Lila

by Marilynne Robinson

  When he came into the room, she felt a surge of relief at the sight of him that made it harder for her to do what she meant to do, which was nothing. Stand there and hear him out. She couldn’t leave, now that she’d given her money to that boy. Well, she’d figure a way if she had to. She was thinking, I’m gone the minute he talks down to me, no matter what. And just that morning she’d been feeling so safe.

  He spoke down the stairs, “She’s here. She’s fine,” and Boughton said, “Tomorrow, then,” and let himself out. Then the old man said, “That’s true, isn’t it? You are fine?”

  She said, “Far as I know.”

  He nodded. “Me, too. Far as I know.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “A little winded, maybe.” He covered his face with his hands. A moment passed, and then he patted the bed beside him and said, “Come, sit down.” He cleared his throat to steady his voice. He said, “So. I’ll tell you about my day, if you’ll tell me about yours.”

  She shrugged and sat down beside him. “I been out walking.”

  “So I gather.” A longer moment passed, and then he said, “Someone came by my office and told me he’d seen you at the cabin. He mentioned it because the weather was turning bad. So I got Boughton to drive me out there so I could spare you the walk home. But we missed you somehow.”

  She said, “Who told you?”

  “George Peterson. He’s not in the church. They all know better by now.”

  They all knew better than to tell him about her comings and goings. She’d have to think about that.

  He said, “You weren’t there, but your coat was, and there was a fellow underneath it. When I saw it, I thought it was probably you under it. I said your name and there was no answer, so I turned it back, and this fellow jumped up with a knife in his hand.” He laughed and rubbed his eyes. “I never had such a scare. Or felt so relieved. I thought Boughton might die on the spot. Then he pushed past us and ran off, and we were just too floored to do anything much but look at each other. We started worrying about where you were and how he got your coat. We couldn’t very well ask him. So we came back here.” He laughed. “Boughton must have been doing forty the whole way. He’s so scared of that car he’s always got two wheels in the ditch, but he was Barney Oldfield this evening.”

  She said, “Well, I was just here resting.”

  “So I see. But perhaps you could clarify things a little. I’m curious. And I feel as though I owe Boughton the rest of the story. Nothing urgent about it, of course.”

  “Part of the time I was sitting in the church, trying to warm up a little.”

  He nodded. “I guess that’s how we missed you.”

  “And I give him that coat. The use of it. Just for the night. I never thought you’d be out there.”

  He nodded. “That was very generous.”

  “Well, I didn’t know it would turn so cold.”

  “I’m sure he was glad to have it. The use of it. So you walked home in the cold without a coat.”

  “I felt sorry for him. A boy like that. He was so miserable he wasn’t even sleeping nights. He thought it was because he’d killed somebody, but I thought it might be that he just wasn’t comfortable. Partly, anyway.”

  “Well,” he said. “He’d killed somebody.”

  “He thought he probably did. Sounded to me like he did and he didn’t want to be sure of it. It was just his pa. I mean, he wasn’t out looking for somebody to kill. He lost his temper, I guess.”

  He laughed. “That happens.”

  “He wasn’t going to hurt anybody. All he wanted to do was go back where he come from. So they could hang him.”

  “I see. Of course I had no way of knowing that, did I. You can imagine what I thought, finding your coat there. And he was a pretty rough-looking individual, from what I saw of him.” He said, “I have a lot of memories these days. And I have some pretty bad dreams. I talked to Boughton about it, and he said he has them, too. So we couldn’t be very sensible in the circumstances, I suppose. Maybe we could have talked to him if we hadn’t brought so much dread into the situation. Lila, I haven’t wanted to bring this up, but I would appreciate it a great deal if you were very careful with yourself. Just to spare two old men a little wear and tear.”

  She said, “I will give it some thought.”

  He laughed. “Yes. Do it for my sake. Oh, what a shock I had.” And he lay back on the bed with his arms across his face.

  After a while she said, “He had a little sort of bundle with him. Did he take that when he run off?”

  “There was something like that lying on the floor. We left it there. Why?”

  “Well, it’s just that he’ll likely come back for it.” Maybe she shouldn’t have said that. “If he seen that you wasn’t chasing him, he’s probly already come and gone.”

  “I take it you don’t want to talk to the sheriff about this.”

  “Wouldn’t be much point.”

  He laughed. “If you say so.”

  She said, “I’m not much for talking to a sheriff. That’s a fact. But if he turns himself in, they might not hang him. If some law catches him, for sure they will. But he’ll need that money to get home. He don’t have a decent pair of shoes.”

  He said, “Now you’re crying.”

  “I’m tired is all.” She said, “I was thinking we might bring him here and let him sleep the night at the church. That was before he run off.”

  He handed her his handkerchief. “Well, Lila, I’ll talk to Boughton again. I guess we could go back out there. Maybe talk to him this time. You can stay home.” He sat up and stood up like the weariest man in the world, steadying himself against the bedpost. She knew she should tell him not to trouble himself.

  She said, “I better go along. He won’t be scared of me. He’ll never come with us. He’d never get in the car with us now. But we could take him some things. If we hurry.”

