Jack

by Marilynne Robinson

  He went down the stairs. The clerk glanced up from his newspaper. He said, “Boughton, you’re alarming me,” and went back to his newspaper. Jack walked around the desk, opened the drawer where mail accumulated, and grabbed the stack of letters, cards, scrawled scraps of paper, and took it all up to his room. Why? But there it was, scattered on his bed. First he sorted through to see if any of it was addressed to him, reasonably enough. There was an IOU he seemed to have signed, with no amount written in. There was a card that said, “Please! Please! Forgive me!” without an address or signature, and one that said, “I will die soon. I blame you.”

  These were thoughts of the kind that more or less hung in the air in that establishment. He should have left there years ago. He might have been a different man if he had passed those years in a different atmosphere. That he had to remind himself that his adult life had not been purgatorial by accident was already a sign of progress. The thought of leaving that room was bracing. He was startled to realize that he felt less dread than anticipation. He would send a letter to what had been Della’s house, hoping someone would get it to her if she did not find it herself. He would leave a note with the desk clerk in the hope of comforting her a little if need be, assuming he would actually give her the note.

  So, two notes to Della, one to Teddy. He tore the IOU to atoms. Then he undressed for bed, negotiated what he could in the way of comfort with the scanty blanket and thin pillow he had once shared with Della, his wife. She still felt a little bit present with him. That would end. He was doing right by her, her whole family would tell her that, or some version of it. He had not felt so morally certain, as his father would say, since he left college for St. Louis to spare his brother the perils of cheating for him. Now Teddy was a doctor and Della might still be a teacher, despite his pernicious influence. The best thing he could do in either case was to disappear.

  It was also the worst thing. A chilling thought. He got up, got dressed except for his shoes, and lay down again. More than once he had heard his father say, “That little fellow just refused to be born. Ames and I were on our knees for days!” He didn’t say, “That little fellow almost killed his mother.” One bad act in the closing hours of his pre-existence, then who knows what. Her soul enfolding forever her little assassin. When he heard the story of his birth, the doctor down with pneumonia and the vet, smelling sweetly of carbolic acid, rocking those hours away on the front porch just in case, he sometimes wished he could have been left unborn. But that had been decided for him. His refusing birth, or attempting to refuse it, might have meant he suffered the kind of foreknowledge the unborn lose as they pass into the world. He had read about that somewhere and it seemed plausible to him. In any case, his mother lived to grieve over him, which was the better outcome, since her other children flourished and cherished her and altogether exceeded any mother’s hopes. His father would say of his fiercely recalcitrant son, He grew up as tall and fine as the rest of them. It was true, Teddy was his virtual twin. Their father would say, “These hands are not more like!” And once Teddy had asked, “Which one is the ghost?” That was when he was still showing up to Jack’s classes in Jack’s clothes, when he was learning to hang back, to smile almost sardonically, to loiter where anyone else would simply stay or wait, as if he had no good reason to be anywhere. It was frightening to watch. Next he would be lying or stealing, not just making hash of the honor code. Teddy should have been living his own estimable life. Jack was right to have vanished into St. Louis. Of course, there were all the other things that made it wrong.

  Morning would never come.

  But it did, and Jack set himself to preparing his departure. He went to Chez les Morts, where he did in fact find a valise, worn at the seams but respectable, and a newer shirt. He went back to his room and stuffed his earthly possessions into the bag. When he went to the studio to turn back the keys, he found the boss so shorthanded that he stayed and danced around for a few hours, which meant his trip was delayed to the next day. But the boss gave him a couple of dollars and several ladies kissed him goodbye, and that lightened his mood.

  Another night, then the long trudge to the bus station. As he was leaving, the desk clerk said, “It’s going to be pretty dull around here.” This made no sense at all. Jack was quite sure he had never even screamed in his sleep, though that would have been perfectly acceptable behavior. He knew he had never assaulted another tenant despite provocations enough. He had never once been arrested in the entire time he had lived there. In general, he had been careful to add no interest at all to their collective life. He took pride in the thought.

