following me.”

  He said, “When a fellow takes a girl out to dinner, he has to see her home.”

  “No, he doesn’t have to. Not if she tells him to go away and leave her alone.”

  “I can’t help the way I was brought up,” he said. But he crossed the street and walked along beside her, across the street. When they were a block from where she lived, he came across the street again. He said, “I do want to apologize.”

  “I don’t want to hear it. And don’t bother trying to explain.”

  “Thank you. I mean I’d rather not try to explain. If that’s all right.”

  “Nothing is all right. All right has no place in this conversation.” Still, her voice was soft.

  “I understand, of course. But I can’t quite resign myself.”

  She said, “I have never been so embarrassed. Never in my life.”

  He said, “Well, you haven’t known me very long.”

  She stopped. “Now it’s a joke. It’s funny.”

  He said, “There’s a problem I have. The wrong things make me laugh. I think I spoke to you about that.”

  “And where did you come from, anyway? I was just walking along, and there you were behind me.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

  “No, you didn’t. I knew it was you. No thief could be that sneaky. You must have been hiding behind a tree. Something ridiculous.”

  “Well,” he said, “in any case, I have seen you safely to your door.” He took out his wallet and extracted a five-dollar bill.

  “Now, what is this! Giving me money here on my doorstep? What are people supposed to think about that? You want to ruin my life!”

  He put the money and the wallet back. “Very thoughtless of me. I just wanted you to know I wasn’t ducking out on the check. I know that’s what you must think. You see, I did have the money. That was my point.”

  She shook her head. “Me scraping around in the bottom of my handbag trying to put together enough quarters and dimes to pay for those pork chops we didn’t eat. I left owing the man twenty cents.”

  “Well, I’ll get the money to you. Discreetly. In a book or something. I have those books of yours.” He said, “I thought it was a very nice evening, till the last part. One bad hour out of three. One small personal loan, promptly repaid. Maybe tomorrow.”

  She said, “I think you expect me to keep putting up with you!”

  “Not really. People don’t, generally. I won’t blame you. I know how it is.” He said, “Your voice is soft even when you’re angry. That’s unusual.”

  “I guess I wasn’t brought up to quarrel in the street.”

  “I actually meant another kind of soft.” He said, “I have a few minutes. If you want to talk this over in private.”

  “Did you just invite yourself in? Well, there’s nothing to talk over. You go home, or wherever it is you go. I’m done with this, whatever it is. You’re just trouble.”

  He nodded. “I’ve never denied it. Seldom denied it, anyway.”

  “I’ll grant you that.”

  They stood there a full minute.

  He said, “I’ve been looking forward to this evening. I don’t quite want it to end.”

  “Mad as I am at you.”

  He nodded. “That’s why I can’t quite walk away. I won’t see you again. But you’re here now—”

  She said, “I just would not have believed you would embarrass me like that. I still can’t believe it.”

  “Really, it seemed like the best thing, at the time.”

  “I thought you were a gentleman. More or less, anyway.”

  “Very often I am. In most circumstances. Dyed-in-the-wool, much of the time.”

  “Well, here’s my door. You can leave now.”

  “That’s true. I will. I’m just finding it a little difficult. Give me a couple of minutes. When you go inside, I’ll probably leave.”

  “If some white people come along, you’ll be gone soon enough.”

  He took a step back. “What? Do you think that’s what happened?”

  “I saw them, Jack. Those men. I’m not blind. And I’m not stupid.”

  He said, “I don’t know why you are even talking to me.”

  “That’s what I’d like to know, myself.”

  “They were just trying to collect some debts. They can be pretty rough about it. I can’t risk, you know, an altercation. The last one almost got me thirty days. So that would have embarrassed you, maybe more.”

  “You are something!”

  “Maybe,” he said, “but I’m not— I’m so glad you told me. I could have left you here thinking— I wouldn’t want you to—”

  “The truth isn’t so much better, you know. Really—”

  “Yes, it is. Sure it is.”

  “So now I’m supposed to forgive you because what you did isn’t the absolutely worst thing you could have done.”

  “Well, the case could be made, couldn’t it? I mean, I feel much better now that we’ve cleared that up. If I’d walked away ten minutes ago, think how different it would have been. And then I really never would have seen you again.”

  “Who said you will now?”

  He nodded. “I can’t help thinking the odds are better.”

  “Maybe, if I decide to believe you. Maybe not.”

  “You really ought to believe me,” he said. “What harm would it do? You can still hang up on me if I call. Return my letters. Nothing would be different. Except you wouldn’t have to have such unpleasant thoughts about how you’ve spent a few hours over a couple of weeks. That splendid evening we meant to have. You could forgive me that much.”

  “Forgive myself,” she said. “For being so foolish.”

  “You could think of it that way, too.”

  She turned and looked at him. “Don’t laugh at this, any of this, ever,” she said. “I think you want to. And if you’re trying to be ingratiating, it isn’t working.”

