Benediction

by Kent Haruf

  I thought better of you than this, Tom, Willa said. I thought you were a better man.

  You shouldn’t have come here.

  We had every right to come here. We’re members of the church.

  No. You didn’t have the right. We’re the duly elected board. But I’m not getting into that again. Is your car here? Will you be all right? Watch your step in the dark.

  You need to watch your step too, Tom. And don’t ever touch me again, please.

  Good night. He went back to the basement.

  In the basement they went on talking.

  Do all of you want Reverend Lyle to leave? the director said. You don’t seem to have given him much chance and opportunity to prove himself. Have you already made up your minds?

  Is he kind of stupid? one man said. Is he slow? Is that the trouble with him?

  Maybe he’s having a breakdown, one of the others said.

  He’s like some kind of ignorant and dangerous boy. Wanting the world. Wanting what’s on the other side of the store window and making trouble for everybody around him.

  What is wrong with him anyway? the board chairman said. You know him.

  Nothing’s wrong with him, the director said.

  Something is. Look at what’s happened here.

  And Denver too. Or he wouldn’t have been sent out here. We wouldn’t have got him. He wouldn’t have been given this charge. We all know that.

  You shouldn’t have sent him. This isn’t a good place for someone like him. With his ideas.

  It wasn’t only my decision, the director said. Others help make these choices.

  Then those others screwed up.

  Here now, the director said. We don’t need that kind of talk.

  But it was a bad mistake. Say it how you want to.

  I think he’s a good man, one man said who hadn’t spoken yet. I can see that. That’s not in question. He’s someone with a vision of how it could be.

  Not here though.

  Maybe not here, maybe not now. But it could be. It’s like what the Johnson women were saying.

  Never mind that, the first man said. Let’s get this over with. Let’s vote.

  Afterward the director stayed behind. He called Lyle on the phone. Will you come over now? We’re finished talking. I’d like to speak with you now.

  Where are you? Are you still in the church?

  Yes, in the basement.

  We could go upstairs and talk in my office.

  No. I have all my materials down here. This’ll be fine.

  Lyle left the house and walked out in the mild evening and went down the steps to the basement hall where the director was waiting at the long table. The director had gotten himself a glass of water in the kitchen and he was sitting with the half-empty glass and his notes and papers in front of him. He had put his suit coat on again. He stood up when Lyle came in and they shook hands. Lyle was wearing old jeans and a T-shirt. He sat down on the same side of the table as the director with three of the empty chairs between them.

  You didn’t bother to dress up tonight, I see, the director said.

  No. I assume the decision has been made already.

  I thought you might have put on appropriate attire out of respect for the greater Church, if not for me.

  Does it matter?

  The formalities matter.

  It still comes out the same.

  The director took a sip of water from his glass.

  So. Is this what you want? What’s happened here tonight?

  It wasn’t. But it is now.

  You’ve done what you could to make it come out like this. Haven’t you.

  How much time do I have? I will need some time to move my family.

  You don’t even ask if you can be reassigned.

  No.

  Don’t you want to be?

  No. I’m done. I’m finished with all of this.

  We could probably reassign you as associate pastor somewhere. If you agreed to cooperate.

  No, I don’t think so.

  It doesn’t have to be this abrupt, so all-of-a-sudden.

  Yes it does, finally. It was headed this way for years. It’s just taken this long to get to this day.

  The director stacked the papers on the table in front of him. You don’t understand, do you?

  What don’t I understand?

  How to make changes. How to transform things and move people in God’s direction gradually. It doesn’t have to be fire and brimstone. Bombast and arm waving.

  I’m sure I never waved my arms.

  But you take my point. Changes can be made by slow accretion.

  Not in my experience. I don’t see it.

  Well, you didn’t, and you haven’t. That’s true. Still, I want to give you time to reconsider. To sleep on it and reflect and pray over this tonight.

  I’m not changing my mind.

  It wouldn’t be official until the decision had gone through the formalities and the appropriate channels and the church hierarchies, then they would talk again. The director insisted on shaking hands once more and gathered up his papers, put them in a briefcase and went out the door. Lyle stayed behind and carried the water glass the director had used to the kitchen and washed and dried it and put it away in the cupboard and stacked the chairs against the wall and put away the table. He turned the lights off and went back up to ground level. A car was going by on the dark street. He walked home in the quiet night.

  At the parsonage he called his wife and son into the kitchen and they sat at the table looking at him. Is it over? she said.

  I’ll tell you.

  Then he told them: the board had made its decision tonight, he was being discharged and they’d have to leave. But they had time to consider what to do, until the end of summer. They could stay in the house in the meantime while they decided.

  I’m going now, she said. I’ll leave tomorrow. I won’t wait. It was bad enough coming to a place where they didn’t want you in the first place, but the shame of being dismissed … I can imagine the glances and the whispers now. How people will act in the stores. I won’t endure that.

  It’s not shame, he said. That’s not what this is. It’s something different from that. I don’t feel shame.

  Well, don’t tell me about it, she said. I don’t want to hear it.

