Benediction

by Kent Haruf

  The girl went out, and through the window he could see her going along the fence and on into the yellow house.

  Late in the afternoon of the third day, without any warning Mary came through the gate out front and up on the porch and into the house. In the living room Dad was sitting in his chair by the window reading the Holt Mercury newspaper. He looked up and she was just standing there.

  Well, what in the hell. What are you doing here?

  They let me out, she said.

  I didn’t hear any car out front. How’d you get here?

  I walked.

  What do you mean you walked?

  I walked home.

  You walked home from the hospital.

  They couldn’t bring me right away. They were out on some other call, I guess. And I didn’t think we had to have the expense of that anyhow. It’s going to cost too much as it is. They told me I had to wait but I didn’t want to. I wanted to get home.

  Well, Jesus Christ, Dad said. You were in there because you got too worn out and now you walk home in the hot afternoon clear across town.

  It’s not so hot out right now, she said.

  What’s wrong with those people, letting you go like this.

  They didn’t want to let me go. I just left. I wanted to make you some good supper.

  He was staring at her. Well, by God, he said. If you keep this up, I’m going to die right now and not put it off any longer, just to keep you from doing this again.

  She came across the room and stood in front of him, small and straight and old, and spoke slowly, directly. Don’t you say that to me. Don’t you say such a evil thing. Don’t you ever say it again. You don’t have any right. Are you hearing me, Dad?

  He looked away from her.

  I mean it. I won’t have it. You’re going to break my heart yet, you damned old man. I believe you will. But you can’t say something like that. Now what would you like for supper? I don’t remember what we even have in this house for sure.

  I don’t know. It doesn’t matter to me.

  I want to fix you something nice.

  She bent forward and kissed him on the head and wrapped her arm around his shoulders and raised up his old age-spotted hand affectionately and held it to her cheek for a long time.

  I’m going out to the kitchen, she said. It seems like I was gone for three weeks instead of three days.

  After supper, after she had washed the dishes and had put Dad to bed, she called Lorraine in Denver. I think it’s time to come home now, dear. If you can.

  Is Daddy worse?

  Yes. I wasn’t going to tell you yet.

  Tell me what?

  The doctor said he only has about a month more.

  Mom, when did you find this out?

  Last Friday.

  Why didn’t you call me?

  Oh honey, I’m trying to get used to it myself. I can’t talk about it yet. She started to cry.

  Mom.

  I was in the hospital too, she said. You might as well know that too.

  What’s this now?

  They took me to the hospital a few days ago.

  Why? What was wrong?

  I was just too worn down, they said. I fainted on the floor, right here in the living room.

  Jesus, Mom, are you okay?

  Yes, I am. But I’d appreciate it if you could arrange to help out here a little. I had Berta May come over, but that’s not right. You’re our daughter.

  I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll have to tell them at the office. But I’ll be there.

  That’ll be good. Now I didn’t ask you—are you all right yourself, dear?

  Yes.

  And Richard?

  He’s all right. Richard doesn’t change.

  Well.

  I know. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

  The next day Lorraine drove into Holt on Highway 34 after the sun had already gone down and the blue street lamps had come on at the corners. It was all familiar to her. She turned north off the highway and drove along past the quiet night-lighted houses set back behind the front yards, some of the yards bare of trees or bushes next to vacant lots filled with weeds—tall sunflowers and redroot and pigweed—and then there was Berta May’s house which had been there when she was a child, and then their own white house. She got out and went up to the porch, a pretty woman in her mid-fifties with dark hair. The air was cool and smelled fresh of the country in the evening out on the high plains.

  In the house Dad was already in bed and she went with her mother back to the bedroom.

  Is he asleep already? It’s only eight thirty.

  I don’t know if he’s actually sleeping. He goes to bed early. He always did. You know how he does.

  They stood in the doorway. He was lying in the bed with the window open and the sheet drawn over him. He opened his eyes. Is that my daughter? he said.

  It’s me, Daddy.

  Come over here so I can see you.

  She crossed the room and sat down on the bed and kissed him. Mary went out so he could have Lorraine to himself. Dad stared up at her for a long time. Lorraine’s eyes were wet and she took one of his Kleenexes and wiped at her eyes and cheeks.

  Oh, Daddy.

  Yeah. Ain’t it the goddamn hell.

  She took his hand and held it. Are you in a lot of pain?

  No. Not now.

  You don’t have any pain?

  I’m taking things for it. Otherwise I would. I was before. Well, you look good, he said.

  Thank you.

  How was your drive?

  Okay. A lot of traffic but it was all going the other way, to the mountains.

  How’s work?

  It’s okay.

  They let you off to come here.

  They’d better, she said.

  Yeah. He smiled. That’s right.

  Can you sleep now, Daddy?

  I can still sleep, that’s one thing. As long as Mom’s here. I didn’t sleep much when she was gone. They had her to the hospital. Did she tell you?

  She told me.

  She walked home. Did she tell you that too?

  No.

