Benediction

by Kent Haruf

  Lady, he said, you don’t ever want to tell people you’re lost. You don’t know what they might do to you.

  Oh, I don’t think people would do anything to me. Look at me here. I’m an old woman. She stood in the middle of the little room watching him.

  You never know, he said. You can’t tell.

  All right, I won’t say it again. But can you help me or not, do you think?

  Yeah. I can help you.

  He got up and went over to the rack on the wall next to the entrance and took down a map of Denver.

  Oh, she said. Do you have to do all that?

  What else am I going to do?

  He went around to his side of the counter and opened the map and showed her where she was and pointed out the streets to take downtown.

  But I can’t drive according to maps, she said.

  He looked at her. Why not?

  I don’t know. I just can’t. It’s the way I look at things and the way my mind works.

  Well, can you just remember, if I tell you?

  No. Not like I used to.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do then. What do you want me to do?

  I want you to tell me slowly and I’ll write it down. I’ll take the turns you say, left or right, from off the paper.

  But I got this map here for you. It’d be the same thing.

  No, a map wouldn’t do any good.

  Well, he said. If that’s what you want.

  Then he told her very patiently and she wrote on the blank side of a flyer for a car auction all the directions he gave her, and folded the paper and put it in her purse.

  How’s the gas in your car? he said. You don’t want to take any chances.

  Thank you for asking. I’m all right that way. But I wonder if I could use your restroom.

  Go ahead. It’s right there.

  The restroom wasn’t very clean. She put paper down on the toilet and afterward washed her hands thoroughly, and looking in the mirror she applied some new lipstick, and she thought her red mouth and her white hair looked striking together, then she came back out to the office where the man was. Thank you, she said. I feel like I ought to buy something, for all your trouble.

  Is there something you need in here?

  No. I don’t think so.

  Then you don’t need to buy anything. It’s no trouble. Just don’t tell nobody else you’re lost.

  I’m not lost now, she said. Aren’t these directions good?

  Yeah, they’ll get you there.

  Thank you, she said. You’re a good man.

  No, he said. He looked out toward the gas pumps. I don’t know if my wife would agree with you.

  Why not?

  All the water under the bridge.

  You mean something happened.

  Yeah.

  But you’re still together.

  As of this morning we are.

  Do you still want to stay with her?

  She’s the one I want. Always has been. There’s no mix-up in that direction.

  Then you’ve got to make her see it that way.

  Doing what?

  I don’t know. That’s for you to know.

  I’m pretty sure she’s give up on me.

  No, she hasn’t. I doubt if she has. You wouldn’t still be in the house.

  No. I think she has. She’s give up. It’s over for her. She don’t feel the same way no more.

  But you’re a good man, I can see that. I could write her a note as a testimony.

  Oh lord, wouldn’t that be something.

  Do you want me to?

  Yeah. Sure. Why not? Hell, what harm’s it going to do?

  You have any more paper to write on?

  Sure. Write on this.

  He gave her another flyer with a blank back.

  What’s your name? she said.

  Ed.

  She started to write, then stopped. Your wife’s name?

  Mary.

  That’s my name, she said.

  Glad to meet you, he said. He stuck his hand out above the counter and they shook hands. She wrote, Dear Mary, you don’t know me but I met your husband Ed this morning at the gas station and he was very kind to me. I have the feeling he’s a good man. I have a good one at home myself so I know, even if some people might not think so but I’ve known him for fifty years. I wish all happy days for you. Signed, Mary Lewis, your friend (unknown). She folded the paper. Don’t read that till I get away from here, she said.

  Why’s that now?

  It wouldn’t be any good then. It would jinx it.

  I won’t, he said. You take care of yourself now.

  I’m on my way to see my son, she said, and went out and got in the car and drove away.

  In downtown Denver there wasn’t much traffic yet since it was still only midmorning on a Sunday, and by sheer luck and instinct she drove to the street where Frank’s apartment was located and parked and locked the car doors and walked up the sidewalk to the porch of the old run-down frame house. It had not been painted in the years since she and Dad had been there. She knocked and waited. She looked at the next house and it looked just like this one. She tried the door. It was unlocked. She stepped into the dark hallway which ran back to two closed doors the way she remembered, and she went quietly up the stairs to the apartment where Frank had lived. A short Mexican woman came to the door. A program in Spanish was playing on the TV behind her. Is Frank here? she said.

  What?

  Does Frank still live here?

  Is no Frank here.

  Mary looked at the other doors. Have you been here a long time?

  Me?

  Yes. How long has it been since you moved here?

  I don’t know.

  You don’t know?

  Not very long.

  Is anybody else here?

  My husband is sleeping.

  She looked past the woman into the apartment. I’m looking for my son. I’m looking for Frank Lewis.

  I don’t know this man.

  We haven’t seen him for a long time. I don’t know where he is. He wouldn’t talk to us.

  No? Why?

