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by Marilynne Robinson

  His father looked at him. “I don’t know where you get such a terrible opinion of yourself, Jack.”

  “Well, I guess that’s something we should both be grateful for.”

  His father said, “I’m serious. There’s a lot you could do if you put your mind to it.”

  Jack laughed. “True enough. I could stay in a hotel. I could eat in a cafeteria. I could hail a cab. I could probably exercise my franchise. Unworthy as I am.”

  “You’re a college graduate,” his father said firmly.

  Jack smiled and glanced at Glory. She shook her head. So he said, “True.” Then he said, “Most people don’t have that advantage, however. I mean, white people.”

  “All the more reason you should take some pride in yourself.”

  “Oh, I see. Yes, sir. I’ll bear that in mind.”

  After a moment his father said, “I know I strayed from the point a little there. But I’ve wanted to mention that to you. I’ve wanted to say you should think better of yourself.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll give it a try.”

  “The colored people,” his father said, “appear to me to be creating problems and obstacles for themselves with all this—commotion. There’s no reason for all this trouble. They bring it on themselves.”

  Jack looked at him. He drew a long breath, then another. He asked softly, “Have you heard of Emmett Till?”

  “Emmett Till. Wasn’t he the Negro fellow that—attacked the white woman?”

  Jack said, “He was a kid. He was fourteen. Somebody said he whistled at a white woman.”

  His father said, “I think there must have been more to it, Jack. As I remember, he was executed. There was a trial.”

  Jack said, “There was no trial. He was murdered. He was a child, and they murdered him.” He cleared his throat to recover control of his voice.

  “Yes, that is upsetting. I had another memory of it.”

  Jack said, “We read different newspapers.”

  “That might be the difference. Still, parents have a responsibility.”

  “What?”

  “They bring children into a dangerous world, and they should do what they have to do to keep them safe.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “But they can’t always—they might really want to. It’s very hard. It’s complicated—” He laughed.

  “So you know some colored people, there in St. Louis.”

  “Yes. They’ve been kind to me.”

  His father regarded him. “Your mother and I brought you children up to be at ease in any company. Any respectable company. So you could have the benefit of good friends. Because people judge you by your associations. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s the truth.”

  Jack smiled. “Yes, sir, believe me, I know what it is to be judged by my associations.”

  “You could help yourself by finding a better class of friends.”

  “I have made a considerable effort in that direction. But my associations have made it very difficult.”

  “Yes.” His father was wary of this concession. The readiness of it sounded like irony. After a minute he said, “It seems to me you always think I’m speaking of that child of yours. You regret that you weren’t a father to her, I know that. And if you had it to do over again, you’d want to be there with her, I know that, too. And the Lord knows it.”

  Jack covered his face with his hands and laughed. “The Lord,” he said, “is very—interesting.”

  “I know you don’t mean any disrespect,” his father said.

  “I really don’t know what I mean. I really don’t.”

  “Well,” the old man said, “I wish I could help you with that.” Then he turned his face resolutely toward the television screen. Jack sat down beside him and watched it with him. In the gray light he looked saddened and spent and oddly young, a man whose father was still his father, and impossible, and frail. The old man patted his knee. Cowboys and gunfire. Glory fixed them a supper and they ate quietly, carefully polite. “I believe this is Thursday. Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d like roast beef for Sunday dinner. I want the whole house to smell like roast beef. I’ll put on a necktie. We’ll light the candles. Maybe Ames and his family will join us. We could have a sort of a good time, you know. Will you be there, Jack?”

  “Sure.”

  “You could play a little piano for us.”

  “I could do that.”

  “Let me see your hand, where you had that splinter in it.”

  “It’s healing.”

  “Let me see.”

  Jack gave his father his right hand, and the old man took it in his hands and stroked it and studied it. “There will be a mark there.” Then, “Twenty years,” he said, “twenty years.”

  Jack settled his father for the night, dried the dishes, and went to his room.