  She did. It was hotter than billy hell out there. I’m glad you’ve come. She’s all tired out. I’m afraid she might get down too far. I never wanted her to have to take care of me like this.

  I know, Daddy.

  Well. All right, then. You’re here now.

  You go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.

  She kissed him again and went out to the kitchen. He looks so bad, Mom.

  I know it, honey.

  He’s gotten so thin. His color’s so bad.

  He won’t eat. He isn’t hungry he says. He just fusses with it.

  Sunday morning at the Community Church on Birch Street on the back page of the bulletin there was an announcement about Mary Lewis. It said she had been admitted to the Holt Memorial Hospital and had been released, and it said Dad Lewis was no better. The congregation was asked to continue their prayers for him. There was another brief notice that said Lorraine had come back home.

  On Monday, Reverend Lyle and the two Johnson women came to the house to call on the Lewises in the afternoon, all of them within the same hour. Rob Lyle was a man in his late forties, new to town, a tall thin man with black hair and dark eyes. The Johnson women were longtime residents of Holt County. Willa Johnson was a widow with long white hair worn in a knot at the back of her head in that old way and she had thick glasses; and Alene, her unmarried daughter, was over sixty and had taken early retirement after teaching children for almost forty years in a little town on the Front Range, and was back home for the summer now and maybe longer. They lived east of Holt, a mile south off the highway on a county road in the sandhills.

  Lyle was in the living room when they came to the house, sitting on the couch talking to Dad Lewis and Mary, and Lorraine had brought him a cup of black coffee and some cookies on a little china plate. Then the Johnsons came to the door and Lorrain
e got up and showed them in and Lyle stood up. They shook hands. Lorraine carried in a chair for herself and one for Alene from the dining room.

  Well, Dad, how are you doing today? said Willa. Are you doing any better?

  If I am I can’t tell it. I’m better to have my daughter home, I can say that.

  Yes, it said in the church bulletin she was here. Willa turned to Lorraine. You couldn’t stay away now, could you.

  Not after Mom was in the hospital.

  It announced that too, how she was admitted to the hospital. It was the first we heard of it. You might have called us, Mary.

  I didn’t want to bother you, Mary said. You wouldn’t of either, if it was you.

  Well, Dad could have.

  I’m glad he didn’t.

  Lorraine’s here now, Dad said. That’s enough.

  All right, I’m going to be quiet, then. I can tell when to keep my mouth shut.

  You don’t have to be quiet. It’s not that, said Mary.

  That would be the first time if she did, Alene said.

  Oh now my daughter’s attacking me too.

  They all laughed a little.

  On the couch Lyle watched them talk. After a time he said, I think I’ll have to go now. Before I do I wonder if we might pray together. And he bowed his head, they looked at him, at his dark head, and they all bowed their heads too and he prayed, O God, Our Father, we ask you to take particular care of this family and this man here. We ask in your infinite mercy that you bring him the comfort and peace that passeth all human understanding and the assurance of thy son’s own death and resurrection. While he prayed Lorraine looked at him sitting on the couch across the room with his head lowered and his hands folded together and she looked at her father and he was watching the preacher too. Then Lyle finished and said, May you hear our prayer, oh Lord. Amen. He stood and shook hands all around and touched Dad Lewis on the shoulder and Lorraine went with him out the front door onto the porch.

  Thank you for coming, she said.

  I don’t want to bother your father, but I’ll come again if that’s all right.

  Yes. I think it would be.

  I don’t know that he’s very religious.

  No. Not in any orthodox way.

  I understand that. In his own way perhaps.

  Perhaps.

  Well. I’ll be going. He held out his hand to shake hers and instead she surprised him and hugged him. He was a good deal taller than she was.

  Thank you for coming, she said again.

  He went down the walk to his car parked at the street and she stood and watched him drive away. Then she sat down on the porch swing in the shade of the house and took out her cigarettes and smoked. The air was hot and dry and clear, but it was better in the shade. Then Alice, the girl next door, came up in front of the wrought iron fence. She turned and looked out at the empty street and then turned and looked at Lorraine.

  Hello, Alice.

  How do you know my name?

  My mother told me. Why don’t you come up here and talk to me.

  I don’t know who you are.

  I used to live in this house. When I was a girl like you are.

  I don’t know if I should, Alice said.

  You can ask your grandmother, if you want to. Your mother and I used to play together.

  The girl stood looking at her, then she looked out at the street again and finally she opened the gate and came up on the porch.

  You can sit down if you want. Here, beside me.

  The girl slid onto the swing and they began to move it slowly. Lorraine took out her cigarettes again.

  Do you always smoke?

  Once in a while.

  My mother’s boyfriend smoked all the time.

  Lorraine blew smoke out to the side and they rocked the swing in the hot air so that it felt a little cooler as if there were a breeze.

  What did you play with my mother?

  Well. She was younger than me. She was closer to my brother Frank’s age. We played at night under the streetlight at the corner up there and we played out back in the barn.

  What was she like, my mother?

  She was very nice. She was fun to be with.

  Oh.

