Jack

by Marilynne Robinson

  “What now?” she said.

  “I’ve been thinking about St. Louis.”

  She nodded. “I think about it all the time.”

  “I tried Chicago. It didn’t work out. Neither did St. Louis, I suppose.”

  They laughed. “We had some good times there, though,” she said. “We did.”

  Julia came into the room, all tact, to head off a dozen adolescents who had gathered at the front door. A confirmation class, no doubt. She spoke to them and they went away adolescent fashion, jumping from the top step to the sidewalk two or three times, laughing, bickering companionably, scuffling a little, expending energy that came with being released from expectation. That part of life wasn’t a bad thing to give someone.

  Julia said, “I’m going to go find Auntie. She’s probably still at the church,” and she left.

  After a few minutes, the brother Marcus stepped into the doorway. “I have an appointment,” he said. “I’ll see you later, Della. Tell them not to wait dinner for me.”

  She said, “Marcus, you don’t have an appointment. At dinnertime on Sunday?”

  He shrugged. “I was just trying to be polite,” he said, and he put on his hat and left.

  Jack had stood when Della’s father came back with her, of course, and both times Julia came in, and again when Marcus had stood there in the doorway. He was beginning to feel ridiculous, thrown back on that punctilious courtesy that struck more than a few people as sardonic. He could never find just the right degree of deference. There were things other people seemed to be born knowing. He could hear voices in other rooms, some of them sounding heated. Whoever appeared, in whatever emotional state, he had only courtesy to defend himself. He had stood there, hat in hand figuratively speaking, while Marcus paused in the doorway, barely glancing at him, and excused himself from any acquaintance with him. Why were there an infinite number of ways to feel awkward? He believed this was a theological question having to do with man’s place in the universe. But when he felt the true force of the question, he was always in the middle of an embarrassing emergency of some kind that paralyzed reflection.

  But each time he sat down again Della took his hand. He had pondered at some length the very great comfort there was in the touch of that hand. Another theological question, how one human being can mean so much to another human being in terms of peace and assurance, as if loyalty were as real as gravity. His father said it had to be that real, because the Lord is loyal. Jack was just then feeling the force of the idea.

  Julia came in, smiling, with smiling Aunt Delia, who offered a hand in a lavender glove and said, “Mr. Boughton!” in a tone that acknowledged old acquaintance. “It’s good to see you!” A favorite aunt with the kind of charm that came with a good heart. Della kissed her. Jack could have kissed her. She was pretty and enjoyed the fact. She was the ally anyone could wish for and enjoyed that, too. “I’ve been recruited to help with dinner,” she said, and laughed. “So I guess I have some work to do!” Julia looked on, pleased, and then they went away.

  Jack said, “I should go. I mean, I shouldn’t be hanging around. Maybe I could see you tomorrow.”

  Della said, “Don’t leave. Nothing will be better tomorrow. At least today we still have the advantage of surprise.” She said, “It’s not so pleasant for me here, either. No one has been unkind, really, but everything is different. My fault.”

  “Mine, too. We’re in this together.”

  She nodded. “That’s the good part,” she said.

  He did not put his arm around Della, his wife, or kiss her. That could easily inflame the situation. “I do have something to give you.” He had, in the last furious moment, jammed the pictures he had made of her into the valise, since, disappointing as they were, they might be the only likeness he would ever have of her. “I was trying to remember your face,” he said. “Please don’t be offended.”

  Della looked them over. “You think I’m pretty.”

  “Yes, but the expression of the eyes is wrong. Look at me.” He studied her face. She studied his.

  Then Della’s mother came into the room, arm in arm with Aunt Delia. Jack stood. Her mother said, breathily, “Mr. Boughton, I hope you can stay for dinner. It will just be the family. You’ll be very welcome.”

  Jack said, “Thank you. That’s very kind. But I really should be going.”

  Della said, “Thank you, Mama. He’ll stay.”

  And Delia said, “Of course he will stay!”

  * * *

  Sweet savors. His father said the essence of the thing was that fragrance ascending. Who would suppose some flustered, crotchety old chicken could yield up such perfumes? Grace upon grace. The Old Gent had blessed their dinner in just these terms, sometimes having skipped breakfast to appreciate it properly. Jack felt a pang of longing to be in his father’s house. He was thinking, I could pray your prayers, I could sing your hymns, I could bless your dinner. I shouldn’t be such a stranger here. Or in my father’s house, for that matter. Why do these embarrassments always feel new?

  Della said, “It will be all right.” And then she said, “If it isn’t, what will it matter?” True enough. No real problem would be solved at best, or made worse if it all went wrong, and dinner would be a good thing in any case.

  He said, softly, “I know a man in St. Louis who might help us out a little.” This was Hutchins. There was a fundamental kindness behind his disapproval that, who knows, might prevail in the circumstances. Which should not have arisen, as he would say, and Jack would not grant. But there must be some ladies in the church who would love to help bring a baby into the world. That desk clerk at the old place might not mind too much if Della stayed there for a while, discreetly, of course, until they found other arrangements. For all his threats he never did call the cops. Maybe Teddy had gone on leaving money at the other place. That fellow might not have seen his way clear to give Teddy the note, and if he had put maybe half of the money aside like he did while Jack was in prison, it would have added up. Jack was not in the habit of mustering hopes, since they invited disappointment, a possibility that aroused anxieties in him that actually seemed to summon disappointment.

