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by Marilynne Robinson

  “What would you like to hear?” Jack asked. “We’ve got The Condition of the Working Class in England.”

  The old man shook his head. “Read it in seminary,” he said. “It was very interesting, but as I remember, the point was clear. I don’t feel I need to return to it. I’m surprised we still have it. I thought I gave my copy to the library.”

  Jack laughed and glanced at her. He said, “Here’s one Luke sent. Something of Value. It’s about Africa.”

  His father nodded. “I had a considerable interest in Africa,” he said. “At one time.”

  Glory said, “Luke sent me a note about that one. He says the critics raved.”

  Jack said, “I’m a little bit interested in Africa, myself.”

  “Yes, well, Mozambique, Cameroon, Madagascar, Sierra Leone. Beautiful names. When I was a boy I used to think I’d go there someday. We can read that one.”

  “It’s about Kenya.”

  “Well, that’s fine, too.”

  Jack lowered his head and began to read, leaning over the book almost prayerfully. He smiled at the parts he liked—“‘Somewhere out of sight a zebra barked, and along the edge of a stream a baboon cursed.’” Teddy used to say Jack was the bright one, that he, Teddy, was only conscientious. And in fact there was a kind of grace to anything Jack did with his whole attention, or when he forgot irony for a while. It was always a little surprising because it was among the things about himself he shrugged off, concealed when he could. But his voice was mild and warm, courteous to the page he read from, and his father looked at her and lifted his brows, the old signal that meant, He is wonderful when he wants to be. Really wonderful.

  The old man laughed over the cook’s pagan version of “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam,” listened with interest to the household arrangements of the McKenzies, marveled at the killing of the elephants, and nodded off. Jack continued reading to himself. He said, “I think I can see how this is going to end.” He turned to the last few pages. “Yes.” He read, “‘Peter hunched his shoulders close to his neck and took a deep, sobbing breath and squeezed. Kimani’s tongue came all the way out past his teeth, and his eyes suffused in blood as the tiny vessels broke. There was a slight crick and then a sharp crack, as if a man had trodden on a dry stick, and Kimani’s body went limp.’”

  Their father roused himself. “Kimani is that child he’s playing with at the beginning, isn’t he? Those two children are playing together.”

  Jack nodded.

  “I guess he killed him.”

  Jack closed the book. “I guess he did.”

  “A pity,” the old man said. “That seems to be how it is, though. So much bad blood. I think we had all better just keep to ourselves.”

  Jack laughed. “I have certainly heard that sentiment before,” he said. “I know a good many people who agree with you about that, believe me.”

  “Yes. We might want to try another book, Jack, don’t you think? It seems there’s nothing in that one that’s going to surprise us.”

  “Not a thing.”

  He nodded. “The fellow writes well, though. The elephants were very interesting.”

  THE DAY SEEMED TO BE PASSING IN THE WAY THAT HAD become customary, Glory tending to household things while her father slept and Jack made himself useful around the place, making small, patient inroads on dishevelment and disrepair. Or so she assumed. Then she realized that she hadn’t seen him for a while. Usually he found some reason to speak to her from time to time, to joke with her a little, as if to assure himself again that she was kindly disposed toward him. She looked out at the garden, then she walked to the shed, looked into the barn. Jack was nowhere to be found. This is ridiculous, she thought. I can’t worry this way. An hour passed, then two. She had glanced through the mail and the new Life magazine. She had answered letters from Dan and Grace. Then the screen door closed and there was Jack, coming through the porch, looking disheveled and yet a little pleased with himself. He was in his undershirt, having made his shirt into a bundle of some kind which he set on the table and opened. “Mushrooms!” he said. “Morels! Right where they always were!” Sand and leaf mold and that musky smell.

  “Where were they?”

  “In a remote area, my dear. Far from the haunts of men.”

  “Honestly! I’m your sister! Your only friend in the world!” “Sorry. No dice. Just look at these beauties. We eat mushrooms tonight, Glory!”

