Kent Haruf - Benediction

I know. That’s what I’m talking about. I want to catch you up. Tell you all that’s happened.

That’s fine. Go ahead. But just a minute. Who’s these others here?

You know us too, Dad. Hell, you ought to recognize us.

Is that you, Rudy?

Nobody else.

And Bob?

Yeah. It’s me, Dad.

I don’t understand this. Aren’t we done with the store?

Yeah. About done.

He peered at them. Then he studied the other faces, one after the other. Well, do you want some coffee, all of you? He looked toward the open doorway.

No, Rudy said. We wouldn’t want to bother Mary.

I never got to meet her, Tanya said.

Didn’t you?

I used to see her in town on Main Street when we was still living here before we moved away. Before you made us get out of here. Before you told Clayton what you told him.

What was I supposed to do? Dad said. He stole from me.

You say. There might of been different ways though.

What ways?

You might of let him work it off. Pay down his debt that way.

I didn’t want that, Dad said. I couldn’t have him in the store. I never wanted to see him again.

Yeah. Clayton told me that’s what you said.

Dad looked at each of them again. You don’t want any coffee, Rudy?

No, sir. I’m okay. Doing fine.

You neither, Bob?

No, thanks.

I don’t know if you even drink coffee, Frank.

Don’t you remember?

No. Should I?

You would have, if you were paying attention.

What does that mean? Dad said.

I drank coffee all the time when I was still here. When I was going to high school. You don’t remember that, do you.

No. That’s just a little thing. Why would I think of something like that?

No reason. You’re right, it doesn’t amount to anything if I was drinking coffee and sitting at the same table with you every day, you and Mom, for however many years I was doing it before I left and went to Denver.

We come to see you in Denver, Dad said.

And stayed one hour. That was all.

We had to get home. It was wintertime. They said it was going to snow.

It didn’t snow, Frank said.

It was going to.

They were still with him when Dad woke once more in the darkened bedroom.

Does your mother know you’re here? he said.

Mom?

Did you see her? Did you tell her you were here, that you come in? She would want to see you. He didn’t answer. Dad looked out through the window toward the barn and empty corral, the tall weeds growing up.

Never mind Mom for now. We’ll get to Mom.

What are you talking about? Dad said.

You don’t understand, do you.

You ought to have more respect, Tanya said. He’s your father. You shouldn’t treat him like that.

I have respect for him. For some aspects of him.

You don’t show it. He’s going to be gone anytime now and then you’ll wish you’d of done him different.

Like you and Clayton, you mean, he said.

Clayton don’t have nothing to do with this.

He’s why you’re here, isn’t he?

Not like you’re talking about. I loved Clayton.

Okay. Good, said Frank. You loved him.

I loved that man and then he goes to Denver and shoots himself in the head. How would you like that?

It seems like as good a way as any, Frank said.

But how would you like to have to look at that thing there, to say that’s him. That thing used to be my husband and now I got two little kids that don’t have no daddy no more.

It’s tough shit, isn’t it, Frank said. It’s life. Maybe they were better off without him.

She looked at him. Oh, you got hard, she said. Didn’t you.

I had to.

They turned toward Dad lying propped up in bed watching them talk. Gray and yellow-looking, with parchment skin, sunken eyes, hair shoved up awry on the sides of his head.

That’s life, isn’t it, Dad. Isn’t that what you would say?

I don’t know.

You would if you were thinking right.

I’m thinking okay.

It’s life, Frank said. It’s the way it goes, it’s how shit happens. I used to want you to do something.

What are you talking about now? Dad said.

Do something. Show something to me.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

I waited for you for years and nothing happened. You never did anything, did you.

I did things, Dad said. I did a lot of things.

Not like what I’m talking about. You didn’t.

Dad stared at him. After a while he glanced toward the window again.

It’s tough shit, isn’t it, Frank said. It’s just life.

I helped her. This woman here. I did things for her, Dad said.

He give me some money, Tanya said. He did.

For quite a long time too, Dad said.

After you killed her husband, Frank said.

What are you talking about? I didn’t kill him. You just heard her say he shot himself.

How come, though? Who caused that to happen?

You can’t blame that on me.

I don’t have to. You blame yourself.

Dad peered over into the corner. The two familiar figures, one tall, one short, were still sitting there, listening to everything, picking at their big hands. I treated you all right anyway. Isn’t that true? Dad said.

I was going to be manager, Rudy said.

You still are.

No. She is. Your daughter is.

Someday you will be.

Which one of us?

I don’t know. That comes later, after I’m out of this.

Who’s going to decide that?

That ain’t for me to say. I gave you each a bonus.

We appreciate that.

Ten thousand dollars, Dad said.

For twenty years.

But you acted like it was a good thing I did. I believed you.

We know.

He turned to Frank. Does your mother know you’re here? Did you tell her? I need some water. I don’t see no water here. I need some water.

Honey, who are you talking to? Mary said.

He looked up and she was standing beside the bed now.

You were talking out loud. Were you dreaming, honey? Were you having a kind of dream-like? Here’s your water. Your water’s right here. She gave him the glass and he took it but didn’t drink.

They’re right here, he said.

There’s nobody here.

Frank is here.

Frank. You saw Frank?

He was here. I didn’t get to talk to him enough. I wanted to talk to him.

I wish he’d talk to me, she said.

Did he drink coffee? Dad said.

Who?

Frank. Did he drink coffee when he was still living here? When he was a boy?

Yes. Of course. He always drank coffee. Frank loved his coffee.

ON THAT NEXT SUNDAY there were only a few of the congregation waiting for him in the sanctuary to begin the service. His wife was there and their son, sitting beside her, looking bored and angry already, and the old man, the old usher, standing in the back with a handful of bulletins to be distributed, and the Johnson women sitting where they always sat, and a dozen or more others, mostly women, and the pianist at the piano down at the front of the sanctuary, playing the invitation to worship over and over until the preacher should arrive and they could begin.

Then he came in, entering from the side door and crossing the carpeted dais to the pulpit. He was dressed in black pants and the long-sleeved white shirt, open at the neck as before, but with the sleeves buttoned this time, and this time he stood behind the pulpit according to custom.

He stood there for a time not speaking, looking out at them. They waited. It was very quiet. The pianist had stopped playing, finally making an awkward end to the music in the middle of a passage.

Then he began to speak, in a quiet voice. Go home, he said. You might as well. I have nothing more to say. You don’t need me or whatever I might think of to say to you. You know yourselves what you should do. Now or at any other time. Go home. You might as well. I don’t take any of it back, I don’t retract it. But you don’t need to hear it from me.