  Because of him and my husband. What happened between them. And all of us.

  Did he hit him?

  No. It wasn’t like that.

  Oh, I’m sorry for you.

  Mary looked at her, and her eyes smarted with tears now. Thank you, she said.

  I’m sorry you can’t see your son.

  Thank you for your kindness.

  Then the woman suddenly reached and hugged her and Mary held the woman tightly in return and stepped back and thanked her again and managed to smile a little and went down to her car. She sat a while. Then she drove until she found Broadway and the corner café that Frank had worked in and parked where Dad had parked when they had come looking for Frank on that winter evening when the floodlights were all lighted up at Civic Center.

  The inside of the café wasn’t black and white anymore, but all yellow and brown. There were a lot of people out on Sunday morning eating brunch. She stood at the door waiting until someone would come to lead her to a booth or table. She couldn’t see Frank among the waiters hurrying in the room.

  Then she was seated at a small table near the back and she ordered a breakfast of eggs and toast and coffee and sat watching the people with their families and their friends, they all had someone to dine with and talk to. The waitress who came was a young girl. Later when she brought the bill Mary said, You don’t know anybody by the name of Frank do you?

  You mean here?

  Yes. Somebody who works here.

  There’s nobody by that name here.

  He might have been called Franklin.

  You could ask Janine. She’s worked here the longest.

  Where is she?

  That’s her over there.

  Would you ask her if I could talk to her?

  We’re pretty busy.

  Just for a minute. Would you ask her, please?

  The
girl went over to the woman wearing red-framed eyeglasses, she looked too old to still be working. The girl said something to her and after a while the woman came over. You’re looking for somebody?

  I’m looking for a young man named Frank. Or he might have called himself Franklin.

  Franklin Lewis? He used to be here. When I first started he was working here. That was a long time ago.

  I know. It would have to be. He’s not here now?

  He’s been gone for years. And he wouldn’t be very young now. I’m lucky I even remember him.

  Where did he go?

  No idea. Him and his boyfriend took off someplace together.

  His boyfriend.

  That younger kid he was with.

  Why did they leave?

  The waitress looked at her closely. Ma’am, how much of this do you want to know?

  Whatever you can tell me.

  All right then. The owner found Franklin with some of the café’s money. I heard he’d been taking it for months.

  I don’t believe that.

  You said you wanted to hear this.

  I don’t believe Frank would steal.

  He had some of the money, that’s all I know. I don’t remember how they discovered it but the owner gave him a break, told him he could just give it back and leave.

  He must have had a reason, Mary said. Her eyes filled with tears again.

  I’m sorry. Can I get you something?

  No. I’m all right. I just need to sit a minute.

  The old waitress moved away and Mary sat still for a while and then stood up and placed money on the table and went out to her car. It was a little past noon.

  She was four hours driving home. She drove cautiously getting out of Denver and went too slow on the interstate so that cars and trucks racing past honked at her. By the time she reached Brush she was so tired that she stopped in the parking lot at McDonald’s and put the seat back and rolled the windows down. She went to sleep at once. An hour and a half later when she woke she was sweaty and hot.

  She started the car, turning the air-conditioning on, and ordered a large cup of iced tea at the drive-up window and then drove back to Holt through the wide-open flat country and the mile roads and the pastures and the stubble. In town she turned north on her own street and looked at all the houses and then parked at home. She took her purse and the empty thermos and passed through the wrought iron gate and on up to the house. It was quiet inside. As soon as she stepped through the door Lorraine came out from the kitchen. Mom. Are you all right? You look tired. You had us scared.

  I’m all right.

  You shouldn’t take off like that all alone.

  Well, I did.

  And you’re all right. Nothing happened.

  I’m worn out, that’s all.

  Did you find him?

  No. He wasn’t at the café.

  That was so long ago, Mom.

  I had to look somewhere. I tried his apartment too. I don’t know where he is. He’s disappeared. He’s out in the world someplace, in thin air. He’s not coming back.

  No. I don’t think he is, Mom. He doesn’t want to be found anymore.

  I can’t just forget him. I can’t.

  I know.

  Well, she said. She put her purse and the thermos on the table and looked around. How’s Dad?

  About the same. Maybe a little worse.

  What did he say about me leaving?

  He didn’t know what to say. Neither one of us did.

  Well, I’m back now.

  She walked into the bedroom and he was lying on his back, the sheet over him. He turned to see her. His eyes looked dull. Is that you? he said.

  Yes, honey. I’m home now.

  Did you find him?

  No. I never found him. She came close to the bed. How are you this evening?

  Not much good.

  34

  THEY MET IN THE BASEMENT of the church in what was called the fellowship hall. A big open room with a kitchen at the back, with the smell of mold rising from behind the trim at the edges, and long folding tables and metal chairs stacked against the wall, and an old upright piano in the corner.

  Outside the church the light was beginning to fade, and there was a little breeze. But it was dark down in the basement and the recessed ceiling lights had been switched on.