  “It doesn’t work. How well I know. It is some spontaneous, chemical thing that happens. Contact between Jack Boughton and—air. Like phosphorus, you know. No actual flame, of course. Foxfire, more like that. A rosy heat of embarrassment around any ordinary thing. No way to hide it. I suppose entropy should have a nimbus—”

  “Stop talking,” she said.

  “It’s nerves.”

  “I know it is.”

  “Pay no attention.”

  “You’re breaking my heart.”

  He laughed. “I’m just talking to keep you here listening. I certainly don’t mean to break your heart.”

  “No, you’re telling me the truth now. It’s a pity. I have never heard of a white man who got so little good out of being a white man.”

  “It has its uses, even for me. I am assumed to know how many bubbles there are in a bar of soap. I’ve had the honor of helping to make civic dignitaries of some very unlikely chaps. I’ve—”

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t, don’t. I have to talk about the Declaration of Independence on Monday. T
here is nothing funny about that.”

  “True. Not a thing.” He said, “I really am going to say something true, Miss Della. So listen. This doesn’t happen every day.” Then he said, “It’s ridiculous that a preacher’s daughter, a high-school teacher, a young woman with excellent prospects in life, would be hanging around with a confirmed, inveterate bum. So I won’t bother you anymore. You won’t be seeing me again.” He took a step away.

  She looked at him. “You’re telling me goodbye! Why do you get to do that? I told you goodbye and you’ve kept me here listening to your nonsense so long I’d almost forgotten I said it.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I see your point. But I was trying to do what a gentleman would do. If a gentleman could actually be in my situation here. I could cost you everything, and there’s no good I could ever do you. Well, that’s obvious. I’m saying goodbye so you’ll know I understand how things are. I’m actually making you a promise, and I’ll stick to it. You’ll be impressed.”

  She said, “Those books you borrowed.”

  “They’ll be on your porch step tomorrow. Or soon after. With that money I owe you.”

  “I don’t want them back. No, maybe I do. I suppose you wrote in them.”

  “Pencil only. I’ll erase it.”

  “No, don’t do that. I’ll do it.”

  “Yes, I can see that there might be satisfactions involved.”

  “Well,” she said, “I told you goodbye. You told me goodbye. Now walk away.”

  “And you go inside.”

  “As soon as you’re gone.”

  They laughed.

  After a minute, he said, “You just watch. I can do this.” And he lifted his hat to her and strolled off with his hands in his pockets. If he did look back, it was after she had closed the door behind her.

  * * *

  A week later, when she came home from school, she found her Hamlet lying on the porch step. There were two dollars in it, and there was something written in pencil on the inside cover.

  Had I a blessing, even one,

  Its grace would light on you alone.

  Had I a single living prayer

  It would attend you, mild as air.

  Had my heart an unbroken string

  ring sing sting cling thing

  Oh, I am ill at these numbers!

  IOU a dollar. And a book.

  Long Farewell!

  * * *

  Embarrassing. Absolutely the last person in the world. Unbelievable. After almost a year. He snuffed out his cigarette against the headstone. A little carefully, it was only half gone. And what was the point. The smell of smoke must have been what made her stop and look around, look up at him. If he tried to slip back out of sight, that would only frighten her more, so there was nothing left to do but speak to her. Della. There she was, standing in the road on the verge of the lamplight, looking up at him. He could see in her stillness the kind of hesitation that meant she was held there by uncertainty, about whether she did know him or was only seeing a resemblance, and, in any case, whether to walk away, suppressing the impulse to run away if whoever he was, even he himself, seemed threatening or strange. Well, let’s be honest, he was strange, loitering in a cemetery in the dark of night, no doubt about it. But she might be pausing there actually hoping she did know him, ready for anything at all like reassurance, so he lifted his hat and said, “Good evening. Miss Miles, if I’m not mistaken.” She put her hand to her face as if to compose herself.

  “Yes,” she said. “Good evening.” There were tears in her voice.

  So he said, “Jack Boughton.”

  She laughed, tears in her laughter. “Of course. I mean, I thought I recognized you. It’s so dark I couldn’t be sure. Looking into the dark makes it darker. Harder to see anything. I didn’t realize they locked the gates. I just didn’t think of it.”

  “Yes. It depends where you’re standing, how dark it is. It’s relative. My eyes are adjusted to it. So I guess that makes light relative, doesn’t it.” Embarrassing. He meant to sound intelligent, since he hadn’t shaved that morning and his tie was rolled up in his pocket.

  She nodded, and looked down the road ahead of her, still deciding.