  Della said, “Jack?” wanting his attention, and he realized that her mother had come to ask them to sit down for dinner. Della showed him where he could wash his hands and his face, and then he came into the dining room. It was set with ten places, six of them empty. Della’s father was not in the room.

  “Julia,” her mother said, “go find your brothers.”

  Julia was gone and came back and whispered something to her mother. “Yes, they will come to dinner!” her mother whispered loudly. “This minute!”

  Jack stood up, about to excuse himself, and the lady of the house said, “You just sit down!” as if she’d forgotten he wasn’t one of hers, a pleasant thought. And then, “Where’s Delia now? Where’s she off to?” and she left the room to answer her own question while the handsome dinner cooled.

  Delia came in with two tall boys, teenagers, who glanced at him and shared looks, drew their chairs out noisily and slouched in them, kidding around with each other a little, as if furtively. Then Marcus came into the room with Julia, and stood behind his chair as though he could not make the final concession and sit down in it. His mother said, “We won’t start without your father,” so Marcus left and Julia followed him, then Delia. Their mother said, out loud to herself, “Everything’s going to be stone cold.”

  One of the teenagers turned to him and said, “Hi there, Jack.”

  The other one said, “How’s it going, Jack?” Then he said, “No, wait a minute. Jack’s dead!”

  “Yeah! Didn’t he choke to death on a chicken bone?” They laughed uproariously.

  Della said, “Jack the cat. Sorry.”

  Their mother shook her head. “What have I done to deserve such children!”

  The older boy said, “We’re not minding our manners. Isn’t somebody going to send us to our room?”

  “Ye
ah! Put your foot down, Mama!”

  “If you keep on this way, you’re going to be sitting in those chairs till your beards are gray. We have company!”

  “Oh, sorry, we didn’t realize he was company. He just kind of showed up, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, like a stray cat.” They laughed and laughed. “Now do we have to go to our room?”

  Their mother said, “I am so ashamed of you. I didn’t know you could be so rude.”

  “Well, where’s Papa? Where’s Marcus?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Never you mind. Sit up straight and act your age!”

  Jack stood up. “Yes, well, thank you, Mrs. Miles, but I have to go.” He realized he had put his hand to his face, hiding that damn scar. But the bishop walked in, with Delia and Julia and Marcus and another brother whose name he didn’t know. The older man stood at the head of the table and said, “Heavenly Father—” Then everyone stood up. Jack couldn’t very well walk out during grace. Then Della put her arm through his and said, “This man is my husband. If he leaves, I go with him.” No one wanted that, Jack least of all. Go where? Do what? And with a wife to think about! It was brilliant. Her mother was saying, “Please stay!” And the boys were saying, “We’re sorry, Della! We didn’t mean it.” And her father was saying, “We should all calm down and enjoy this fine meal together!” The thing that would have been Jack’s fiercely guarded secret if it were not obvious to everyone, that he was a hungry man with no money in his pockets, was certainly a consideration for all of them, for Jack definitely. After he had filled his plate, with proud restraint to spare himself that appearance of mendicancy he so often had reason to dread, Della filled it again twice. It was all very good. Marcus attempted conversation—“I understand you’re a country boy.” This rankled Jack a little, because it was probably true.

  “Small town,” he said.

  “Right,” Marcus said, as if acknowledging a distinction.

  “I did do a lot of fishing. Played lots of baseball.” Lied a lot, stole a lot. Blue eye, tan cheek, larcenous habits, a Child Slick somehow rusticated. Not what anyone means by the words “country boy.” The dinner was exhausting, and when he was tired, Jack had to watch out for bouts of candor.

  The bishop said, “This is a pretty full house, as you can see, but we do have a couple of cots in a back room for unexpected visitors.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.” He hated how often he had to say those words. When Della’s mother told the boys that they would be doing the dishes all by themselves for the rest of their lives, Jack caught himself before he could say he had useful experience in that line, or he was living proof that you really could end up doing dishes for the rest of your life. It wasn’t even dark out, and the thought of sleep almost made his knees buckle.

  “First, though, I hope we can have a few words, Mr. Boughton,” the bishop said.

  “Of course.” Of course. Jack followed him into his study. Big books drab with age and use, a picture of Jesus preaching.

  “Mr. Boughton,” he said.

  “Jack.”

  He nodded. “Mr. Boughton. My family and many of our friends have devoted ourselves to a certain way of life, one meant to develop self-sufficiency in the Negro race by the practice of separatism, so far as this is possible in society as it exists now. I know there are white people who are offended by separatism, but the alternatives also offend them. I’m not asking your opinion about this. My point is that my objection is not to you as an individual.”

  Jack said, “You don’t know me very well.”

  “Maybe I don’t. I think I have gleaned a few things. But we won’t get into that.”

  “Thanks. You’re very kind.”

  “Kinder than I want to be sometimes.”

