Benediction

by Kent Haruf

  You will. Nothing’s definite yet.

  14

  THE ONLY REASON Dad Lewis was home midweek on a winter’s day thirty-seven years ago was that he had contracted some form of intestinal flu. And the only reason he saw Frank and the Seegers kid out in the corral with the horse in the afternoon was that he’d had to get up from bed to go into the bathroom when he thought he was going to be sick again as he had once in the night and twice already that morning, and it was then, when he looked out through the bedroom window toward the barn out across the backyard, that he saw the two boys. They were wearing winter coats and stocking caps, Frank a good head taller than the Seegers kid. The wind was blowing hard and they looked cold.

  Dad was alone in the house. Mary was gone, working at the bazaar, selling chokecherry jam and homemade quilts and crocheted dishcloths in the basement of the Community Church for an African fund-raiser. And Lorraine hadn’t come home from school yet.

  He went to the bathroom and was sick for a while and afterward returned to bed, looking again out the window, but didn’t see the boys this time and didn’t think anything of it, but when he got up from bed an hour later and looked once more and didn’t see them in the corral this time either, he wondered what was wrong. He thought they might have gotten hurt. Or were having trouble with the mare. He stood looking out the bedroom window for some time.

  Finally he went out across the kitchen to the back porch and watched out the window. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the howling raw day and cupped his hands and hollered toward the barn. The wind tore his voice away. He could barely hear it himself. He hollered again. He looked left and right and saw nothing but Berta May’s yellow house to the south and the empty windblown weed-grown undeveloped lots to the north and the raised bed of the railroad tracks. He stepped back into the house and shut the door. Weak and sick, he stood shivering on the back porch in his pajamas, shaking steadily, looking out the window.

  He put on his winter coat and boots and work cap and scarf and gloves and crossed the bare winter lawn in the backyard and went on into the corral. The wispy dirt was swept up by the wind into little drifts across the bare ground. The wind cried and whistled in the leafless trees. He came around the south end of the barn out of the weather and opened the door and peered in at the dim and shadowy center bay. Shafts of sunlight from the cracks in the high plank barn walls fell across the dirt floor. Dust motes and chaff drifted in the air. There was the rich smell of hay and the good smell of horse. He stood for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. Then he could see Frank and the Seegers kid.

  They were mounted on the mare, riding her around in a circle in the closed area of the dirt-floored barn, Frank behind the other boy, their heads close together, and each of them was dressed in one of Lorraine’s frilly summer dresses, trotting in and out of the shafts of sunlight. Riding the horse bareback, bouncing, their thin bare legs clutching the mare’s shaggy winter-coated barrel. Frank held the reins in one hand and his other hand was wrapped around the Seegers kid.

  Then Frank saw Dad standing in the barn doorway. He reined the mare in sharply. Dad stepped inside and moved over to them. The Seegers boy was a redheaded twelve-year-old kid, skinny, his neck scrawny above the square-cut yoke of the pink dress. He looked cold and scared. He and Frank both had lipstick on their mouths.

  Get down from that horse, Dad said.

  Dad, Frank said. It’s all right.

  Get down from there.

  Frank slid down, then the other boy slipped off. They stood waiting, watching Dad.

  What in the goddamn hell do you think you’re doing? he said.

  We weren’t hurting anything, Frank said.

  You weren’t.

  No.

  Let me have the goddamn horse. And get the hell out of those goddamn dresses.

  Dad took the reins and led the mare across to the big sliding door and shoved it open and jerked the bridle free and slapped the mare hard on the rear, and she trotted out across the empty lot, then he came back. The boys had removed the dresses and were working at getting the brassieres off. They looked like thin hairless animals, frightened and cold. They turned their backs to him and took down Lorraine’s silky underpants and stepped shivering over to the manger to their own clothes draped on spikes and got into their pants and shirts and coats.

  Are you going to tell my mom? the Seegers kid said.

  What? No. But if I see you in here again, by God, I’m going to whip you.

  The boy looked at Frank once, quick, and stumbled across to the door and hurried outside. They could hear him running across the corral.

  You want to tell me what this is about? Dad said.

  There’s nothing to tell, Frank said.

  Those were your sister’s dresses.

  Yes.

  Does she know you took them?

  No. But we weren’t doing anything to them.

  You think she’d see it that way?

  Frank looked at him and looked out the open door where the boy had gone. She wouldn’t care, he said.

  Why wouldn’t she care?

  She just wouldn’t.

  How do you know that?

  I don’t know it for sure.

  Have you talked to her about this, what you’ve been doing?

  No.

  She doesn’t know anything about it? How you two were wearing her dresses?

  No.

  Jesus Christ. He looked at Frank, watching his face. What am I supposed to do about this?

  Leave me alone.

  Leave you alone.

  Please.

  Dad stared at him. Christ, he said. What are you anyway?

  I’m just your boy. That’s all I am.