  He said, “You’ll manage.”

  The clerk shrugged. “So far so good,” which wasn’t true either. No one under that rotten roof, no one in that heartbroken street, could say those words and mean them. Jack paused in the doorway to consider a reply. The clerk half smiled the way he did when he knew he’d gotten under Jack’s skin. So he left, done with all that.

  He bought a one-way ticket to Chicago. None of his associations with the place were positive, but at least he had been there before. Youth in Gilead, Iowa, had not exactly made a worldling of him, and since then he had kept his expectations low enough to assure himself a very simple life. He had no reasons to prefer Chicago to Indianapolis or Minneapolis except for his slight, unhappy acquaintance with it. That was at least something.

  He took a seat toward the rear of the bus, by a window. In the waiting room he had noticed a young woman struggling to quiet a child who appeared to be restless with fever. Sure enough, they took the seat next to his. The woman was wearily apologetic. Jack said, “I know how it is, don’t give it a thought,” implying that he knew something about children in order to lessen her embarrassment. In fact, he was surprised by the strength of the creature, the weight of its lolling head, the impact of those hard little shoes kicking against his leg. The woman tried to hold the little girl’s legs and set off an eruption of shifting and striving that Jack, a patient man, thought might make the trip unendurable. He could get off at the next stop and hope for better luck whenever he had the price of another ticket. But the buses were still crowded with the effects of repatriation. He was lucky, in a manner of speaking, to get the seat he had.

  The woman said, “I’m Margaret. She’s Lucy.”

  “John,” he said.

  Lucy bucked against her mother’s embrace and cried loudly. “This just started yesterday. She was fine before that. I wouldn’t have left home if I’d known this was going to happen.” The baby lolled her big head, wet face, damp hair, and looked appealingly at Jack, as if there were anything he could do for her. She reached out a wet hand toward him.

  Margaret tried again to bundle the child against her. “So you have kids?”

  “Yes. A girl. And a boy.” Why not? He was only elaborating on the first lie, which was innocent, kindly meant.

  “How old?” How long ago was she born? Or how old was she when she died?

  “Two and a half,” he said. “The girl. The boy is seven.”

  “So he can help his mama keep an eye on her. Lucy’s two and a half. She runs me ragged.”

  He was trapped in this conversation, hearing himself lie for no reason, really, except that he couldn’t see how any harm could come from it, which never meant harm didn’t lurk. The woman stood up to adjust the hold she had on the baby, who whimpered and squirmed and, when they sat down, thrust out her legs against Jack’s thigh. He said, “You have to get her to a doctor.”

  “Doctors cost money. Besides, she’s just coming down with a cold or something. She’ll be fine.”

  “I have money!”

  She leaned forward to look at his face. “So do I,” she said. “Because I don’t spend it when there’s no need.”

  He said, “You don’t know. An infection can take hold very quickly.” Words his mother had written, regretful that they had not reached him earlier so he could have come home in time. As if he’d have done that. He said, “We could get of
f at the next town. I could help you find a doctor.”

  She said, “You just relax, mister. I can take care of my baby.” Then, after a few minutes, she said, “You lost your own little girl, didn’t you? I am so sorry!”

  He set his hat over his eyes and leaned back. He could feel the embarrassed restlessness of the woman beside him, a compassionating gaze with nowhere to rest, no one to see it. Like what? Like that letter from his mother.

  He got off at the next stop, bought a bottle of orange pop, and brought it back. “I thought she might like this,” he said.

  “You’re real kind.”

  He leaned back, hat over his eyes, and pretended to sleep. In a while the fussing and pummeling stopped. The baby was asleep on the breast of her sleeping mother. He actually touched the baby’s plump, sticky cheek, just to be sure. It was cool. The baby murmured and turned away from his touch. They two had spent any number of hours wrestling each other and now they were lovingly asleep. There wasn’t light enough for him to read. He could hardly stir without waking this Margaret and Lucy, whose quiet was a great relief to him. Towns and farms and rail yards. Once at a stop he contrived with much care and long-leggedness to extricate himself, to walk out into the chanting night for a smoke, then to insinuate himself again. So far so good.