  “All right. Then you put some things together and I’ll go get Boughton.”

  So she put socks and long underwear and a flannel shirt in a pillowcase, and a pair of the preacher’s old shoes. None of it would fit the boy, but it was better than nothing. She bundled a piece of ham in wax paper and put it with the rest, and some apples, and took two wool blankets out of the cupboard. She put on the blue coat, which she found draped on the newel post, and went out to the DeSoto. Boughton said, somberly, “I believe they call this aiding and abetting. I know they do.” He said, “Nobody will have to get out of the car. I’ll honk the horn. We’ll just pull up to the stoop and drop it all out the window. I’m going to keep the car running.”

  When they stopped in front of the cabin, Lila stepped out. She called, “Hey. You there? We brought you some clothes and some blankets. I’ll just set them inside here in case it snows.” The Reverend stepped out, too, and gave her a flashlight, and took the parcel, and took her arm. He said, “I’ll go in.”

  “No, I will. He’s touchy, all right, but he ain’t scared of me.” She said, “We don’t want to corner him. He’ll get himself in worse trouble.”

  He laughed. “We can’t have that, can we. Whatever you say. Let’s just be quick about it.”

  She set the things inside the door, and then she swept the flashlight across the room. She said, “It’s still there. His money. He ain’t come back for it.”

  “Well, he won’t come back as long as we’re here. It’s good that he hasn’t come back already. This way he’ll find what you’ve left for him.”

  “Oh, maybe,” she said. “I don’t know, I don’t.” The old man’s voice was so low and so weary. Then all the way home they were silent. She could feel thoughts passing between the two men, who had grown old in their friendship. She’s going to be a world of trouble, John. And: Let’s see what she has to say before we judge. And: Old men can make foolish decisions. And: Let’s leave that to another time. And: No matter what happens, I’m on your side. And: You are, you always are, even when I’m not. Still, the longer he thought about it, the graver he was
. That night she lay beside him, wondering if he ever would sleep. He didn’t take her hand, and she didn’t dare take his. But the child was there. She could feel what must be the press of its head below her rib, the press of its foot against her hip. She thought, Seems like you’re about as strong as you ought to be.

  * * *

  The next morning the Reverend came downstairs dressed for Sunday. She still forgot to pay attention to the days of the week sometimes, but she was pretty sure it was Thursday. He told her once that his preacher clothes helped him remember himself, helped with that worry of his about anger. So here he was, remembering himself before he’d even had breakfast. He said, “Good morning.”

  She said, “Morning.” There was nothing to do but wait for him to say what was on his mind. She poured coffee into his cup, so he sat down.

  Then there was a knock at the door, and he went to answer it. She heard him talking with someone. When he came back to the kitchen he said, “That was Boughton’s boy Teddy. He’s been out to the cabin already, to leave some things that might have a better chance of being the right size. Boughton is too stove up in the mornings to do much himself, and Teddy wanted a look at things anyway, since he’s almost a doctor. He thought the fellow might be needing his help. No sign of him, though. Everything is the way we left it.” He said, “I’m sorry about that. Sorry we scared him off.”

  She said, “Nobody’s fault.”

  He was standing there with his hands on the back of his chair, looking at her, tired and serious. She could almost see what he had been like as a young man. He said, “There are people you seem to know the first time you see them. And other people you might spend your whole life with and never really know. That first day you walked into the church, that rainy Sunday, I felt as though I recognized you somehow. It was a remarkable experience. It was.”

  “But you don’t really know nothing about me,” she said, since he couldn’t bring himself to say it. She was about to hear those words again: I don’t know you.

  He said, “Well, in one sense that may be true.”

  “I’d say it’s true.” She wasn’t going to be standing there waiting for it.

  “Not in a way I thought would matter. And it doesn’t matter now, Lila. Not really.”

  “I guess that’s good, because there ain’t much to tell. I don’t know who my folks were, I don’t know my own last name.”

  He said, “I understand that. It makes no difference to me. None at all.”

  “Well,” she said, “if there’s something else you want to ask me about, you might as well do it.”

  He said, “Yes.” And then he said, “It makes me uncomfortable, you can see that. But I feel as though I need to know—how things stand. I can’t help wondering why you went back there. What you were doing there.”

  “I was just going to look at the pelicans on the river, and seeing the shack reminded me that I left some money hidden under a plank in the floor. I could see the place was empty. I looked for the money and it was gone. I thought it would feel good to rest a little anyway, so I sat there on the stoop in the sunshine and I guess I fell asleep. Then I woke up and that boy was standing there looking at me.”

  “You didn’t know him at all.”

  “Never seen him in my life before. That’s the truth.”

  “Yes, of course. Of course.” Then he said, “I hate to seem to be questioning you, Lila. But when I heard you had gone out there, I thought it might mean you weren’t happy. You know, here, with me. I knew from the beginning that things might be difficult, and I thought I could accept whatever happened. But it never crossed my mind there might be a child. I thought I had learned not to set my heart on anything. But I find myself thinking about that child—much of the time. So the idea that you might want to leave—it would be extremely difficult for me to live with that.”