  How had he recognized her? He had spent actual months noticing women who were in any way like her, until he thought he had lost the memory of her in all that seeming resemblance. A coat like hers, a hat like hers. Sometimes the sound of a voice made him think he might see her if he turned. A bad idea. Her laughing meant she must be with someone. She might not want to show that she knew him. He would walk on, a little slower than the crowd, with the thought that as she passed she would speak to him if she wanted to, ignore him if she wanted to. Once or twice he stopped to look in a store window to let her reflection go by, and there were only the usual strangers, that endless stream of them. Cautious as he was, sometimes women took his notice as a familiarity they did not welcome. A useful reminder. A look like that would smart, he thought, coming from her. Still, all this waiting, if that’s what it was, helped him stay sober and usually reminded him to shave. It might really be her, sometime, and if he tipped his hat, shaven and sober, she would be more likely to smile.

  But there she was, in the cemetery, of all places, and at night, and ready to be a little glad to see him. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve noticed that. About darkness.” Join me in it, even things up. I am the Prince of Darkness. He couldn’t say that. It was a joke he made to himself. He would walk down to where she was, in the lamplight. No. Any policeman who came by might take it into his head to say the word “solicitation,” since he was disreputable and she was black. Since they were together at night in the cemetery. Better to keep his distance. And he knew he always looked better from a distance, even a little gentlemanly. He had his jacket on. His tie was in his pocket. He said, “You really shouldn’t be here,” a ridiculous thing to say, since there she was. Then, as if by way of explanation, “There are some pretty strange people here at night.” When there he was among the tombstones himself, taking a little comfort from the fact that she could not see him well, to notice the difference between whatever she thought of him in her moment of apparent relief and how he actually was. Not what he actually was, his first thought. Spending a night in a cemetery, weather permitting, was no crime, nothing that should be taken to define him. It was illegal, but there was no harm in it. Generally speaking. Sometimes he rented his room at the boardinghouse to another fellow for a few days if money was tight.

  He said, “I’ll look after you, if you’d like. Keep an eye on you, I mean. Until they open the gates.” He would watch out for her, of course, whatever she said. It would seem like lurking if he didn’t ask. Then she would leave, and he would follow, and she would probably know he was following her and try to run away from him, or hide in the tombstones, or stop and plead with him, maybe offer him her purse. Humiliating in every case. Catastrophic if a cop happened along.

  “It was so stupid of me not to realize they would lock those gates. So stupid.” She sat down on a bench in the lamplight with her back to him, which struck him as possibly trusting. “I’d be grateful for the company, Mr. Boughton,” she said softly.

  That was pleasant enough. “Happy to oblige.” He came a few steps down the hill, keeping his distance from her, putting himself in her sight if she turned just a little, and sat down on the mound of a grave. “I’m not here normally,” he said. “At this hour.”

  “I just came here to see it. People kept telling me how beautiful it is.”

  “It is pretty fine, I guess. As cemeteries go.”

  He would try to talk with her. What was there to say? She had been holding flowers in her hand. They were beside her on the bench. “Who are the flowers for?”

  “Oh, they’re for Mrs. Clark. All wilted now.”

  “Half the people in here are Mrs. Clark. Or Mr. Clark. Most of the people in this town. William Clark, father of nations.”

  “I know. That would be my excuse for wandering around if
anybody asked. I’d be trying to find the right Mrs. Clark. I’d say my mother used to work for her. She was such a kind lady. We still miss her.”

  “Clever. Except that the Clarks are pretty well huddled together. You find one, you’ve found them all. I could show you where. For future reference.” Complete nonsense.

  “No need. It was just something I made up.” She shook her head. “I’m going to embarrass my family. My father always said it’s a baited trap. Don’t go near it. And here I am.”

  “A baited trap.”

  She shrugged. “Anywhere you’re not supposed to be.”

  He shouldn’t have asked. She was talking to herself more than to him, and he knew it. Murmuring, almost. The crickets were louder. She reminded him of every one of his sisters in that prim coat that made her back look so narrow, her shoulders so small and square. He thought he had seen his sister hang her head that way, one of them. All of them. No, he was elsewhere at the time. But he could imagine them, standing close, saying nothing. No need to speak. No mention of his name.

  “Well,” he said, “I guess you should be glad that I’m the one you came across here. A respectable man would have every problem I have, trying to be protective. More problems, because he wouldn’t know the place so well as I do. You’d probably be more at ease with someone like that. But I can slip you out of here, no one the wiser. It’s just a matter of waiting till morning. A respectable man wouldn’t be here at this time of night, I realize that. I’m speaking hypothetically, more or less. I just mean that I see your problem, and I’m happy to be of assistance. Very happy.” That was nerves.

  He thought he might have made her uneasy, since the realization was beginning to settle in that she really was there, not so unlike the thought he had had of her, and she might have heard a trace of familiarity in his voice, which would be worrisome to her in the circumstances.

  She said, “I am grateful for your company, Mr. Boughton. Truly.” Then silence, except for the wind in the leaves.

  So he said, “I’ll be the problem you have if you have one. If you stick to your story, you’ll be all right. The guard isn’t a bad fellow. You just don’t want to be found in here with, you know, a man. I mean, that’s how it would look. No offense.”