  WHEN GLORY CAME DOWNSTAIRS THE NEXT MORNING, Jack was at the stove, preparing to fry bacon. He said, “I believe I may have undergone a conversion experience.” He looked at her sidelong.

  “Interesting. Tell me more.”

  “Nothing dramatic. I was brushing my teeth, and a realization came to me. The gist of it was that Jack Boughton might become a Congregationalist. You know, at least try it on for a few weeks.”

  “That’s a little bit dramatic. I mean, if you’re actually thinking of going to church.”

  “I intend to do exactly that, little sister. Unless I change my mind. This coming Sunday. If it wouldn’t be inconvenient for you, which is why I thought I’d mention it. We can’t leave the old gent here on his own, I know that—”

  “So that you can go to church? I might have to tether him to the bedpost to keep him from floating out the window. Aside from that, I doubt there would be any problem.”

  “Well, that’s actually a concern of mine. He might make too much of it. It’s just a thought I had. I might not even go through with it.”

  “I’ll stay with him. It’ll be all right.”

  “I thought maybe I could talk with Ames about a few things. If I got on better terms with him. That’s all it really amounts to. A gesture of respect.” He looked at her. “You would tell me if you thought this was a bad idea.”

  “I really don’t know what could be wrong with it.”

  He nodded. “Ames will be sure to mention it. So there’s no point being secretive about it. I wondered if you wouldn’t mind—”

  “I’ll just bring him his coffee, and he’ll ask me why I’m not dressed for church, and I’ll say, Jack wanted to go this morning.”

  “And then—” Jack said, and they laughed. “Ah,” he said, “help me think this through. Maybe you should just say Jack went to church this morning. If you say I wanted to go, he’d read a lot into that. Maybe—Jack decided to go. No, that’s almost as bad as wanted.”

  “All right. Jack went to church this morning.”

  “And then what?”

  “Who knows. I’ll improvise. This is uncharted territory.”

  “So it is.” He looked at her. “You don’t think this will seem too cynical, do you? Hypocritical? Unctuous? Calculating?”

  She shrugged. “People go to church.”

  “Other people do. I mean, I’ll hardly be inconspicuous. And old Ames doesn’t think the world of me.” After a moment he said, “Well, nothing to be done about that, hmm? That’s why I thought of going in the first place. I can’t think of another approach. I have tried. I will sit under his preaching, as they say, and maybe his feelings toward me will soften a little. I’ll be very attentive.” He smiled. He said, “It’s worth a try. Then he and the wife will come to dinner, I’ll play a few of the old favorites. It could work.”

  “All this is fine, Jack. But I can’t quite convince myself that it’s necessary.”

  He nodded. “I’ve been a torment to his dearest friend for forty-three years, give or take. He’s sick of me. He doesn’t want to be, but he is. I would be, too. But I want to talk to him.”


  She said, “It’s a good idea. Very good, I think.”

  “All right, then. If you say so. I’ll probably do it.”

  Jack put on his tie and his hat and went off to the store to buy groceries for Sunday dinner with two ten-dollar bills from the household money Glory kept in the drawer in the sideboard. She could have called the grocer’s and ordered them, as she usually did, but Jack said he needed to get out of the house for a while. So she went down to the Ameses’. Lila was in the garden picking lettuce into a basin and Robby was fooling around on his swing, lying across the plank on his stomach, pushing and pivoting and sweeping the grass with his fingertips. Lila stood up when she saw Glory at the fence and smiled at her and called the little boy to come say hello, so he came and said hello and then ran off to look for his friend Tobias, who had been called in for lunch.

  Glory said good morning, and Lila answered, “It is. It’s a fine morning.” She brushed her hair back with her hands. “Could you use some salad? It’s coming in faster than I can eat it myself, and my men aren’t much for greens, neither one of them.” She handed the basin to Glory. “I was just picking it because it’s so pretty. I’d be glad if you could use it.”