  “What is that?” their father called. “What are we talking about?”

  Glory said, “Go show Papa. He loves morels.”

  “I think I’d better clean up a little.”

  “You don’t have to clean up. Just go show him.”

  So Jack carried the bundle into his father’s room and spread it open on the old man’s lap. “Ah,” his father said. “Ah yes. You’ve been out foraging.” He drew a deep breath and laughed. “‘See, the smell of my son is as the smell of a field which Jehovah hath blessed.’ Morels. Dan and Teddy used to bring me these. And blackberries, and walnuts. And they’d bring in walleye and catfish. And pheasants. They were always off in the fields, down by the river. With the girls it was always flowers. So long ago.”

  Jack stood back and watched the old man study the mushrooms, sniff them, turn them in the light. He rubbed his bare arms as if he felt the way he looked, thin, exposed. He said softly, “Bless me, even me also.”

  “No,” his father said, “that’s Esau. You’re confusing Esau and Jacob.”

  Jack laughed. “Yes, I am the smooth man. How could I forget? I’m the one who has to steal the blessing.”

  His father shook his head. “You have never had to steal one thing in your entire life. There was never any need for it. I have been searching my memory on that point.”

  Glory said, “Papa, while I was in the hardware store the other day—”

  But Jack said, “No, don’t. Don’t.” And smiled at her, and she knew she had come near shaming him. He had not robbed the dime store. How painful for this weary man to need exoneration from the mischief of bad children. “So good to be home,” he said to her afterward. “No place like it, the old song says.”

  “Can I get something for you? Coffee?”

  “Sure. Coffee. Why not?” He said, “You are a good soul, Glory. That fellow who did not marry you was a very foolish man.”

  She shrugged. “Not altogether. He was a married man.”

  “Oh.”

  “So he said.”

  “Oh.”

  “Of course I didn’t know it at the time. Particularly.”

  He laughed. “Particularly.”

  “You know what I mean. I could have figured it out if I’d wanted to.”

  He nodded. “Ah, that’s hard. I’m sorry.” After a moment, “And no child was born of this union, I take it.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “So you were spared that, at least.”

  She drew a deep breath.

  He said, “I’m sorry! Why did I say that? Why don’t I just stop talking? Why don’t you tell me to stop?”

  “Well, Jack, you didn’t know her. So I suppose it isn’t surprising that you’d think about her that way. As something we might have wished to be spared.”

  “Yes, the little girl.”

  “Your little girl.”

  “My little girl.” He stood up. “I’m not much good at—I stayed away all that time—it was the best I could do—”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean we’re glad she was born. We enjoyed her life. I believe she enjoyed it, too. I know she did.”

  He put his hand to his face. “Thank you. That’s good to know, I suppose. I’m probably saying the wrong thing—I’ve never known how to deal with this. Shame. You’d think I’d be used to it.”

  “But I’m trying to tell you, there was so much more than shame in all that, or wrongdoing or whatever. Anyone could have been proud of her. That’s what I tried to say in those letters I sent you.”

  “Oh. Then I gu
ess I should have read them.” He laughed. “Dear God,” she said. “Dear God in heaven, I give up. I throw up my hands.”

  “Please don’t say that, Glory. I’m alone here—”

  “Well,” she said, “you know I don’t mean it.”

  After a moment he said, “Why don’t you mean it?”

  “Well, I’m your sister, for one thing. And for another thing—” He laughed.

  “—I’m your sister. That’s reason enough.”

  He nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s very kind.”