  Dad grabbed him and shook him, hauling him around in the cold air, they staggered in and out of the bars of light fallen across the floor, and then Dad stopped shaking him and grabbed the bridle reins and whipped at him. Frank pulled away, and in his wildness Dad whipped him once across the face and then he suddenly threw the reins away and grabbed the boy, holding him in his arms, hugging him and sobbing. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

  Frank held himself rigid in his father’s arms and finally Dad let him go, then Dad hurried out of the barn, stumbling across to the house into the bathroom and was sick and then went back to the bedroom, his head aching and throbbing now. When he was lying in bed he turned his head and looked out the window. The sun was going down. His eyes welled up and he straightened his head on the pillow and folded his arm over his face in the darkening room.

  After a while he heard Frank enter the house and climb the stairs to the second floor. He could hear him in his sister’s room where he must have been hanging up the two dresses in the closet, and putting away her underwear, then he heard him cross the hall to his own bedroom and he thought he could hear the bed as he lay down, and he thought he must be touching at his cheek now, fingering where the welt was.

  At suppertime Mary stood beside the bed in the dark downstairs bedroom. Are you awake, dear?

  I’m awake.

  Can you get up for supper?

  I don’t want anything.

  You don’t sound good. Are you all right?

  He nodded slightly.

  Okay then. But you seem sicker than you did this morning. Call me if you need something.

  In the kitchen she sat down with Lorraine and Frank and she noticed his face immediately.

  Honey, what happened to you?

  I ran into a post in the barn.

  It must hurt. You need something on it. Let me look at it.

  He pulled away. Leave it alone, Mom. Never mind.

  15

  DAD CAME OUT from the bedroom through the hall in the hot still summer afternoon using his wood cane, with Mary following behind, her hands held out in case he needed help, and they came on into the living room where the preacher and Lorraine were sitting together on the couch. Lyle had said not to disturb Mr. Lewis if he was sleeping but Mary told him she’d go back
to see if he was awake yet. Now Dad moved across to his chair and sat down and put his cane in place on the floor, looking up at Lyle, who rose and stood next to him and touched him on the shoulder and reached down to take his hand. It’s good to see you, he said. How are you doing today?

  Getting slower. Going downhill more.

  Are you in pain?

  No. They got that taken care of.

  I won’t trouble you for long. I just came to see how you were feeling.

  You don’t trouble me. Sit down a while if you care to.

  Lyle turned and sat again beside Lorraine. Mary seated herself in the rocker as Dad glanced out the window at the sprinkler that was throwing rings of water onto the grass between their house and Berta May’s.

  What’s the weather doing out there today? he said. Too hot again?

  They say it’s going to rain, Lyle said.

  It might. It’s turning off dark right now.

  The farmers won’t like that, will they, Daddy? Lorraine said.

  Not if they’re trying to cut wheat. The guys with corn won’t mind it.

  Sounds like a mixed blessing, Lyle said.

  Dad looked at him. Yes sir. Lots of things turn out to be blessings that got mixed up.

  You’ve seen some in your lifetime here.

  I was raised out on the west plains in Kansas.

  You’ve seen some changes.

  One or two. He looked out the window again. The sprinkler had moved on its cleated wheels. He looked back. This was the only house on this street when we bought it. Isn’t that right, Mary?

  It was nothing but prairie and wind and dirt, she said.

  The wind still blows, he said. That doesn’t change. You got to have some wind.

  It doesn’t have to blow on my account, she said. I’m tired of it.

  They never paved our road over. I don’t guess I’ll see that. If they ever do.

  What about people you’ve known? Lyle said. Do you think people have changed?

  People?

  Are we any different now?

  I don’t know. He stared at the preacher. We got more comfortable. We’re not as active or physical. We don’t even go out as far as the front porch as much as we used to. We sit around and watch TV. TV is what’s become of people.

  My folks always used to sit out in the evenings in the summer, Mary said. I remember that so well.

  We did when I was a kid too, Lorraine said. When Frank and I were still little, before junior high. Do you remember?

  Frank’s your brother, I understand, Lyle said. May I ask about him? I hear his name mentioned.

  No one said anything. After a while Dad said, You can ask about him but it won’t make no difference. He left here a long time ago. Two days after he finished high school, he took off.

  That’s pretty young to leave home, Lyle said.

  He only come back twice, Dad said.

  But he’ll come back now, won’t he.

  Back here?

  Yes.

  Why would he?

  To see you. He’ll want to say good-bye.

  He won’t come back for that, Dad said.

  Honey, he might yet, Mary said. Oh I want to think he will.

  He doesn’t know I’m dying. He won’t be coming back.

  Haven’t you told him? Lyle said.

  We don’t know where he is.

  But would you like to see him?

  I’m not waiting on Frank so I can die. If that’s what you’re getting at.

  Most people want to see all their family before they go.

  I got my family right here.

  No, this is not all of us, Mary said. Don’t say we’re all here.

  As far as I’m concerned we’re all here, he said.

  No, we’re not, Daddy, said Lorraine.

  He looked hard around the room, at each face, then pushed himself up from the chair and bent over and picked up his cane and stood still to get his balance. Lorraine came across the room and put her arm around him, holding him, and kissed him on the cheek.

  Don’t leave, Daddy. Stay and talk to us. It’s all right. Don’t go, please.