  Lila was wide at the shoulders and hips, and her hands were large, tentative, competent. Sometime, somewhere, it had seemed good to her to pluck her brows thin and arched, and so they remained, a suggestion of former worldliness at odds with her stalwartly maternal frame. Sunlight seemed a bother to her, like a friendly attention she might sometime weary of, though for now she only smiled and shrugged away from it, holding up her hand to shield her eyes. Glory said, “Papa asked me to invite you to dinner tomorrow.”

  She nodded. “Jack stopped by a few minutes ago. I told him I’d speak to the Reverend about it. Preaching wearies him more than he likes to admit.”

  “It could be an evening dinner. That would give him time to rest.”

  THAT AFTERNOON, WHEN SHE WAS OUT IN THE GARDEN weeding the strawberries, picking the handful of ripe ones, she heard the DeSoto’s starter straining twice, then again, and then the roar of an automobile engine, the sound robust for a moment, then trailing away. Again the starter and the engine, and after a minute or two the rattle and pop of gravel as the DeSoto eased backward out of the barn. It gleamed darkly and demurely, like a ripe plum. Its chrome was polished, hubcaps and grille, and the side walls of the tires were snowy white. There was a preposterous beauty in all that shine that made her laugh. Jack put his arm out the window, waving his hat like a visiting dignitary, backed into the street, and floated away, gentling the gleaming dirigible through the shadows of arching elm trees, light dropping on it through their leaves like confetti as it made its ceremonious passage. After a few minutes she heard a horn, and there were Jack and the DeSoto going by the house. A few minutes more and they came back from the other direction, swung into the driveway, and idled there. Jack leaned across the front seat to open the passenger door. She walked across the lawn to the car and slid in.

  “Wonderful!”

  He nodded. “We’re doing all right so far. I smell strawberries.”

  She held out her hands. “I haven’t washed them.”

  He took one, eyed it, and gave it back. “How about a little spin around the block?”

  “Papa will want to come.”

  “Yes, well, I’m working up to that. I’d like to put a couple of miles on this thing, so I’ll know it can be trusted. We wouldn’t want to make the old fellow walk home.”

  So she closed the door and they pulled into the street.

  He said, “You must have a license. You used to drive.”

  “I do. Somewhere. Do you?”

  He looked at her. “Why do you ask?”

  “Never mind. Just making conversation.” They completed a decorous circuit of the block, and when they pulled into the driveway, they saw their father standing in the screen door.

  “Something very exciting!” he called. “I thought I might come along, if it’s no trouble.” He seemed even about to attempt the front steps.

  “Wait!” Jack ran across the lawn and took him by his arms and helped him down to the sidewalk.

  “Thank you, dear. This is very good.” He leaned on his cane and gazed appraisingly at the DeSoto. “Yes. It’s a fine-looking car. I knew I must be saving it for some reason.” He chuckled. There was a barely restrained glee about him, as though he felt he had done something, or had done nothing, to excellent effect. “I had offers for it, you know. Several of them. Yes.” He regarded the gleaming DeSoto with something warmer than pride of ownership. “And now, look what you have done with it! Jack, this is wonderful!”

  Jack was watching all this with his hands on his hips and a look of grave, distant pleasure, as if it were a moment proposed to him by imagination, an indulgence he could not finally allow himself. “It seems to run all right,” he said. “I suppose we could take a little drive.” He helped his father into the front seat. “I’ll go in and get a couple of dollars for gas, just in case.” He walked toward the house, then came back. He held out his cupped hands to Glory and she emptied the berries into them. “Two minutes,” he said. When he came back he had the berries in a cereal bowl, rinsed and glistening with water. He handed the bowl to Glory and climbed into the driver’s seat. He turned the key, turned it again, and the engine caught, and the three of them backed out and sailed off down the street. When a neighbor waved, the old man made the merest gesture of his hand in reply, as if this were all foreseen and intended, too perfect a vindication to be in any way remarkable. Jack laughed.

