Kent Haruf - Benediction

Well. I imagine that’s going to do it.

Thank you, the girl said. Thank you very much.

You probably don’t want to do that again. He looked around at the fields and looked up at the sky. Well, like I say, it’s a pretty night. He gave the boy and girl a long look. Then he whistled. Here! Buddy! Come here. The dog raced up out of the dark. Get up, the man said. The dog leaped into the back of the pickup onto the toolbox and they drove away, the man’s arm out the side window, casually, as if it were the middle of the day. They watched the red taillights disappearing. Dust rose up from the road and hung in the night air.

This doesn’t change what we talked about, she said. Don’t think it does.

They drove back toward town on the county roads. He could see the lights of town ahead, the streetlights and the red warning lights on the grain elevators and the light at the water tower, and all around them the farm lights dotting the countryside.

What are you stopping for now? he said.

I’m going to do this last thing for you. She slid out from behind the steering wheel and began to unbutton his pants.

Don’t.

Yes, she said. You know you want me to.

No. Leave me alone.

She brushed his hands away and finished with the buttons and pushed his underwear down.

Put your head back, she said.

No.

Do what I say. Lay your head back. You want to remember this, don’t you? He shut his eyes and leaned back against the seat and she bent over and put her head in his lap. He began to cry. She went on anyway and after a little while it was finished. She sat up and wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her black shirt. There, she said. Remember I did that.

Then she drove them into town and stopped at the parsonage.

There’s nothing more to say, she said. Go on. Get out.

I don’t care. I still love you, even if that doesn’t mean anything to you. I want to kill myself.

No, you’re not going to do anything like that at all. You’re going to get out. That’s what you’re going to do.

He opened the door and stood at the curb, watching her drive away, then went up the steps to the house. It wasn’t late. His mother was still sitting in the living room, reading a book. He started past to go upstairs.

You’re home early, she said. What’s the matter? Did something happen? Stop there a minute.

She rose from the chair and came to look at him. She raised her hand and turned his face to the light.

Why, you’ve been crying. Did she make you cry? Are you all right?

After he went up to his room she went upstairs and woke Lyle.

Are you awake?

What’s wrong? he said. What is it?

Go talk to him. He’s been crying. He won’t talk to me.

What happened?

That girl doesn’t want to go out with him anymore.

Then he won’t want to talk to me either.

He hates it here, she said. This will only make it worse.

It would help if you tried to like it here yourself.

I am trying. You have no idea.

He got out of bed in his pajamas and T-shirt and went down the hall to the bedroom and stood listening and then knocked on the door. Son. Can I come in?

No.

I’d like to talk to you.

Let me alone.

I’m coming in. He opened the door and found John Wesley slumped over his computer, writing. Your mother says you had some trouble tonight.

I don’t want to talk about it.

Did the girl do something? Is that what happened?

She broke up with me. She breaks up with everyone.

Is that what she says?

She goes out with them all and screws them all and then she leaves them.

She told you this?

They told me.

Who’s they?

Some of the assholes she went out with.

Now she’s broken up with you?

Yes. But leave me alone. I don’t want to talk anymore.

You loved her, I guess, didn’t you.

I still do.

It feels like hell, doesn’t it.

You don’t know anything about it.

I’ve had some bad nights. Some bad times.

Don’t tell me about them. I don’t want to hear about it. I know about you and Mom.

I know you think you do. But you don’t know all of it. Only your mother and I know all of it, and we each know parts the other doesn’t know.

Let me alone, Dad. Please, I want to be alone. I hate it here. Why did we have to come here?

You know why. This is where the church sent us.

I want to go back to Denver.

I know that. I’m sorry you feel so bad.

Well, just don’t tell me I’ll get over her.

No. That doesn’t help, even if it’s true. I could help you. I wish you’d let me.

Just let me be. Please.

He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Try to get some sleep. Then he went out and shut the door and went back to the other bedroom.

Would he talk?

No. Not much. Just what you already know.

Did you find out anything more?

She’s evidently done the same thing with other boys. He said that much. It’s her pattern apparently.

What else did he say?

He wants to leave. Go back to Denver as we’ve heard before. He wants us to let him alone.

ALENE AND HER PRINCIPAL came out of the beautiful old redbrick hotel with carved stonework onto the street a block east of Union Station in downtown Denver. This was in the following winter now. They had seen each other for a year whenever they could. It was late in the afternoon, almost evening, the light beginning to change along the street, darkening, a soft winter twilight. People were walking along the sidewalk, going home or heading to the taverns for a drink. She walked with her arm in his arm, a tall thin young woman still, pretty, still dark haired. Snow was piled up at the curbs but it didn’t feel cold out. They crossed the street and walked down to the middle of the next block and stopped in front of the restaurant. It was all brightly lit inside.

You’re sure about this, he said.

I want her to meet you.

She’s not going to like it. You know that. How could she?

Yes, but I want her to know that I’m not alone.

If that’s what you want.

He opened the door and they stepped into the warm café. The headwaiter met them at the front. Two? he said.

We’re meeting someone, Alene said. She may be here already.

Yes, she said you would be coming. She’s back here. Will you follow me?

He led them through the big room of dining tables that were set with clear water glasses and shining silverware and white napkins on the white tablecloths. They followed him into the next room to the table where Willa was seated near the wall. She looked well dressed and sure of herself, a woman in her early fifties then, iron gray hair and the eyeglasses that were not bifocals yet. The waiter led them to her table. Here you are, madam.

She looked up at them. The waiter left.

Mother, this is John Kelly. This is my mother, Willa Johnson.

How do you do.

The principal held the chair for Alene and she sat down beside her mother and he sat across from her.

I hope you haven’t been waiting too long, he said.

No. Not very long.

The waiter, a different one, came to the table with menus and asked if they wanted to order drinks. Willa ordered white wine and Alene and the principal each asked for red wine. The waiter wrote in a little pad and went away.

I believe I’ve been told that you’re a high school administrator, Willa said.

Yes. That’s right.

Where is the school?

North of here. In a little town along the Front Range.

I notice you don’t say the name.

I could tell you, he said. But it won’t matter.

To me or to you?

I was thinking it wouldn’t matter to you and might only cause problems for me.