  He looked at her face so close to his and looked away and closed his eyes and stood for a long time and finally sat down. She took the cane and set it on the floor, bending over him, kissing him again, putting her cheek against his old age-spotted gray face, and sat down once more beside Lyle. There was silence for a while.

  Daddy, why don’t you tell Reverend Lyle about some of the preachers we’ve had, Lorraine said. Like that one you always talk about.

  Which one is that?

  The one that the woman saw Jesus standing on his head.

  He looked at her, then at Lyle. All right, you asked about changes, have people changed, you said. They have in church. Church used to be a long serious affair. None of this bell ringing and people’s dogs getting blessed down at the altar and kids dancing around during the service.

  Sounds like a good time for a nap, Lyle said.

  I had me some good ones on Sunday mornings. That’s a fact. Anyway, on one of those long hot Sunday mornings there was this woman that was visiting town. Who was it she was seeing, Mary?

  The Thompsons, Mary said.

  That’s right.… But you tell it. I won’t remember it right.

  Yes, you will.

  No. Go ahead. Why don’t you.

  She was visiting the Thompsons, Mary said, and while the preacher was giving his sermon this woman, she was only a little thing, didn’t weigh as much as a cat, all of a sudden she jumps up from the pew and starts wailing and crying. The preacher, it was Reverend Cooper then, wasn’t it, interrupts his sermon and this tiny little woman cries, Glory! It’s the Lord Jesus! Praise God Almighty!

  Reverend Cooper says, Yes, ma’am. Can I help you?

  He’s right there over your head! Dressed all in white and walking in the air!

  She shoves her way out of the pew and comes running down to the front of the sanctuary and starts shouting how she’s changed this very hour. On account of what she’s witnessed. Oh heavenly days! Hallelujah! Then it’s like she faints out or has a spell, she kind of sinks down in front of the altar and Marla Thompson rushes down and lifts her up and hauls the poor thing back to her pew.

  What did the preacher do all this time? Lyle said.

  Oh, he’s watching her like the rest of us and then he just goes on with his sermon from where he left off. And afterward we sing the last hymn and he gives out the benediction.

  It woke us up at least, Dad said. I couldn’t sleep through that. But there was another one too. You remember, Mary. Reverend John Dupree.

  You’re not going to tell about him.

  What was that about? Lyle said.

  He was a preacher here too. About twenty years back.

  What happened?

  Well, him and his wife, she was a lot younger, they had a boy about eight. They were having some kind of trouble and got separated from one another. She went off somewhere and left him.

  She just went back to Denver, Mary said.

  She went back to Denver and that put Reverend Dupree here alone with the boy. It was a god-awful mess. Dupree, he wasn’t any good at church anymore, wasn’t much good at anything at all, couldn’t concentrate on practical matters, and the boy was moping around town getting himself into trouble. Then the Sunday comes, and during the time for announcements he says, I got an announcement myself. My bride is coming home! She’s coming back to me this week. People in the church just applauded. The women, mostly.

  There were men clapping too, Mary said.

  Clapping at the news. I never heard such a thing in church before in my life.

  Did she come back as he said she would?

  Yes sir, she come back. All in good time. And shows up in church sitting with the boy and singing hymns. She seemed more or less all right, didn’t she, Mary.

  Not really.

  No?

  No.

  Well, she seemed all
right to me, a man, but Mary’s correct, she must not of been completely all right because two Sundays later the preacher’s boy is sitting in the pew by himself again and we find out the woman has left Dupree and is living across town with Don Leppke, the young fellow that manages the radio station.

  I guess people in Holt didn’t care much for that.

  No, people didn’t care for it at all. The station lost some advertising.

  What became of her?

  Her and Don went off to Denver. We’d hear her on the radio broadcasting from Denver now and then. She seemed to have a talent for it.

  That happened after I left home, Lorraine said.

  Yes. I think it did.

  It had grown darker outside the house and suddenly there was a flash of lightning and it began to rain. The wind came up. Thunder rolled across the sky and there was more lightning flashing. In the living room they watched it out the side window. The rain came down hard at a slant.

  Let’s go outside and enjoy it, Lorraine said. Come on, Daddy.

  They helped him move out to the front porch and stood watching the rain falling on the grass and out in the graveled street. There were already puddles in the low places and the silver poplar trees were dark, streaming with water. Lorraine held her hand out to the rain and patted her face and then cupped both hands and caught the overflow from the gutters and held her hands up to Dad’s face. He stood leaning on his cane, his face dripping. They watched him, he looked straight out across the lawn past the wrought iron fence, past the wet street to the lot beyond, thinking about something.

  Doesn’t it smell good, Mary said.

  Yeah, he said softly. His eyes were wet, but they couldn’t say if that was from tears or rainwater.

  16

  THAT AFTERNOON, when the rains came, John Wesley was standing at the counter in the Holt post office mailing a package for his mother. When he was finished he went outside and stood next to an old woman who was waiting under the porch of the little entryway. Cars went by on Main Street splashing up wakes of spray, their headlights on, their windshield wipers going fast. The old woman was staring at him. You’re that preacher’s boy.