  Jack said, “I understand. My father was a clergyman.”

  He smiled. “Yes, Della has mentioned that.” After a moment, he said, “You can never be welcome here. I want you to understand that. Della and any children can come here if they want to, or need to, so long as they come without you. You have disrupted our lives, but not our intentions. The situation of black people must change. They must have the opportunity to decide what form the change will take and how it will be achieved. I regret that my daughter does not choose to have a part in this. For the time being, at least.”

  Jack said, “Della is loyal to me and I’m loyal to her. I never intended things to work out this way. I couldn’t have imagined it. Neither of us meant any harm, I promise you.”

  “So she says.” He took up an envelope from his desk. “Money,” he said. “Enough for bus fare to St. Louis. I want you to go away.”

  “Then both of us will go.”

  “Maybe so. We’ll see.”

  Jack would have refused the money on principle if he were not in fact desperate to leave and at a loss for another way to manage it. “Thank you” seemed wrong in the circumstances, so Jack said, “Christian of you.” This may have sounded a little sardonic, since the bishop said, “You should be very grateful that I am a Christian man.”

  The fact was that Jack saw his point. In simple truth, society was a great collaboration devoted to making everything difficult and painful to no good end, a curse on the life of his good Della and her unborn child. True loyalty to them might have been to step away and let this man go about his necessary work undistracted by worry about his daughter, by fear for her. But if Jack did that, if he left her, even her father might think, might say, “Well, what did you expect?”

  Jack said to this formidable man, “I’m really very tired.”

  “Yes. I’ll show you to your room.”

  It was a bare room with three cots in it, two closed up and one with a pillow, sheets, and a blanket. Jack almost made a joke about handing over his belt and shoelaces, which would actually have seemed prudent in his current state of mind. It felt very good to take off his tie and jacket and his shoes. There was a knock at the door, Julia with his valise and a paper bag that smelled like sandwiches. “Della is leaving tomorrow, too,” she said, and went away.

  When the light was out, he sank into a despondency that had many of the effects of sleep. He was immobilized and his thoughts were strange, unstable as water. Then it was sleep, the same except that from time to time he woke out of it. Well before dawn began, he pulled himself together as well as he could and sat on the bed wishing the light was good enough to let him read. He had that small old Bible in his valise. After a while there was a knock at the door, Julia again. She said, “Della’s in the kitchen making coffee.” So he went to find her, and there she was, in that warm, enclosing light that blackens windows and delays morning, that most domestic light. Of course he put his arms around her. For a minute or two they had the world to themselves.

  Della said, “Are you ready to go?”

  “Absolutely, utterly, passionately.”

  “I’m sorry it’s been so awful. They’re really wonderful people.”

  “I’ll take your word for that.”

  “Hurt feelings,” she said.

  He said, “Let’s not think about it. It’s done. We’ll think about it later. Forever, probably.”

  “You know, we don’t have to wait around here if you really want to leave. But at least we can be together here.” Out in the city everything was Colored or White.

  “I really don’t want to stay here for the goodbyes. But you should.”

  “Yes. I will.”

  “Give my thanks to Aunt Delia and your mother. Tell your little brothers I hold grudges.”

  “Marcus?”

  “Nothing comes to mind. Though I have drawn up a list of my strengths and virtues for him to share with your father, with a tastefully gilded account of my prospects.”

  “You made a copy for me, I suppose. With angels.”

  “Yes, and one for myself, to help me through life’s bleaker passages.”

  They heard stirrings, voices. Jack said, “I’m getting out of here. I’m about to skedaddle. Goodbye,
Julia. Au revoir, my love.” He kissed her. “Give me your suitcase. I can carry it for you. That’s the sort of thing a gentleman does, I believe.”

  So, with her bag and his gaping valise he made the long walk back to the bus station. He got his ticket and took a seat where he could watch the door and see a part of the colored section of the waiting room. It was almost time for the bus to leave when Della finally came in, bought her ticket, and walked through the waiting room to the sidewalk where the bus was panting and reeking like an overexcited beast. Jack got on and took a seat at the back of the white section. It appeared to him that the colored seats were nearly all taken. From the window he saw his lovely Della pleading and cajoling, trying to talk a very old woman out of taking the last seat. Finally a young man, with the abruptness of contained exasperation, got off the bus, and the two of them boarded. So she was with him. She would tell him that she had been delayed by her mother’s grief and her father’s alarm. Jack’s visit had done not one thing to reassure them. Della would say, “I have been disowned,” and Jack would say, “That’s just how it is for some people.” They were together, after their fashion, and the world was all before them, such as it was.

  And this was his grandest larceny by far, this sly theft of happiness from the very clutches of prohibition. True, it was also the theft of a beloved daughter from her proud family, with the damage this involved to their honorable hopes, and with a secondary though much greater damage that would come with the diminishing of those hopes. This might be felt for generations. It would touch his own child, too. Then there was the theft of every good effect she would have felt from her education. Over time she might decide that she was not in possession of her happiness as she might have believed, even, dear Jesus, of her own self-love. How would she live with that divine anger of hers when mere he, so far as he could, and not her father, stood between her and the insults and abrasions of the world?