  The five members of the ministerial relations board were there along with the assembly director from Greeley, a middle-aged man with bifocal glasses. He was wearing a white shirt and tie but it was a warm evening and he had draped his coat over a chair. They all sat around one of the long tables that had been unfolded and set up.

  The director had opened the meeting with a prayer and then they had begun to discuss Reverend Lyle. The board wanted to put this outrage and unhappiness and disruption behind them, they wanted Lyle to be replaced, to be discharged and not to be allowed to preach in Holt again.

  Maybe he doesn’t even want to, one board member said. He wasn’t here this last Sunday.

  No, he was here, one of the others said. He just didn’t do any preaching.

  Would you be willing to allow him to stay, the director said, if I talked to him and he agreed to avoid this kind of controversy?

  I don’t want to take the chance, the first man said. There’s no knowing what he’ll say when he gets up in the pulpit. You can’t trust him. He could say anything.

  But I think he would be willing to make some kind of promise if I talk to him.

  I don’t even want to try.

  What about the rest of the board here?

  They looked back at the director, in his tie and white shirt, and didn’t say anything.

  I’ve spoken to him by phone, he said, but I haven’t seen him yet. Does he look pretty bad? I understand he was attacked.

  Attacked. I wouldn’t call it that, another man said.

  What would you call it? I heard two men stopped him at night and beat him.

  He was out wandering around town at night, looking in people’s houses. What would you expect? After what he said in church.

  And you think that justifies what those men did. Settling the score for the whole town, so to speak.

  I’m not saying that. Did I say that?

  But they did hurt him.

  A little. Not much. I don’t think he was hurt very bad.

  That makes it all right then.

  No. Somebody roughed him up. We know that. But nobody knows who. If anybody knows who it was they aren’t saying. And he never made any complaint or accusation to the police. It wasn’t much anyway.

  So he’s all right now. He’s not seriously hurt.

  He’s able to talk at least, the first man said. Like we said, he came to church last Sunday and spoke a little.

  What did he say?

  I wasn’t there. I heard he just said that he didn’t have anything more to say. He told people to go home. It wasn’t a sermon.

  It was then that Willa and Alene Johnson opened the basement door and looked in at the board members and the director.

  Yes? the chairman said. We’re meeting here, Willa. This is a board meeting.

  We know you’re meeting. That’s why we’re here.

  But you’re not on the board. This is a private conference.

  I know, Tom. I’ve been on the board myself. Before you were even a member of the church, when you were still just a little boy scurrying around here in the basement bothering people.

  She and her daughter stepped into the room and shut the door. Willa was carrying her purse. Otherwise they had nothing with them. They came up to the table where the five men and the director were sitting, watching them.

  I want to talk to you, Willa said.

  But you shouldn’t even be here, the chairman said. I’ve already told you. You must see that.

  I know what the rules say, but we’re here nevertheless.

  Let’s let her speak, the director said. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear her.

  But
this isn’t the normal way, the chairman said. This isn’t official now. We’re going off record now.

  Have we met before? the director said, looking at Willa.

  Yes, but you don’t remember. I’m Mrs. Willa Johnson and this is my daughter Alene Johnson. We’re both longtime members of this church.

  It’s good to see you. Will you sit down?

  I don’t think so. I don’t expect we’ll be here long enough to bother with chairs. We know what you’re doing here.

  We’re talking about your minister.

  You’re talking about removing him. About refusing to let him stay here and preach to us anymore.

  That’s still under discussion. We haven’t decided that yet.

  You will, she said. Before you do, I’m going to say something in his behalf. She looked at Alene. We’re both going to say something.

  That would be appreciated, the director said. If you can help us be fair and just, we’d like to hear from you.

  Oh, we don’t expect you to be fair, Alene said. That’s not going to happen. That would be a shock to everybody here.

  Wait now, the chairman said. That’s too much.

  No. It’s not, she said. He was trying to remind us of the truth. The real truth. To help us to think bigger than we do. We need to listen to him. But we’re not. Not enough of us.

  That wasn’t the truth, one of the men said. That was just insanity. Craziness.

  It’s in the Bible, Willa said. Do you think the Gospel of Luke is craziness?

  That was out of context. He takes it literally.

  Don’t you? Aren’t we supposed to? At least that passage?

  Not here. Not now. Not like that.

  Yes. Right here, right now.

  My God, are you that ignorant, woman? There’s a war going on.

  There shouldn’t be, she said.

  Wait, the director said. That’s not the issue. Let’s just calm down. This isn’t helping. Let us pray again. I think we should. He looked at them. Will you all pray with me? He bowed his head and folded his hands on top of the table.

  So they prayed again, but it didn’t change anything. Afterward they would not allow the Johnson women to say whatever else they had come to say and the chairman led them each by the arm across the room to the door and went up with them to the street. It was dark now and the corner lights had come on.