  JACK HAD ADDED TO THE GARDEN, SUNFLOWERS AND SNAPdragons and money plants, several hills of cantaloupe, a pumpkin patch, three rows of corn. He rescued the bleeding-heart bushes from a tangle of weeds and tended the gourds with the tact of a man who believed, as all Boughtons did, that they throve on neglect. When her brothers and sisters were children they had made rattles of the gourds when they dried, and bottles and drinking cups, playing Indian. They had carved pumpkins and toasted the seeds. They had pretended the silver disks of money plants were dollars. They had pinched the jaws of snapdragons to make them talk, or pinched their lips closed to pop them. They had eaten the seeds of sunflowers when they were ripe and dry. They had opened the flowers of bleeding hearts to reveal the tiny lady in her bath. Corn on the cob they had all loved, though they hated to shuck it, and they had all loved melons. Jack tended these things with particular care. When he was restless he would sometimes walk out into the garden and stand there with his hands on his hips, as if it comforted him to see their modest flourishing. Once, when he saw her looking at it all, he said, “Have I forgotten anything?”

  “No, I don’t believe you have.”

  “I’m no farmer,” he said, clearly pleased that his crops were doing well enough just the same.

  His father watched from the porch day after day and asked him what it was he was planting, and then whether the corn was up and the sunflowers, and whether the melons were setting on. Jack brought him a sprig of bleeding heart, the bud of a pumpkin blossom.

  “Yes,” the old man said, as he did when memory stirred. “Those were good times.”

  ONE EVENING JACK CAME IN FROM THE LATE TWILIGHT while Glory was settling her father for the night. They heard him in the kitchen getting himself a glass of water. The air had cooled. Insects had massed against the window screens, minute and various, craving the light from the tilted bulb of her father’s bedside lamp, and the crickets were loud, and an evening wind was stirring the trees. It always calmed her to know Jack had come inside for the night. She knew he would be propped against the counter, drinking good, cold water in the dark, the feel and smell of soil still on his hands. But her father was restless. He had something in mind, an intention he meant to act upon even in violation of this sweet quiet. He said, “I want a word with him. If you wouldn’t mind, Glory.”

  So she called him, and she heard him shift himself upright and set his glass in the sink, with that little delay that meant reluctance overcome. When he came into the room he smiled at her. “Well, here I am.”

  His father said, “Bring that chair over here. Sit down.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There’s something I want to say to you.” He reached a hand out of the covers and patted Jack’s knee. He cleared his throat. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I feel I know what is troubling you, Jack. I believe I always did know, and I just haven’t been honest with myself about it. I want to talk to you about it.”

  Jack smiled and shifted in his chair. “All right. I’m listening.”

  “It’s that child of yours, Jack.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, and I want you to know that I realize how much I was at fault in it all.”

  “What?” Jack cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”

  “I should have baptized her. I have regretted many times I didn’t do at least that much for her.”

  “Oh,” Jack said. “Oh, I see. Yes.”

  His father looked at him. “Maybe you didn’t realize that, that she died without the sacrament, and maybe I shouldn’t have said anything about it, since it might only add to your grief. I was reluctant to mention it. But I wanted to be sure you understood the fault was entirely mine.” He put his hand to his face. “Oh, Jack!” he said. “There I was, a minister of the Lord, holding that little baby in my arms any number of times. Why didn’t I just do the obvious thing! A few drops of water! There was a rain barrel right there by the house—who would have stopped me! I have thought of that so many times.”

  Glory said, “Papa, we’re Presbyterians. We don’t believe in the necessity of baptism. You’ve always said that.”

  “Yes, and Ames says it. He’ll take down the Institutes and show you the place. And Calvin was right about many things. His point there is that the Lord wouldn’t hold the child accountable—that has to be true. As for myself, well, ‘a broken and contrite heart Thou wilt not despise.’ I must remember to believe that, too.”

  They were silent. Finally Jack said, “Everything that happened was my fault. It was all my fault. It is hard for me to believe that you could find any way to blame yourself for it. I’m—I’m amazed.”

