Kent Haruf - Benediction

He stopped. They waited for more, not moving. His face was swollen a little from the previous night. He looked at them over the pulpit. There was a long silence. The congregation waited, but he said no more, except to say: Thank you for coming back this morning. I want to say that. Perhaps there’s a kind of hope in that. I choose to see it as such. But you can go home now. Be at peace. I have nothing more to say.

He looked at them for a moment longer. Then he turned from the pulpit and crossed the dais to the side door and was gone. The congregation glanced around at one another. Finally an old lame woman stood up and came out of her pew and started toward the back. They watched her. She stopped midway. That’s it, she said. Don’t you see? It’s no point to sit in here waiting for nothing. The rest of you can sit here all you want. I never expected to see such a thing in church in my life. I never hope to see it again. She hobbled slowly back up the aisle past the usher standing at the back and went out.

Then it was just quiet again. Then Lyle’s wife rose from her pew and walked down to the front of the church and turned at the communion rail to face the congregation. She looked tired but still attractive in a nicely tailored summer dress. I came down here to say something, she said. I felt I should make some kind of amends here this morning. After what my husband said last week and what he did just now. She stopped. Except I don’t know what to say. Why it should be me to say some conciliatory apologetic thing, I don’t know. I haven’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t me. She stopped again, turning slowly to look at them. I only know I’ve had enough. I’m saying this publicly, I’m worn out. This is very similar to what happened in Denver. People thought he was wrong then too. Now he’s wrong again and people have turned against him once more and it’s no surprise that they have. So I’m going to leave. That’s what I see I will have to do. I must save myself at least, and my son.

No. You should support him, Willa Johnson said. She and Alene were sitting not far from her.

What did you say? Are you talking to me?

You should stay here and help him. This is your place. I thought that was what you came forward to tell us. I was thinking, good for you, I was thinking that you were brave, more than I knew.

No. Don’t you see? That’s not it. What can you know? How can you understand what it’s been like for me?

I don’t care what it’s been like for you. You’re his wife. Your place is with him.

Have you ever been married?

Yes, of course. I was married for a long time. This is my daughter here with me.

All right, Lyle’s wife said. I will admit that he has principles. I am aware of that. I used to admire him for his principles and his generous intentions. But what good are they, finally? You can’t eat them. You can’t depend on them. There’s no security in principles.

You should be proud of him, Willa said. So few of us have the beliefs he has. And fewer still act on them.

Then the boy John Wesley stood up in the middle of the sanctuary, where he’d been sitting in embarrassment staring at the floor, his face in his hands. Now he was angry. Shut up! he shouted. Shut up! You don’t know anything, you stupid old woman! Be quiet! Leave my mother alone.

Then, as on the previous Sunday, the usher came hurrying down the aisle. Stop it! We won’t have this again! We had it once, but we won’t again. This is the church.

You shut up too! the boy cried. All of you! Everyone stop talking! Leave us alone! And he turned out of the pew and ran back up the aisle and out the big doors.

They watched him, in shock and amazement, and then they turned once more to look at Lyle’s wife. She appeared to be crying now — her hands over her face. She started to move slowly, gropingly up the aisle, her head lowered, following her son, then near the back of the church she dropped her hands and began to hurry and she rushed out. The usher came all the way down to the front. He looked all around. What should I do with these? He held up the church bulletins.

Never mind, Willa said. We don’t need them anymore, Wayne.

We got so many, he said.

Yes, she said. Thank you for taking care of them. Maybe you’d better shut up the church now.

She and Alene went out and the woman at the piano closed the lid over the piano keys and walked away and the rest of the small congregation filed out of the church, not talking any more than they had the previous Sunday, moving quietly. The usher began to close up the high stained-glass windows with his hooked pole.

When Lyle left the church he went home to the parsonage and walked directly through the house and out the back door to the garage and climbed in the car and drove out on the narrow blacktop to the south, driving fast but slowing after a few miles and turning east on one of the county roads. He drove without motive or destination and after a while he came to the sandhills and stopped to look at three horses standing in a pasture. He got out and walked down through the ditch weeds and stood at the barbed-wire fence. The horses watched him, two red mares and a colt. One of the mares came forward and he held out his hand and she nuzzled it and backed away. Then the mare and the two others turned and walked off. He went back to his car and drove on along the section roads, all running north and south or east and west, straight and surveyed and exact, and after an aimless hour of driving he came to the Johnsons’ place.

They were already home from church, not having wanted to see anyone or talk to anyone, and at home they’d taken their Sunday dresses off and changed into soft worn housedresses and had sat at the kitchen table and had eaten tomato sandwiches, the tomatoes from their own garden, and had drunk iced tea. They’d spoken only a little about what had happened at church. Then they heard the car on the gravel coming up to the house. Alene got up and looked out the kitchen window. It’s him, she said. Reverend Lyle.

Oh good Lord, Willa said. What would he want?

Let’s find out, Alene said.

He’ll want to talk, Willa said.

Maybe he will. That’s all right if he does.

They went to the porch and stood waiting as they had when Lorraine and Alice had come to visit in the previous week. Lyle climbed out and looked over the roof of his car at the women and at the barn and corrals and pens and the windmill and the outbuildings and sheds. He turned back to the women again and walked around the rear of the car and stopped. Would you mind if I rest a moment?

No. For goodness’ sake, Willa said. Come in. Won’t you?

I’d like to.

Yes, Alene said, do please come in.

He came up the little sidewalk in the yard and followed the women into the kitchen.

This is pleasant in here, Lyle said. It’s very cool and peaceful.

It always stays cool in this part of the house, Willa said. Because of the shade trees and the porch.

And you keep the windows open, Lyle said.

We almost never close these windows in summer. There’s almost always a breeze. Will you sit down?

I’d like to wash my hands first, if you wouldn’t mind.

The bathroom’s there, Willa said.

He went inside and shut the door and when he came out Alene was clearing the table.

Do you prefer to sit here or in the living room? Willa said.

This is fine here, Lyle said. Don’t you think?

Have you had anything to eat?

No.

We have cheese and tomato for sandwiches, Alene said. Or I could make you a bacon lettuce tomato sandwich.

Thank you. I’d like that.

Please sit down. We don’t stand on any formalities here.

He sat down at the table and Willa seated herself across from him. Alene brought the iced tea and began frying bacon in a black iron skillet.