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by Marilynne Robinson

  His father looked at him. “What was that, Jack? I thought I heard you say ‘All right.’ I’m sorry, but that seems a bit evasive.”

  Jack said, “Yes, sir, I guess it was. I just don’t see how I’m supposed to keep up my side of it. How I could help Teddy.”

  “Well, that’s what I mean about receiving help. Teddy took a world of responsibility for you, every way you’d let him do it, and it was because his happiness depended on yours. So the greatest kindness you could ever have shown him was to accept the good he intended for you. You owed him that much. And I mean spiritual help, too. Particularly spiritual help.”

  Teddy smiled at Jack and shrugged, sorry for their father’s candor and helpless to bring an end to it. He said, “I just liked Jack. I liked to spend time with him. He doesn’t owe me anything.”

  “Oh!” their father said. “I am not in the mood to argue.” His voice broke. “I asked Jack to promise, and he wouldn’t do it. I don’t want to hear you making excuses for him. That has happened far too often, in my opinion.” He was weeping.

  Jack said, “No, I was just asking a question. I’ll promise. I mean, I do promise.”

  His father did not open his eyes, but he said with great dignity, “I believe I anticipated your question, Jack, and I believe I answered it. Now I’m tired.” And he turned toward the wall.

  Teddy went to him and smoothed his hair away from his face, and very gently and casually he laid his fingertips on his brow and his temple and the artery in his neck. He took a handkerchief from the drawer where his father kept them and touched the tears off the old man’s face, lifting his head to dry the wetter, downward side. Then, still holding his head, he turned the pillow to make it dry and cool. He lifted the blanket and sheet to straighten them, and glanced at his father’s slight and crooked body.

  “Where’s your stethoscope?” the old man asked.

  “It’s in the car.”

  “A good place for it. My heart will do whatever it wants to, and it has my permission. Same for my lungs.” Then he said, “You might look in on Ames.”

  Teddy stood there, lightly caressing the old man’s hair and face with the handkerchief. “How about some aspirin?”

  “No harm in it, I suppose.”

  Jack said, “I think I just used it up. I mean, I used it up.”

  “I keep it in my bag. So that’s no problem. I’ll leave a bottle here for you.”

  Jack put his hands to his face and laughed. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  “No matter.” He glanced at Jack, took note of his color, the tremor in his injured hands. “There’s plenty for everybody.”

  Glory went to the car, found the pebbly black bag in the passenger seat, and brought it into the kitchen. Opened, it smelled strongly of leather and rubbing alcohol. There were cotton balls and tongue depressors in glass bottles, and thermometers, and assorted pills and salves and syrups and the stethoscope and several bottles of aspirin. When Glory brought the glass of water and two tablets, Teddy looked at them and said, “Three.” He watched her prop her father up to help him swallow. Then he tucked him in again and said, “You’ll feel better when you’ve had some sleep.”

  He went into the kitchen, filled a glass of water, and set it on the table with three aspirin tablets next to it. “I use a lot of the stuff myself,” he said, and held up his right hand. The fingers had begun to enlarge at the knuckles and twist out of line.

  Jack said, “That’s hard.”

  Teddy nodded. “I wish it was only my hands. You’re okay?”

  “So far.”

  “Glory?”

  “I seem to be.”

  “Well,” he said, “at least I know how tough the old fellow has been all these years. It’s no wonder he gets cross. How’s he eating?”

  Glory said, “Not very well lately.”

  Teddy nodded. “What are you making, Glory? Chicken and dumplings? He’ll enjoy that, if there’s anything in the world he can still enjoy.” He said, “It smells great. I’m sorry I can’t stay for supper. I have another doctor covering for me, but when people are in trouble they like to see a familiar face. So I’d better get back to work.” He hugged Glory, and he held out his hand to Jack. “It’s been wonderful to see you,” he said. “It really has.”

  Jack said, “Yes. Thanks.” Then, “Teddy, you know, I’d like to ask you something, if you could spare a few more minutes. It’ll probably be a waste of your time. I know you have to leave.”