  She said, “I ain’t leaving. Farthest thing from my mind.” If this was not entirely true, it was true enough. “I just go off to look at pelicans and everything goes haywire. I don’t know. I thought I might as well get some use out of that money. Took me all summer to save it up.”

  “I only asked because, if there was anything I could do to make you want to stay—”

  She said, “My child is going to have a big old preacher for its papa, and live in a good, warm house, and eat ham and eggs three times a week. And it’s going to know all them hymns by heart. You’ll see.”

  “Well,” he said, “that will be wonderful. Wonderful.” Then he sat down to his breakfast. He said his grace to himself, behind his trembling hands, and she thought it would be good if she could tell him she had meant to buy him a present with her money, but that would sound like a lie, and then he wouldn’t trust her the way he wanted to.

  She said, “That boy out at the shack, he was just an ugly, dirty, lonely little cuss, half scared to death. And I was thinking he could’ve been any child that had nobody to take him up and see to him.”

  He looked at her. Then he said softly, “I did know you. I do know you,” and his eyes filled with tears.

  “That’s good, I guess.” She shrugged and turned away. “Maybe I ain’t so hard to know as some people. No reason why I should be. More coffee?” She couldn’t talk to him the way he was talking to her. That boy out at the cabin, he knew her. Married? To a preacher? Sounds like you making that up. That his child you got there? Meaning no harm, knowing no better. It seemed almost as if she had lied to the preacher when she said she didn’t know that boy. He had been at the edge of her sight all those years, orphaned, his whole life just that terrible little ember of pride, meanness and kindness all that he had to shelter it with, and the injured fearfulness that comes when anybody at all might do you the worst kind of harm, just by the way they look at you. This old man is beautiful and kind and very patient, she thought, and if he looked at me that way I might just die of it. Well, but for now he is mine to touch if I want to. So when she brought his coffee she put her arms around his neck and she kissed his hair. Might as well take pleasure where you can.

  He stroked her hands. Then he said, “I’ve been thinking, Lila—at my age I can’t really hope for a call to another church, but maybe we could move to another house, at least. The church could rent this one, to cover the cost. It would give us a fresh start. We could get rid of some things around here that I’ve been looking at for too long and just start over.”

  She said, “Well, I tell you one thing. That’s the last time I’m going out looking for pelicans.”

  “So you’re all right here?”

  “I’m just fine.”

  “You don’t mind all the scars and scratches? All the departed souls who left them behind? You don’t mind if the Lord’s in the parlor?”

  “I believe I’d be lonesome without them.”

  He said, “I think you’re being kind. I’m going to let you do it, though. I’m pretty sure I’d miss them.”

  “’Course you would.” She rested her cheek against his hair. She thought, The child knows about this, too. Not just the dread I feel sometimes. Not just the cold.

  It was probably Mrs. Ames he was thinking about. He never said her name. One so lovely. There was a wedding picture in his study he never showed to her and never hid from her. Him with his collar standing up, beside him a pretty girl in an old-fashioned dress, one hand in the bend of his elbow, the other holding a bunch of roses. The big front bedroom he kept for guests who never came, that would be where they made the child, and where Boughton in his unimaginable youth had stood weeping while he prayed, touching water to the tiny head. Two young men in that room, one of them Jesus. One of them hardly knowing what to think, the other knowing, leaving it to Boughton to find words if he could. Well, that was a thing she did not understand. But Boughton had taken up that child while it was still in its blood, held it and blessed it from his very heart, and she did understand that. She wished she could have done the same for that boy at the shack, done right by him, filthy thing that he was, all trembling
at the thought of what he was. Teddy had gone out looking for him, walking the empty woods alone so the boy wouldn’t be afraid to be found. One day was all Teddy had to give to him, because he was studying to be a doctor, just home to check on his mother and old Boughton. Lila couldn’t go off wandering in the cold, what with the child she was carrying. So the boy would be on his own.

  She went up to that bedroom with her Bible and sat in the rocking chair by the window. There was just the faintest shadow of dust on the dresser, but once she noticed it, it bothered her, so she found a cloth and wiped it off. Now that winter had come and there wasn’t much to do outside, she had started tending to the house a little, even though women from the church came in every week or two to take care of things, as they had done for years because he was alone, and as they still did because now they were looking after his wife and his child, doing all the heavy work, hoping to protect him. But there was always more dust, drifting down from somewhere.

  When she told the old man that she thought she might start reading the Book of Job, saying it “job,” which is exactly the way it is spelled, he had all he could do to keep from laughing. He had to wipe tears from his eyes. He told her it was a man’s name, so it was pronounced differently, and this made her a good deal less interested in it. But she had to read it so he could pretend she wasn’t just making an ignorant mistake in the first place, though he knew perfectly well that she was. He said, “You really do have a way of finding the very hardest parts—for somebody starting out. For anybody. That’s fine. They’re Scripture, too.” And then he could let himself laugh a little, which must have been a relief.