  Mom, John Wesley said, I’m going with you.

  Oh, you poor boy, she said. What a hard time for you. She lifted her hand to his face but he pulled away.

  I’m coming with you.

  No. You can’t. Stay here with Dad. For a while longer. Just for a while. Wait till I have a job and a place for us. We don’t even have a place to put our heads down in Denver. You can come when I find something.

  Yes, that’s better, Lyle said. Your mother needs time. Stay with me, son. He turned again to his wife. You’re sure this is what you want to do? Or should you stay until we figure out what we’re all going to do?

  It’ll be a relief.

  You don’t think about me, the boy said. He was close to tears. Neither one of you does. You never do.

  He stood up shoving the chair out of the way, it fell over backward, and he ran out of the room.

  Let him go, she said. He needs a chance to take this in.

  They stayed in the kitchen talking and afterward she went upstairs and began to pack.

  35

  WE HAVE TO GO over there a last time, Berta May said. I want to tell him good-bye. I want you to come with me.

  Why?

  Because he likes you so much.

  He’s never told me.

  He wouldn’t. But he does, I know that. It will be good for him to see a young person again.

  I don’t want to, Grandma. He scares me.

  He’s just an old man. He might be in bed or he might be sitting up in his chair by the window. It doesn’t matter. We’ll just stay a little while.

  I don’t want to go back in his bedroom.

  He won’t hurt you. Now don’t you make a f
uss. Do you hear?

  Yes.

  All right. Now take the scissors out to the garden and cut some flowers so we can take them to him.

  She went out to the garden and cut a red zinnia, leaving the stem long with the leaves on it, and brought it inside.

  You only cut this one?

  Yes.

  How come?

  I just wanted one. I thought he’d like it.

  All right. Go wash your hands and brush your hair, then we’ll go.

  Berta May telephoned next door. Is this a good time to come over for a minute to see Dad?

  Yes, Mary said. He’s sitting up if you’ll come now.

  We’re on our way.

  They went out across to the gate under the trees and up to the house and Mary let them in. Dad was at the window in his pajamas, a blanket spread over his legs, looking gray and thin. He stared at them when they entered the room and Berta May came over and he slowly lifted his hand and she took it and held it and then she gestured for Alice to come. The girl walked across the room, holding the flower in front of her, and presented it to Dad. He looked at her and his mouth moved in a whisper. Thank you. Mary took the flower and Dad said in the same whispery voice, Put it in a vase.

  I will, honey.

  And bring it back.

  Yes.

  Berta May patted his shoulder and turned and sat down on the couch, and Alice sat with her, next to Lorraine who pulled her close and kissed her cheek. Mary came back with the flower in a glass vase half-filled with water and put the flower on the windowsill and Dad looked at it and turned to look at Berta May and Alice. Every time Alice looked at Dad he was watching her. She couldn’t tell what he might mean by looking at her in that way.

  Mary, Dad whispered. Bring me my box from the bedroom.

  Your cedar box?

  Yes.

  She stood up and left the room and the others sat looking out the window. Another hot day, Lorraine said. You can see the way the tree leaves look so limp already.

  We can be glad it cools off at night, said Berta May. I don’t know what we’d do otherwise.

  Live with it, Lorraine said. Or get air-conditioning.

  Mary came back with the red cedar box that had a lid that closed with a brass fastener. She set it in Dad’s lap on top of the blanket. He tried to open it but his fingers couldn’t manage the small lock. You do it, he said.

  She lifted the lid and he looked across the room at Alice. Would you come back here? he whispered.

  Do you mean me?

  Yes. If you would.

  She looked up at her grandmother.

  Go ahead, Berta May said. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

  She came across the room and Mary put her arm around her and then sat down in her chair.

  Take something, Dad said.

  What is it?

  Look inside here. It’s just old things.

  She moved closer and began to look at things and put them back. Arrowheads, snake rattles, wartime tokens from the 1940s, a pocketknife, a ruby ring, a thick pocket watch, old silver dollars, a little box of wood matches.

  You see anything you want? he said.

  But these are your things, she said.

  I want to give you one.

  You don’t care?

  Whatever you want.

  She picked a snake rattle.

  That’s not much, he said. Take something more.

  She held up one of the arrowheads.

  He fumbled in the box and brought out two of the old smooth silver dollars and handed them to her and shut the lid.

  Then without warning he reached up to touch her face. She jerked away. He let his hands fall and he looked at her, his eyes watery and staring.

  What do you want to do? she said. I don’t know what you want.

  I wanted to touch your face, he whispered. That’s all.

  She looked at him. Go ahead, she said. She leaned over closer to him.

  He raised both hands again and held her face in his old loose-skinned hands and shut his eyes. She watched him, she could see his eyes moving beneath his closed eyelids. His hands felt papery and cold on her face. Then he released her. She looked at him. Thank you for these things, she said softly, and turned and went to sit again with Berta May and Lorraine and showed them what she had. Dad stared out the window. Soon he was asleep.