  “Oh,” his father said, “but you were young. And you didn’t know her. Glory was always trying to get a good picture to send to you, she’d dress her all up, put bows in her hair. But you couldn’t really tell much from the pictures. She was such a clever little thing, such a sprightly, funny little thing. She couldn’t wait to get up and start walking. Remember, Glory? When she was no bigger than a minute she’d be tagging after her mother, they’d be playing together—I’ve often thought I should have baptized her mother, for that matter.” Then he said, “To know a child like that, and then not to do just anything you can for her—there’s no excuse.” He said, “The Lord had the right to expect better of me, and you did, too. I understand that.”

  Jack pushed back his chair and stood up. “I—I have to—” He laughed. “I don’t know. Get some air.” He smiled at Glory. “If you’ll pardon me, I—” and he left the room.

  Glory kissed her father’s forehead, and then she said, “You get some sleep now,” and turned his pillow and smoothed it. She followed Jack into the kitchen. He was sitting at the table with his head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He said, “Do you mind if I turn off the light?” So she turned it off. After a long time he said, “If I were an honest man I’d have told him I have never given a single thought to—any of that. Not one thought. Ever.”

  “Well.”

  “I mean, to whether or not she was baptized. I have thought about the rest of it, from time to time. I have.” He laughed. “Never because I chose to.”

  She said, “That was all so long ago. You were young.”

  “No. I wasn’t young. I don’t believe I ever was young.” Then he said, “Excuses scare me, Glory. They make me feel like I’m losing hold. I can’t explain it. But please don’t try to make excuses for me. I might start believing them sometime. I’ve known people like that.”

  She paused. “You did know that she died.”

  “That envelope had a black border. I thought it might be—”

  “What? Someone who mattered?”

  “I didn’t say that. I didn’t mean it. You just never expect a child to die—” He said, “I never thought of it then. Now I do. I think of it now, all the time.” He laughed and put his hands to his face. “That can’t be justice. It would be horrible to think it has anything to do with justice.”

  What could she say to comfort him? “These things are hard to talk about. I say things I shouldn’t. I’m sorry.” And after a moment, “I don’t really think justice can be horrible.”

  “Really? Isn’t that what vengeance is? Horrible justice? What would your papa say?”

  “Well, I don’t know for sure, but grace seems to answer every question, as far as he’s concerned.”

  Jack looked at her. “Then
he shouldn’t have to worry about his reprobate son, should he. I wish you would point that out to him. I mean, it does seem like a contradiction, doesn’t it?”

  She said, “It does. I think we’re beyond the point where we can raise questions about his theology, though. If I pointed out a contradiction in his thinking, I would probably upset him. He’s gotten touchy about that kind of thing. Well, he has been for years. Anyway, I don’t think he worries about all that any more than you do.”

  He shrugged. “Like father, like son.”

  THE OLD MAN SEEMED TO HAVE ALARMED HIMSELF WITH his candor. He was suddenly anxious to be with Jack, at companionable, fatherly peace with him. He mustered a sociable interest in television, especially baseball, and he and Jack talked about the teams and the season as passionlessly as anything of great moment could be talked about, as if they were summer weather, drought and lightning. He always seemed to nod off if there was news of turbulence anywhere.

  Jack must have taken his father to be in fact asleep, because when the news turned to the troubles in the South, he said, softly, “Jesus Christ.”

  The old man roused himself. “What is it now?”

  “Oh, sorry,” Jack said. “Sorry. It’s Tuscaloosa. A colored woman wants to go to the University of Alabama.”

  “It appears they don’t want her there.”

  Jack laughed. “It sure doesn’t look like it.”

  His father watched for a moment and then he said, “I have nothing against the colored people. I do think they’re going to need to improve themselves, though, if they want to be accepted. I believe that is the only solution.” His look and tone were statesmanlike. He was making such an effort to be mild and conciliatory, even after Jack’s misuse of the name of the Lord, that Jack simply studied him, his hands to his mouth as if to prevent himself from speaking.

  Finally he said, “I’m a little unimproved myself. I’ve known a good many Negroes who are more respectable than I am.”