  Teddy set his bag by his chair and sat down again at the table. “Are you kidding? I can spare the time! I see patients every day of my life. Seeing you is—very exceptional.” Then he said, “I’ll just make a few phone calls.”

  JACK SAT DOWN AT THE TABLE, NEXT TO HIS BROTHER, SO he could speak softly. He said, “What does he want me to tell him? I mean, I know what he wants, but how do I say it?” He looked at Teddy. “The problem is, I’ll be lying. I thought that mattered. Well, I suppose it does matter. I’d know what to say otherwise.” He laughed. “I flattered myself that I had a scruple. But I was just making the poor old devil miserable for no reason. Except that I didn’t know how to end it. I realize that now. Glory said it would be all right. If I tried to, you know, talk to him.”

  Teddy took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “So you want to put him at ease about the state of your soul. That’s a good idea, I think.”

  Jack laughed. “That may be more than I can hope for. I’d like to tell him I believe in—something. Maybe not the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting. But something.”

  “Well.” Teddy toyed with his glasses. Then he sat back. “You know, I thought about the ministry for a while. Very seriously. But I had to face the fact that I wasn’t good at talking about these things. It wasn’t my calling, as they say. Have you spoken with Ames?”

  Jack said, “I’ve tried, a couple of times. It doesn’t matter. I just thought I’d ask.”

  “No, I don’t mean we should give up on this. I’m just reminding you of my limitations. This will take some effort.”

  “You have to go.”

  Teddy shook his head. “This is for the old fellow’s comfort. A legitimate medical concern.”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  There was a silence.

  Teddy said, “It might help to take a few notes.” He reached up under his sweater and took a pen and a prescription pad from his shirt pocket. He put his glasses back on. Another silence. Then he wrote, in the upper-left-hand corner, Beliefs: Jack leaned over to read what he had written, and he laughed. Teddy tore off the page and crushed it into a little ball. “My thought was,” he said, “that if we found something you could say to him honestly, we could go on from there. We’d have something to start with.”

  Jack said, “That’s a thought.” Then he said, “What would you say if you were in my situation? I mean, he has never asked you to—give him any assurances. Has he?”

  Teddy shook his head. “I never left the church. I guess that was assurance enough.”

  “But you still, I mean, you do—”

  “Sure. I have patients in the polio hospital. Sometimes I pray about as often as I breathe.”

  “That helps—”

  “It helps me. I can do my work.”

  Jack nodded.

  Teddy said, “These past few years have been pretty hard. There aren’t many new cases anymore, thank God.”

  “Yes, I’ve read about that vaccine they have now.”

  Glory said, “Lila’s afraid of it. She saw an article that said it sometimes causes polio.”

  “Well, in a few cases it has. It’s probably safe for her to wait a year, till they’ve improved it. I haven’t vaccinated my own kids yet. I send them to the country in the summer, to Corinne’s folks. That’s where they are now.”

  Jack said, “So the safest thing is just to get them out of the city.”

  “I think so. For the time being.”

  Jack picked up the crumpled page and twis
ted it, pondering.

  Teddy said, “But we’ve gotten off the subject here.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I guess my mind wandered.”

  “Do you want to go on?”

  Jack said, “Yes. Let’s go on.” Glory could see that look of calculation in his face again, that oddly illusionless hope.

  After a minute Teddy said, “I’ll have to have some help with this.”

  “Sorry.” Jack cleared his throat. “Have you thought of bringing your kids to Gilead? Would this be a good place for them?”

  “Sure. It’s just not a good situation, with Dad the way he is.”

  Jack nodded. He seemed to reflect a minute. Then he stretched and ran his fingers through his hair. “I do wish to God I were religious, Teddy. That’s the Lord’s truth.”

  Teddy said, “Well, that seems like a beginning.”

  “Yes. If I were religious some things might be easier. Possible, at least.”

  Under Wishes to be religious, Teddy wrote to make things easier.