  That’s right, she was, and I’m so sorry she died like she did, so young, Lorraine said. I’m very sorry. She was a good person. I miss her.

  Grandma says I’m lucky to have someone to take me in.

  Yes, I guess so. I guess you are. And you can come over here and see us if you want anytime.

  He’s dying too, isn’t he.

  My father?

  He’s dying, isn’t he.

  But you don’t have to be afraid of him. He’s just an old man who’s sick. He wouldn’t hurt you. You can come over and see me. We can do something together.

  Like what?

  I don’t know. We’ll have to think of it.

  Are you done smoking now?

  I’m done with this one.

  Alice got up and brought the ashtray from the porch rail and held it for her.

  Thank you, Lorraine said and stubbed out the cigarette.

  You’re welcome.

  She put the ashtray back and sat down again and they swung in the hot afternoon.

  In the house the women were still talking.

  Is he Mexican, did anyone ever say? Willa asked. He’s so dark.

  No, Mary said. I don’t think so.

  On his mother’s side, I mean.

  No.

  Or Italian maybe.

  Not if he’s in the Community Church. A Mexican wouldn’t be a preacher in a Protestant church. He’d be a Catholic.

  He’s kind of good-looking, Alene said.

  Her mother turned toward her, her eyes seeming overlarge behind the thick lenses.

  He is, Alene said.

  He’s married. He has a wife and a teenage son.

  He can still be good-looking.

  They sent him here from a church in Denver, Willa said. He was an associate minister there.

  We heard he was, Mary said.

  I doubt if he’s accustomed to small towns.

  He better start getting accustomed to them, Dad said.

  The women turned and looked at him. They’d thought he was asleep. His head was turned toward the window and he wasn’t looking at them when he talked.

  Nothing goes on without people noticing, he said.

  They waited. But he said no more.

  After a while Willa started talking again. He had some kind of trouble in Denver, I heard. I believe that’s why he was sent here.

  What kind of trouble? said Mary.

  I heard he was disciplined by the church for supporting some other preacher who came out homosexual in Denver. I believe it was something of that nature.

  Wherever did you hear that, Mother?

  A woman friend. Somebody from out of town told me about it.

  Well, they’re people, Alene said.

  Well, of course. I know they’re people. I’m not saying that. I’m only saying as an example of the kind of man he is. What we might expect.

  The room was quiet then. They could hear Lorraine and the young girl on the front porch, the soft talking and the regular small complaint and recover of the porch swing. The hot sunlight streamed in through the window beyond Dad.

  I think I’ll go outside, Alene said. Excuse me, please.

  There’s more coffee, Mary said.

  No thank you. It’s good to see you, Dad. He looked over at her and nodded.

  She rose and straightened the skirt of her dress and went out to the porch. Willa and Mary watched her leave.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Willa whispered. You see how she is. She’s been this way ever since she came home.

  She’s not happy, Mary said.

  Nobody’s happy. But she doesn’t have to be unpleasant in somebody else’s house.

  We’re glad to see her, Mary said, and stood and went back through the dining room to the kitchen. She
looked out the window to the west. The backyard was in shade from the trees, and beyond, the corral and barn were in hot bright sunlight. She brought the pot of coffee and poured some into Willa’s cup.

  Just half, Willa said. I need to go pretty soon.

  Mary looked at Dad. He was asleep now, his old bald head fallen onto his chest, his big hands folded in his lap.

  Out on the porch they made room for Alene on the swing and the three of them, the two women and the young girl, moved slowly in the heat. Lorraine introduced the girl to Alene.

  I’ve been waiting to meet you, Alene said.

  Do you know my grandmother?

  I’ve known her a long time. She and my mother have been friends for years.

  Grandma has a lot of friends.

  Yes. She does.

  But she doesn’t do anything with them.

  You don’t when you get older. But maybe you and I could do something together.

  That’s what she said. The girl looked at Lorraine.

  We’ll all do something, Lorraine said.

  What grade are you in, honey?

  I’ll be in the third grade this year.

  That’s the grade I taught.

  I don’t know my teacher here. I don’t know who she’ll be.

  Do you want to find out?

  I guess so.

  I’ll take you up to school if you like. Maybe we can meet her. Or at least find out who she is.

  Do you teach here?

  No. I taught in another town close to the mountains. I’ve stopped teaching now.

  We used to live close to the mountains. When my mother was alive.

  Willa came out on the porch and they introduced her to Alice, and then the two Johnson women went out to their car and drove home to the sandhills and Alice went back to her grandmother’s house.

  4

  FORTY YEARS AGO, when it was over, Dad Lewis was only surprised that it had taken so long to find him out. He hadn’t been all that clever about it.

  After he’d made the discoveries, Dad wouldn’t put it off and on Saturday after they’d closed for the day and the last meager purchase had been made and the change tendered across the scarred wood counter and the last customer had gone out the front door onto the cold darkening sidewalk on Main Street, Dad said, Are we locked up?

  Clayton was standing before the front door looking out at the empty winter street. It looks like it wants to snow, he said.