Kent Haruf - Benediction

I’m sure I never waved my arms.

But you take my point. Changes can be made by slow accretion.

Not in my experience. I don’t see it.

Well, you didn’t, and you haven’t. That’s true. Still, I want to give you time to reconsider. To sleep on it and reflect and pray over this tonight.

I’m not changing my mind.

It wouldn’t be official until the decision had gone through the formalities and the appropriate channels and the church hierarchies, then they would talk again. The director insisted on shaking hands once more and gathered up his papers, put them in a briefcase and went out the door. Lyle stayed behind and carried the water glass the director had used to the kitchen and washed and dried it and put it away in the cupboard and stacked the chairs against the wall and put away the table. He turned the lights off and went back up to ground level. A car was going by on the dark street. He walked home in the quiet night.

At the parsonage he called his wife and son into the kitchen and they sat at the table looking at him. Is it over? she said.

I’ll tell you.

Then he told them: the board had made its decision tonight, he was being discharged and they’d have to leave. But they had time to consider what to do, until the end of summer. They could stay in the house in the meantime while they decided.

I’m going now, she said. I’ll leave tomorrow. I won’t wait. It was bad enough coming to a place where they didn’t want you in the first place, but the shame of being dismissed … I can imagine the glances and the whispers now. How people will act in the stores. I won’t endure that.

It’s not shame, he said. That’s not what this is. It’s something different from that. I don’t feel shame.

Well, don’t tell me about it, she said. I don’t want to hear it.

Mom, John Wesley said, I’m going with you.

Oh, you poor boy, she said. What a hard time for you. She lifted her hand to his face but he pulled away.

I’m coming with you.

No. You can’t. Stay here with Dad. For a while longer. Just for a while. Wait till I have a job and a place for us. We don’t even have a place to put our heads down in Denver. You can come when I find something.

Yes, that’s better, Lyle said. Your mother needs time. Stay with me, son. He turned again to his wife. You’re sure this is what you want to do? Or should you stay until we figure out what we’re all going to do?

It’ll be a relief.

You don’t think about me, the boy said. He was close to tears. Neither one of you does. You never do.

He stood up shoving the chair out of the way, it fell over backward, and he ran out of the room.

Let him go, she said. He needs a chance to take this in.

They stayed in the kitchen talking and afterward she went upstairs and began to pack.

WE HAVE TO GO over there a last time, Berta May said. I want to tell him good-bye. I want you to come with me.

Why?

Because he likes you so much.

He’s never told me.

He wouldn’t. But he does, I know that. It will be good for him to see a young person again.

I don’t want to, Grandma. He scares me.

He’s just an old man. He might be in bed or he might be sitting up in his chair by the window. It doesn’t matter. We’ll just stay a little while.

I don’t want to go back in his bedroom.

He won’t hurt you. Now don’t you make a fuss. Do you hear?

Yes.

All right. Now take the scissors out to the garden and cut some flowers so we can take them to him.

She went out to the garden and cut a red zinnia, leaving the stem long with the leaves on it, and brought it inside.

You only cut this one?

Yes.

How come?

I just wanted one. I thought he’d like it.

All right. Go wash your hands and brush your hair, then we’ll go.

Berta May telephoned next door. Is this a good time to come over for a minute to see Dad?

Yes, Mary said. He’s sitting up if you’ll come now.

We’re on our way.

They went out across to the gate under the trees and up to the house and Mary let them in. Dad was at the window in his pajamas, a blanket spread over his legs, looking gray and thin. He stared at them when they entered the room and Berta May came over and he slowly lifted his hand and she took it and held it and then she gestured for Alice to come. The girl walked across the room, holding the flower in front of her, and presented it to Dad. He looked at her and his mouth moved in a whisper. Thank you. Mary took the flower and Dad said in the same whispery voice, Put it in a vase.

I will, honey.

And bring it back.

Yes.

Berta May patted his shoulder and turned and sat down on the couch, and Alice sat with her, next to Lorraine who pulled her close and kissed her cheek. Mary came back with the flower in a glass vase half-filled with water and put the flower on the windowsill and Dad looked at it and turned to look at Berta May and Alice. Every time Alice looked at Dad he was watching her. She couldn’t tell what he might mean by looking at her in that way.

Mary, Dad whispered. Bring me my box from the bedroom.

Your cedar box?

Yes.

She stood up and left the room and the others sat looking out the window. Another hot day, Lorraine said. You can see the way the tree leaves look so limp already.

We can be glad it cools off at night, said Berta May. I don’t know what we’d do otherwise.

Live with it, Lorraine said. Or get air-conditioning.

Mary came back with the red cedar box that had a lid that closed with a brass fastener. She set it in Dad’s lap on top of the blanket. He tried to open it but his fingers couldn’t manage the small lock. You do it, he said.

She lifted the lid and he looked across the room at Alice. Would you come back here? he whispered.

Do you mean me?

Yes. If you would.

She looked up at her grandmother.

Go ahead, Berta May said. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

She came across the room and Mary put her arm around her and then sat down in her chair.

Take something, Dad said.

What is it?

Look inside here. It’s just old things.

She moved closer and began to look at things and put them back. Arrowheads, snake rattles, wartime tokens from the 1940s, a pocketknife, a ruby ring, a thick pocket watch, old silver dollars, a little box of wood matches.

You see anything you want? he said.

But these are your things, she said.

I want to give you one.

You don’t care?

Whatever you want.

She picked a snake rattle.

That’s not much, he said. Take something more.

She held up one of the arrowheads.

He fumbled in the box and brought out two of the old smooth silver dollars and handed them to her and shut the lid.

Then without warning he reached up to touch her face. She jerked away. He let his hands fall and he looked at her, his eyes watery and staring.

What do you want to do? she said. I don’t know what you want.

I wanted to touch your face, he whispered. That’s all.

She looked at him. Go ahead, she said. She leaned over closer to him.

He raised both hands again and held her face in his old loose-skinned hands and shut his eyes. She watched him, she could see his eyes moving beneath his closed eyelids. His hands felt papery and cold on her face. Then he released her. She looked at him. Thank you for these things, she said softly, and turned and went to sit again with Berta May and Lorraine and showed them what she had. Dad stared out the window. Soon he was asleep.

When they got up to leave, Berta May said, Don’t wake him. We’ll just slip out.