  Jack looked at the pad and laughed. “I’m not so sure that is a beginning. It looks to me like a heresy of some sort.”

  Teddy tore off the page and balled it up. “I didn’t know we’d be worried about that. Interesting.” Jack smiled and shrugged. “Okay,” Teddy said. “What things would be easier?”

  “Well, it’s hard to talk to people. Religious people.”

  “Dad, for example.”

  “For example.”

  “Me.”

  Jack laughed. “Another example. Ames.”

  “Yes. Can you tell me why it’s hard? I’ve never really understood.”

  Jack said, “Sometimes it seems as though I’m in one universe and you’re in another. All of you.” He shrugged. Then he glanced at Glory, as if he might want to apologize.

  Teddy considered him for a moment with gentle objectivity. “How long have you felt that way?”

  “Well, Dr. Boughton, I may always have felt that way. If I can trust the tales of my stormy infancy.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. There are things I think it may have helped me with. Helped me understand a little.” He said, “There are separate universes, you know. I happen to have mine to myself. There are others. At least I know that.”

  After a moment Teddy said, “Well, when we began the conversation you said you intended to lie to the Reverend. That was your word, ‘lie.’ And I said I respected that decision, in the circumstances. And I also respect the fact that it was a hard decision for you to make. I really do. Then I complicated things by suggesting that we might find something for you to say that would be—not altogether false. Now I think it might just be best to tell him you believe in God. That you’ve given the matter serious thought, and you are persuaded of the truth of Scripture. Something like that. Short and to the point.”

  Jack nodded. “Do you think there’s any chance he’ll believe me?”

  “I know he’ll want to believe you.”

  Jack smiled. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea. I don’t exactly look like I’ve been washed in the blood of the Lamb recently, do I? He probably knows—the state I was in a few hours ago. He probably has some idea.”

  “Well, I think we have to remember, you know, that time is short. In a few more weeks he might not even hear what you say to him.”

  Jack said, “All right. Yes. I believe in God and I am persuaded of the truth of the Scriptures. After serious thought. I can do that. When I’ve had some rest.”

  Teddy stood up. “I don’t know if I’ve been any help. But I really should go. If there’s nothing more we need to talk about.”

  “It helps to know you think it’s all right. If I lie to him.”

  Teddy nodded. “I think it’s kind of you to do it, in the circumstances. I put an envelope on the refrigerator with my addresses and telephone numbers. Home and office. If you want to stay in touch. Pay us a visit.”

  “So you want old Uncle Jack to turn up on your doorstep someday.”

  “Nothing would make me happier.”

  Jack looked at Glory and smiled. “Maybe.”

  “I know you won’t,” Teddy said. He studied his brother’s face. “I suspect I’ll never see you again. In this life. I’d say take care of yourself, but I’m afraid you won’t do that, either. Well, never hesitate—” He held out his hand. When Jack took it, he touched his shoulder, then embraced him.

  Jack was patient with the familiarity. He said, “I wish things could have been better between us all these years. I do. There’s a lot I regret.”

  “I know,” Teddy said. “It’s okay. Now you can get some sleep.”

  Jack went out to the porch with him. He stayed there after Teddy’s car had turned into the street. Then he said to her, “Do you think that’s what the ocean sounds like?” The wind was tossing the leaves of the oak tree, which were dense and heavy enough to roar and ebb and then roar again. “When I was a kid I liked to think so.”

  “Luke says it is.”

  He nodded. “Luke would know.”

  JACK TOOK TEDDY’S ENVELOPE DOWN FROM THE REFRIGERATOR. He held it up to show her the thickness of it. “What do you think is in here? Want to guess?” He lifted the flap and showed her the edges of a stack of bills. He went to the piano bench, lifted the lid, and dropped the envelope into it. “Now we’re even. I mean, where money is concerned. He’s right, I have to get out of here. I will.” He paused on the stairs. “But now I am going to write a letter.” Then he said, “Glory, I know I haven’t even begun to—I had no right to do that to you. You’ve been kind to me, and I—But you have to get those bottles out of my dresser. Now, if you don’t mind. The bottom drawer. You should put that money somewhere, too. All of it.”