  Glory said, “Have a strawberry.”

  Jack took one and handed it to his father, then took one for himself. He popped it in his mouth and spat the stem out the window.

  “Yes,” his father said, as they passed through the countrified outer reaches of Gilead into country itself, “this is the high life.”

  The sky was blue, the terraced hills glittered with new corn, and in the pastures the cows were standing with their calves or lying in the mingled, muddied shade of oak trees. “Well, I’d almost forgotten it all,” the old man said. “It’s good to get out of the house from time to time. Ames will enjoy it.” He talked for a while about the old Gilead. It was the smell that reminded him. There used to be chicken coops and rabbit hutches behind every house almost, and people kept milk cows, and there was enough open land right in town to be plowed with a horse or a mule and planted in corn. You knew the animals around town just like you knew the children, and if some old she-goat was grazing in the flower garden, well, you knew her and she knew you and you could just walk her home. But the geese could be mean, and noisy. They’d follow you along and nip at you, pinch your heels. There was no sleeping through the racket all those roosters made in the morning. But at night you could hear the animals settling, and that was very comforting. Jack drove with such solemn caution that the dogs that ran out to the car were a long time in giving up the chase and falling back.

  They turned onto another road, and then Glory and her father were silent for a while, watching the landscape grow uneasily familiar. Then Jack said, “Oh.” He said “I—” and pulled off onto the shoulder to turn the car around, so close to a shallow ditch that the rear wheels slid in the sand. A hundred yards ahead of them was the bridge across the West Nishnabotna, and a little way beyond it that small white house. Jack gunned the car and it lurched into the road and stalled. “Sorry. I can deal with this,” he said. “Give me a minute.” He put his hands to his face and took a breath. Then he put the car in gear and turned the key and touched the choke and it started, and he maneuvered it very carefully, reversing twice before he eased onto the right side of the road. “I guess it’s time to go home,” he said.

  Through all this his father maintained a serene, high-minded expression, as he always did when he sensed emergency. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. I have been keeping an eye on events in Egypt. In that one case I have felt that the policies of Eisenhower are appropriate to the s
ituation. But time will tell.”

  Jack said, “True.”

  “Kenya is another matter.”

  “That’s true, too.”

  After another mile or so he pulled onto the shoulder and stopped. “Glory, would you mind driving the rest of the way? It isn’t far. I forgot to get gas. I’m not sure the gas gauge is working, and it distracts me to worry about it. And that worries me.” He laughed. “I haven’t driven a car in twenty years.”

  So she changed places with him. He held the door for her, ceremoniously, smiling at her, wry and weary. “Thank you so much,” he said.

  She looked to see where the pedals were, and the clutch, and then she put the car in gear and it lurched and died, and she tried again and it started. Jack said, “There’s still something wrong with the—with the blasted thing. It doesn’t sound right. This was stupid of me. I knew I should have stayed in town.” He lit a cigarette and rolled down the window.

  Glory said, “We’ll be fine,” having no particular grounds for confidence except that as they approached town the houses were less scattered. Rural people might or might not have telephones, but they were certain to have gasoline, and, if it came to that, to have practical experience with balky machines. That is what Jack dreads most, she thought. Having to knock at a door. Out here someone might know about him, without mitigating acquaintance with his estimable father. Well, she would spare him that, one way or another. And the car was running well enough. Her father appeared to be dozing, though still maintaining that statesmanlike expression that meant he could be counted on not to add difficulty to a situation, even by seeming aware of it.

  When the DeSoto had brought them home, Jack stood up out of the backseat and stretched, and then opened his father’s door. The old man roused himself. “I will telephone Ames,” he said. “After I’ve had some rest.” He handed Jack his cane. “If you don’t mind, dear. I’m a little bit stiff.” Jack lifted him out by his arm, and then he seemed at a loss how to help him, because his father had made a sharp little cry, and then laughed. “Ouch!” he said. Jack looked at Glory, tired.