  He would have left the bus that morning in the fringe of the city that was clearly hospitable to low expectations, but the woman and baby were still asleep; the baby’s head was pillowed on his arm. Two more stops and Margaret woke up. The shops now had a flourishing look, the hotels a certain polish, a certain urbanity. Supposing things could only get worse, that is, more genteel and expensive, Jack took down his valise. When he stepped into the aisle, Margaret said, “Wait! My aunt has a boardinghouse not too far from here. I can give you her address.” He gave her a book he had meant to return, Robert Frost, and she wrote an address on the inside cover and a note. Dear Auntie, this gentleman has been very kind and helpful to me! Margaret.

  He thanked her, stepped off the bus, and noticed a café and a bookstore. First a roll and coffee, then, unshaven and weary of his clothes, he nevertheless stepped into the bookstore just for the familiarity of shelved books, some of which, in shabbier versions of themselves, he had spent stray or furtive hours with, engrossed from time to time despite the comeuppance or plain maleficence that stalked his contracted world. It was a beautiful bookstore with high ceilings and fine old books in glass cases. All the classics were there, robust ranks of them. There were books in French and German, books of poetry and history. There was the smell of books. To calm himself he took down good old Leaves of Grass, and stood in the aisle reading until he almost forgot where he was. When the clerk spoke to him, he quickly checked his memory to assure himself he had not slipped anything into his pocket, took off his hat, and smiled.

  She was a young woman with a pleasing face, smiling at him.

  She said, “Can I help you find anything?”

  “Hart Crane,” he said, to impress her. “He’s difficult. I thought I might give him another look.” He’d checked. There was nothing by Hart Crane. He wouldn’t have to talk his way out of buying anything. He touched his shadowed jaw. “I’ve been traveling all night. I should find a hotel. But this is such a beautiful store, I had to look in.”

  “We’re proud of it,” she said. “I see you found Walt Whitman.”

  “Yes, an old friend. I knew he wouldn’t mind if I’m a little rumpled, a little weary.” His reluctance to shelve the book was unfeigned, but with this pleasant little woman standing there, there was nothing else to do with it.

  “Not so many people come here asking for Hart Crane. For poetry, really.” She asked, “Are you a writer? You sort of look like one.”

  “From time to time I try my hand. I don’t think that counts. A nice thought, though.” Even dishevelment seemed to be working in his favor.

  “Well, if you’re new in town, we have an opening here. My father is always looking for someone who knows the merchandise, he says. If you come by late morning tomorrow, he’ll be here.”

  “Yes. Late morning. Thanks.” He backed out the door, gesturing ceremoniously with his hat, and she laughed. It was a joke. It wasn’t nerves.

  This was all very strange. Here he was with the prospect of a position that would be both suitable and desirable. Then he remembered that the address of the boardinghouse was in a book in the valise he had left in the store. He stepped back in, and the young woman was waiting there to give it to him. Another flourish of the hat, very pleasant laughter, and he was in the street again, thinking, to his surprise, he’d have to find a way to mention that he was married.

  He found the boardinghouse, not so far away. It was surrounded by commerce of various kinds, low-lying buildings with signs over their doors and parking in front of them. But the boardinghouse was a holdout from another time, with gardens in front of it and a wrought-iron gate. It looked like the very idea of a comfortable old home, curtains in the windows, rockers on the porch. Nevertheless, he went up to the door and knocked. This time it was a pleasant old woman who asked if she could help him, then smiled and said, “Oh, yes! My niece telephoned. She said you were very kind. Yes, I have a nice room all ready for you.” He followed her up the stairs, and she opened the door on what indeed was a very nice room. The bed was fat with pillows and blankets, there was an overstuffed armchair, a big, polished dresser. Oh, for heaven’s sake, a trouser press with a shoe brush. Decent prints of old paintings. Bathroom next door.

