Kent Haruf - Benediction

Nobody answered her.

Then Alene stood up beside her mother and looked around at the people, but now there were others who had begun to rise and glare at Lyle, and these people started to slide out of the pews and to turn up the aisles to go outside. At the back of the church one of them, a man, stopped and turned back. Go to hell! he shouted. You go to hell!

Still, most of the congregation, more than half of the people in attendance that morning, stayed seated in the pews yet, waiting in shock and disbelief, and curiosity too, for what Lyle would do now. The pianist was still in her place down front and Beverly Lyle and John Wesley were still seated in the middle of the sanctuary, and the two Johnson women, and the old usher remained standing, outraged, in the aisle. Lyle looked out at them all. After a time he spoke. May we have the last hymn now?

You mean you still want to sing? the pianist said. You still want to?

Yes, would you play the hymn, please?

Yes. If that’s what you want.

She began to play the introduction out loudly, with a kind of flourish. It seemed a sort of madness, a kind of miscalculation of the tone and temper of the moment. Lyle began to sing. He had a good voice. It was one of the old hymns Charles Wesley had written two centuries ago. A few of the others gradually, falteringly joined in. They got as far as the end of the first verse and the first refrain, then Lyle stopped singing and the Johnson women and the old usher and the others ceased — his wife and son had never been singing — and the pianist played a few more measures and then she stopped too.

Thank you, Lyle said quietly. Thank you for that much.

He stepped down off the dais and walked back up the aisle, staring straight ahead, looking at none of them, while in the pews they followed him with their eyes, turning their heads as he passed, then he stopped at the rear of the church and raised his hand in the ancient gesture of benediction.

The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you; the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace; both now and forevermore. Amen.

Then he turned and opened the big oaken doors behind him and stood in the doorway. A hot wind blew in from outside. At the front of the sanctuary the pianist closed up the piano, folding the lid over the keys, and slipped out a side door. The old usher limped up.

Should I close up now?

Yes, if you don’t mind.

This won’t last. People get upset.

Yes. I know.

They shouldn’t be saying what they said. That kind of language in church. That’s not right.

They weren’t prepared for it.

It won’t last. I’ve seen worse, the old man said. He turned and went back down an outer aisle and began to shut the high windows with his long pole with its hook at the end.

The congregation began to shuffle out. Sullenly, uncomfortably, not talking to one another, moving in an uneasy mass. A few of them stopped to look at the preacher, a few said a word or two but most of them didn’t, and went silently out. The Johnson women stepped up and shook Lyle’s hand.

It’s always this way in time of war, Willa said. It was like this in the 1940s. And during Vietnam. This mix of nationalism and hate and fear.

What will you do now? Alene said.

I’m not sure, Lyle said. This doesn’t change what I believe.

No. Don’t be disheartened.

You won’t be, will you? Willa said. They shook his hand again and went on outside.

The usher had shut all the windows and had gone down the back stairs to close up the basement. Lyle’s wife and son, the last in the church, came toward him, John Wesley in front, taller than his father. Lyle reached to take his hand.

Don’t, the boy said. Don’t touch me. God, how I hate you when— He broke off. How could you? He swung violently away and rushed down the concrete steps to the street, running past the Johnson women and all the others going to their cars, running on toward the parsonage and his bedroom two blocks away.

Lyle’s wife stepped up. At first she didn’t speak, she seemed quite calm. Slim, smooth haired, wearing a summer blouse and skirt. You’ve ruined this too, she said, haven’t you. What did you think people would do? Did you actually think they’d agree with you? Be convinced by your eloquence and passion? My God.

No. No, I didn’t think that. I had to say it anyway.

Why? For what earthly reason?

Because I believe it.

You believe it. You take it literally, you mean?

Yes. It’s the truth. It’s still the only answer.

Oh my God. She shook her head and looked away. You’re such a fool.

He watched her descend into the bright day. The sun was directly overhead now. He pulled the big doors shut again and stood alone at the back of the church looking at the dim and silent and empty sanctuary.

THERE WERE OCCASIONS when Dad Lewis and Mary went together to Denver to see Frank after he left home and never came back. Once was when he was nineteen and waiting tables in a downtown café, just before Christmas. It was not an expensive or sophisticated place where he worked, but more than a hamburger joint, more of a steak-and-potato and deep-fried-fish sort of place, in a one-story building that ran all the way back to the alley.

They drove in from Holt on a bright cold Sunday afternoon. They were only a middle-aged couple then, Dad still had most of his hair and Mary’s face was not yet wrinkled and lined. Along the highway snow was drifted in the fields of corn and wheat stubble and cattle were humped up in the freezing air. When they got to Denver they found the café on a corner of Broadway.

You think this is it? Dad said.

It must be, Mary said.

It doesn’t look like much.

Now don’t start.

I’m not starting anything.

Then don’t use that tone.

What tone is that?

She looked at him. And don’t be stupid.

What if I can’t help it?

Just don’t be stupid on purpose, she said. Be nice. I want this to be nice. I’ve been looking forward to it. And you have too, only you won’t admit it.

You know a lot, Dad said, but you don’t know everything.

He parked the car and they went inside. The café was not busy, it was too early for the supper trade and they had stopped serving lunch two hours ago. At the front counter was a sign that said Please Seat Yourself. They took a table by the windows overlooking a side street and a used-car lot with a long cord of white lightbulbs that drooped above the hoods of the cars. The lights were already switched on in the late overcast winter day. The interior of the café had a lot of black and white. The stools at the counter were all black plastic and the tables had checkered tablecloths matching the black-and-white tile on the floor.

I don’t see any waiters, Dad said.

Somebody’ll come.

I thought he was supposed to be working now.

This is his shift, she said. That’s all I know.

A man with a flattop haircut came out from the kitchen over to their table. I’m sorry, we’re not open for supper yet.

When will you be? Dad said.

Another hour.

What can we get now?

Whatever’s not listed on the supper menu.

We don’t have any menus at all yet.

The waiter went to the register and brought back two plastic-covered menus.

We were really just wanting to see our son, Mary said. Is Frank here?

Do you mean Franklin?

Frank, Dad said. Last name Lewis.

Well, there’s a Franklin Lewis here.

Is he nineteen years old? Mary said.

Maybe. I’d guess about that.

Could you tell him we’re here?

He’s out back in the alley on break.

You think we could have some coffee while we’re waiting? Dad said.