Kent Haruf - Benediction

What are we doing? he said. Somebody could hit us here.

She was staring ahead over the steering wheel. I’ve decided it’s time to stop this.

What? Why?

School’s starting next month.

I know. But we can go on after classes start.

No. I’m going to have to work more than I ever have before, to get into a good college.

She wouldn’t look at him. The headlights shone very brightly out ahead of the car on the gravel.

I don’t understand what you mean, he said.

There’s nothing to understand. Just accept it. We had a good time and now we’re done. This is the last night.

You can’t just do this, he said.

Of course I can.

No you can’t. What about me, what I want?

I’m the one who started it, she said. Not you. So I’m the one who ends it.

It’s two of us here now. Not just you.

You’re such a child. She looked at him for a moment. Just a little boy.

I’m only two years younger than you.

Two years make all the difference at this age.

They were right, then, he said. They said you’d do this.

Who did?

The ones I fought you for. They told me.

You didn’t fight for me.

I fought that one. I hit him.

You hit him once by surprise and then he knocked you down and pinned you down.

I protected your name. I spilled my blood for you.

What?

I saved your name with my blood.

Oh Christ. That’s just bullshit. I don’t need anybody to save me.

You don’t believe me. I love you. And you don’t even care.

Well, I’m sorry. She took hold of the steering wheel. That’s how it is. This is the last night.

Why can’t we still see each other once in a while? Can’t we at least do that?

No. That never works.

You do this with all of them, don’t you. You fuck them all. Then you quit them.

You stupid little shit, you’re starting to make me sick. She jerked the car into reverse and roared backward, turning sharply to go back to Holt, and she ended up jamming them into the barrow ditch, the car suddenly stopped, stuck, high-centered. She raced the engine and the back wheels spun, throwing gravel up behind them, and the car sank lower.

Goddamn it! she screamed, racing the engine.

Quit doing that! he said. You’re making it worse.

Shut up. Just shut your goddamn mouth.

She shoved her door open and they both got out. The back wheels were buried to the hubcaps and the rear end had settled into the broken ditch weeds. They went back up to the road and stood in front of the car. The lights of Holt were twenty miles away to the south and the lights of a farmhouse a half mile in the other direction. She shut off the engine and the headlights. It was all dark around them.

Are you coming with me or staying here?

Where are you going?

Over to that house.

I’m coming.

Let’s go then.

What about dogs?

What about them?

She began walking toward the farmhouse and he followed a little behind her. The wind was blowing and whistling in the barbed wire fence and the only other sound was their shoes scraping in the gravel. They didn’t talk. When they approached the farmstead they could see a machine shed and garage and a metal building and near the road the white house itself with a stand of locust behind it. A dog had started barking.

I told you there would be a dog, he said.

So there’s a dog.

When they walked into the driveway the dog came out from the house barking at them. They could see him in the yard light, some kind of Australian blue heeler.

Here, she said. Here, boy.

The dog backed up and growled.

Now what? he said.

Wait, she said.

The porch light came on above the back door. A man stepped out and peered at them.

Who’s out there? he called.

We’re stuck, she called back. Up the road here.

What?

The dog kept growling.

We’re stuck in the road up here.

Buddy. Hush up! Come here. The dog barked at them and trotted back to the house. I’ll be out in a minute, the man said. Wait there.

I’ll do the talking, she said, after he was gone. You don’t have to say a word.

I don’t intend to say anything.

That’s good. Keep it that way.

The man came out of the house with the dog following close at his heels. They went out to the garage and when they came backing out, the dog was up in the rear of the pickup, riding on the toolbox. The pickup pulled up beside them in the driveway. The dog sniffed at them and the girl opened the passenger door and looked inside. Can we get in?

I think you better. Unless you plan to ride in back.

She got up in the cab and slid over to the middle and John Wesley got in next to her. The man was wearing his pajama top and he’d put on jeans and boots. Where’s your car at?

Down here a ways.

To the south here?

Yes.

He looked at her. What’s your name?

Genevieve.

You got a last name?

Larsen.

And you?

John Wesley Lyle.

The man looked at him. Your father’s the preacher that just come to town.

Yes.

I see. Well, I don’t guess I have to ask what you was doing out here in the country at night. I noticed the car stopped down here before. Your folks know about this?

John Wesley didn’t say anything.

No, the man said. I don’t guess so. Well, it’s a nice night. A nice cool summer night and all these stars out.

That’s the car, Genevieve said.

He looked at her. I figured it would be.

He pulled up to where it was pointed out crossways in the road.

What were you doing, trying to turn around?

I was trying to back up.

You don’t ever want to get off the road. That ground’s pretty soft off in the ditch.

Can you get us out?

Oh, I imagine so. Don’t you think?

She didn’t answer.

What if I can’t? What then?

I’d have to call somebody to tow it.

Maybe you wouldn’t care to do that.

No, I wouldn’t.

No, ma’am. I wouldn’t if I was you.

They all got out of the pickup. The dog leaped from the toolbox onto the road and ran off into the dark field. The man walked over to the car and stood looking at the rear wheels.

Well, you tried, he said. You give her what for, didn’t you.

It just dug in deeper.

It does that, he said. You get in now and start it up and turn your front wheels this way. I’m going to tow you out on the road and you want to be turned in the direction we’re going. But not yet. Wait till I tell you.

He got back in the pickup and the dog came up running, panting.

I’m not going nowhere, the man said. Stay down. I’ll let you know when I’m leaving. I ain’t going nowhere without you.

The dog stared at him. It’s all right, go on. The dog trotted out in the field again. The man backed the pickup in the road and came forward and backed again and came forward and backed up once more, until the rear almost touched the front bumper. He got out and brought the tow chain from the toolbox and crawled down in the gravel and hooked the chain underneath the car and stood up and brushed off his hands and knees and hooked the other end of the chain to the pickup hitch.

Now you tell me when that chain gets tight, he said.

Do you mean me? John Wesley said.

That’s right. I’m talking to you. He turned to the girl. And you go ahead and get in and start your car now and put it in gear. When I start pulling, you ease it forward. Don’t come racing out of there, you’ll run into the back of me. He looked at the two of them. We all set?

She got in the car and the man stepped up into the pickup and eased forward very slowly, watching John Wesley in the side mirror. The boy gave him the sign that the chain was tight. It tugged against the pickup. Then the man drove forward gradually, steadily and the car came right up out of the ditch. When they were lined up on the road, he backed up to put slack in the chain, and got out and unhooked and dropped the chain back in the box.