  Glory said, “Wait, Jack. Did Teddy say you should leave?”

  “He said the old fellow doesn’t have much more time. So he’ll be back here in a few weeks, you know he will. They’ll all be here. And he said he will never see me again. It adds up.” Jack looked at her. “If I send this letter to the mutual friend, she sends it on to Della and Della writes to me here, that could take—twelve days, maybe two weeks. So I’m going to stay here for another two weeks, and then you’ll be rid of me.”

  “Will you give me your address, in case I need to forward something to you?”

  He laughed. “When I have an address, little sister, you’ll be the first to know.”

  AFTER A WHILE JACK CAME DOWNSTAIRS WITH HIS LETTER, took an envelope and stamp from the drawer, and pulled a chair away from the table.

  “Mind?” he asked. His eyes were still reddened, and the flesh of his face looked a little like wax, or like clay, creasing deeply when he smiled. If she had not known him she’d have thought, wistful and unsavory. He looked at her, as if he knew he did not seem the same to her, as if he had made some terrible confession and been forgiven and felt both shame and relief.

  “Of course I don’t mind.”

  He said, “My hands aren’t very steady. That might make the wrong impression. I want her to open it, at least.” So she wrote the address as he told it to her. He licked the flap of the envelope and winced. “Snowflake,” he said, and she laughed, and he laughed. He placed the stamp carefully. Then he took a folded paper from his shirt pocket and put it on the table. He said, “That’s for you.”

  She took the paper up and opened it. A map. There was the river, and a road, and between them, fences, a barn, woods, an abandoned house, all of them sketched in and carefully labeled, and in the woods a clearing, and at the upper edge of the clearing an X and the word “morels.” In the lower-left-hand corner there was a compass, and a scale in hundreds of paces, and in the upper-right-hand corner a dragon with a coiled tail and smoking nostrils.

  She said, “This is very pretty.”

  He nodded. “More to the point, it is accurate. I made it when I was stone sober. It was the work of several days, a number of drafts.”

  She said, “Now we really are even.”

 
He laughed. “That’s right.” His face was mild and his voice was soft with weariness, but he was clearly moved and relieved to be joking with her.

  “Except it doesn’t say where these woods are. There are lots of fences and barns around here.”

  “My, my,” he said. “What an oversight.” And he smiled at her.

  “Well, I’m going to ignore that. It’s pretty. I’m going to frame it.”

  “You’re a good soul, Glory.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Chicken and dumplings.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you probably needed some rest. I can keep an eye on things if you want to get a little sleep.”

  “No. I’m all right. If you don’t mind the company.”

  “I’m grateful for the company, Glory.” He laughed. “You have no idea.”

  She said, “Do you want the newspaper? I’ve done the puzzles. I’m grateful for the company, too.”

  He nodded. “That’s kind of you to say.”

  Then they heard a stirring of bedsprings, then the lisp lisp of slippered feet and the pock of the cane. After a moment their father appeared in the doorway in his nightshirt, pale, with his hair rumpled, but solemnly composed. He looked first at Glory, then at the window, then finally, as if he had nerved himself, at Jack. “Oh,” he said, a regretful, involuntary sound. Then he rallied. “I thought I might enjoy a little conversation. I heard the two of you talking out here and I’ve come to join you. Yes.”

  Jack helped him with his chair and sat down again.

  The old man took his hand. “I think I was cross,” he said.

  Jack said, “I had it coming.”

  His father said, “No, no, it isn’t how I wanted things to be. I promised myself a thousand times, if you came home you would never hear a word of rebuke from me. No matter what.”

  “I don’t mind. I deserve rebuke.”

  The old man said, “You ought to let the Lord decide what you deserve. You think about that too much, what you deserve. I believe that is part of the problem.”

  Jack smiled. “I believe you may have a point.”

  “Nobody deserves anything, good or bad. It’s all grace. If you accepted that, you might be able to relax a little.”