  He said, “It’s very nice. My wife will love it. I believe I will have a job soon—”

  “Good for you. You get some rest now. I put out a little light meal at seven in the evening. Then there’s breakfast. You’re on your own for lunch.”

  What was the joke? He tried not to be too obviously amazed, too effusive. But there was an enormous porcelain tub in the bathroom. Tile everywhere, all intact, shining. The lavender in the air was about half as sharp as smelling salts, a purgation all by itself. Stacks of white towels. He would scrub that scrawny devil, Jack Boughton, within an inch of his life, shave him to perfection, lay him down on that fat bed and drowse until it was time for the light supper. He could not stop wondering when he would make the fatal misstep, when the trapdoor would open. Everything was going far too well. At very worst, though, he would face ridicule or denunciation clean and shaved. The light meal was sliced beef, warm brown bread, potato salad. The four other boarders nodded but showed no interest in him or in one another. Wonderful.

  The next morning, after ham and eggs and a stiff black coffee, he strolled in the direction of the bookstore. He worried a little about being too early or too late, but then he noticed that ahead of him there was a doughty old church with a clock in its steeple which was just then confirmed by a peal of bells telling the hour. Eight o’clock, they said, as if they had heard him wonder. Uncanny. He had left the bus two stops late and found himself—here. If Teddy somehow tracked him down, Jack could show him an acceptable life. For how long? If he got a job, and if he could pay his room and board. In the meantime, he would consider it all unusually satisfying theft. The distance wasn’t so far from his window to the ground.

  Five minutes before the church bells would ring ten, Jack walked into the bookstore. He was Teddy for the moment, calm and forthright. The father was there and so was the daughter, both, it seemed, pleased to see him. “John Boughton,” he said, and they shook hands. In just a few minutes he was employed at a decent salary, expected to keep up more or less with the new books coming in, though a wider familiarity with their stock would be a good thing. He would actually be paid for this, for standing around looking as though he belonged there, with a book in his hand. He had left university without a degree—this was very true—then knocked around awhile—also true, though he shrugged and smiled when he said it, to suggest that his scarred face had a raffish tale or two behind it. He did not mention his stint as a dance instructor, which seemed even more inelegant in retrospe
ct, and of course dishwashing and the rest were so firmly unmentioned that he almost forgot them himself, together with the time in prison. He had really never considered that there could in fact be a place in life suited to Jack Boughton. The boardinghouse had a parlor with a piano. It had a washroom and a porch for hanging laundry. And his rent was just a little higher than the rent he paid on that bleak room in St. Louis. Still, he was always writing letters in his mind—If only you could be here, too, dear wife. Dear friend, the loneliness might kill me. He would save up some money and go looking for her.

  * * *

  What would be the point? All this misery was meant to send her back to her good life. Weighing one thing against another, say, for instance, that she was sad, embarrassed, disillusioned, she was also young, full of life, charming. It wasn’t in the nature of things that she would be alone any longer than she chose to be. He might show up sometime, just to say he regretted the way things had ended, and she would say, “I thought I was the one who ended it,” and laugh. She might say, “You’re looking very well,” to make the point that their separation had been good for him, which would imply that he had his own reasons for putting an end to the endless awkwardness they called their marriage. He might sense anger in a remark like that, knowing she would never admit to anger. He would be making a kind of demand on her pride that was never welcome, making her eyes tear or her voice fail or break, when this was the last thing she would want to have happen. Then he would know he had hurt her once by leaving, then hurt her again by disrupting the calm she had induced in herself to hide her shock, her sadness. He thought sometimes that he should give up the constant bathing and shaving, the suppers if not the breakfasts, because he had noticed he did look better. Flourishing seemed wrong in a man so disheartened as he was. He thought of sleeping on the floor. Then again, if Della saw him looking trim and fit, she might not wonder how she had ever felt an attraction to him. If he took reasonable care of himself, her first thought might not be that he was old. Years could have passed before he saw her again.