  When they got up to leave, Berta May said, Don’t wake him. We’ll just slip out.

  Thank you for coming, Mary said. I know he wanted to see you once more.

  That afternoon when Lorraine came in to his bedroom he was asleep under the sheet in the new pajamas they had bought in the department store on Main Street. His mouth was open, his closed eyelids fluttering, and his hands were rested over his chest. She thought at first that he had died and she came to the bed and bent over his face, then she could feel the faint air he blew out and could smell his sour breath.

  She sat down in the chair next to the bed. The window was open overlooking the backyard, the brown shade was pulled down to keep the sun out. It was dim in the room and the air was warm but not hot.

  Dad woke and opened his eyes. He stared at Lorraine and she smiled at him. He lifted his hand toward her and she held it, looking into his eyes.

  Hello, Daddy, she said.

  Yes. Hello. He spoke very quietly, slowly.

  Daddy, when you were touching Alice’s face, what were you thinking?

  That was this morning.

  Yes.

  I just wanted to touch a girl’s soft face again.

  Did you touch mine like that when I was little?

  He stared at her for a long time. I don’t think so.

  Why didn’t you?

  I was too busy. I wasn’t paying attention.

  No, she said. You weren’t. She lifted his hand to her cheek now.

  Forgive me, he whispered. I missed a lot of things. I could of done better. I always loved you.

  You never told me that when I was her age.

  Can you forgive that too?

  Yes, Daddy.

  I want to tell you now, he said.

  She watched him, his watery eyes staring at her.

  I loved you, he whispered. I always did. I approved of you completely. I do today.

  She kissed his hand and put it back on his chest and leaned far over and kissed him on his cracked lips.

  Thank you, Daddy. I feel the same way. I hope you know that.

  He shut his eyes, the tears squeezed out onto his cheeks. She stayed next to him, not talking anymore, and when he went to sleep again she went out and climbed the stairs to her room on the second floor and lay down in the bed in the hot afternoon while the wind blew the curtains in and out at the window.

  36

  AT THE PARSONAGE John Wesley used most of that same long hot summer afternoon to clear everything from his computer. Then as the day stretched toward the end, when the sun had moved far westward, he came out of the bedroom and walked down the hall to his parents’ room at the front of the house and looked in the drawers in the walnut bureau that had belonged to his mother, but she had taken all her clothes and makeup with her to Denver. He drew the curtain back from the window and looked out at the corner of the street and into the high branches of the trees. The late-afternoon light in the street had a slanted look. He walked back down the hall and searched the upstairs bathroom in the cabinets and chests, but there was none of her mascara or lipstick on the shelves or in the drawers.

  Downstairs in the kitchen he took out the box of wood matches from the junk drawer together with a flat dish from the cupboard and carried them into the bathroom. He struck a match and smeared the charcoal end on his fingers, it made a black stain. He lighted a dozen more matches and set them in the dish. Then he began to blacken his face. When he was finished he stood looking at himself in the cabinet mirror, all his face was dark now, and he shut the light off and dumped the match ends in the trash can and rinsed the dish and put it away and drank a glass of water at th
e sink and went out the door to the garage.

  There was a long narrow driveway running alongside the house to the garage. Grass had grown up in the gravel. In the garage he pulled the overhead door shut and locked it and locked the side door. Light filtered in from the small windows at the sides.

  From the rear of the garage he brought out an old wood chair and set it in the middle of the floor where the fine dirt was black and shiny with oil leaks from the car. Then he brought out the wood box from under the workbench. On the bench were a steel vise and cans of nails and old hammers and wrenches all coated with oily dust. He set the box on the chair.

  After that he got out the cotton rope he’d bought at the hardware store on Main Street and hidden in the corner by the workbench.

  Then he stood next to the chair and threw one end of the rope over a rafter, making the fine dust from all the years sift down and hang in the air, and tied a knot in the rope and pulled it tight. He leaned against the rope to test if it would hold.

  Then he walked over to the window and looked out at the backyard where his father had started a garden. He looked past the yard to the neighbors’. Through the trees he could see the town water tower, with Holt spelled out in red, at night it was always lit up but he wouldn’t see that anymore, and he crossed to the other side and looked out west across the street. Nobody there. Nothing happening.

  He came back and climbed up on the box and immediately he lost his balance and had to step off. The box tumbled down. He brushed the dirt off and set it back on the chair and stood up on it slowly, carefully, leaning and tottering, then stood still. He reached around behind and brought the rope over his shoulder so that it hung in front of him. He held it for a moment, looking at it. Then he tied a slipknot and fit the loop over his head and drew it tight around his neck, with the knot at the back of his head just under the bulge of the skull, and let the loose end fall behind him. Then he lowered his hands and arms to his sides.

  For a long time, for maybe twenty minutes, he stood without moving. He turned once and looked out the window at the day and all the nearby world. The light was lower now. In the garage it was darker than it was outside.

  Out on the high plains the sun went down and disappeared beyond the low flat horizon. The boy still stood on the box with the rope around his neck.