Kent Haruf - Benediction

In the afternoon Berta May came again and helped with the straightening in the house and brought in dinner to eat, a casserole of meat and pasta and a green salad. Can I do something else? she said.

You’ve done too much already, Mary said. You shouldn’t have done all of this.

Yes, I should of. You would for me.

Well, you know we thank you.

Now what else?

If you wouldn’t mind … people have been calling all morning long on the phone and some of them want to come visit. I can’t have that. I told Willa and Alene to come. They’re the only ones. I think they would be good. But I don’t want anyone else. Could you answer the door for us, and explain to people?

The Johnson women drove up to the house in the afternoon and Berta May let them in. They entered the front hall very quietly and she told them Dad was still alive, that Mary and Lorraine were in the bedroom with him, they’d been sitting there almost all the day. They’re just about worn out, she said.

Oh, wouldn’t they be? Willa said. Is there something we can do?

Everything’s done. You can go in if you want. They said to tell you to come in.

Berta May led them back down the hall and eased the bedroom door open and stuck her head in. Mary gestured for them to come in, and Lorraine got up and brought two more chairs from the dining room, then the four women sat near the bed together. Dad lay on his back, his mouth open and his eyes shut, with the blanket covering him.

We can talk, Mary said. It’s all right to speak, if we’re quiet.

How is he? Willa whispered. Is there any change?

He’s worse, I think. Her eyes filled with tears. Willa and Alene leaned toward her and took her hands.

I’m glad you’ve come, she said. I don’t want others to be here. That would bother Dad.

No, Willa said. We don’t want to bother any one of you.

I just don’t want some people.

No. Of course.

Dad coughed, his eyes opened, staring, he stopped breathing. They watched him, then he breathed in, a hard gasp, and shut his eyes and went on as before.

The poor man, Willa said softly. You know my husband always thought so much of him. Dad Lewis is somebody to know, he said. Dad Lewis is a man you can set your clock by. I don’t think he was talking about time.

Yes, Mary said. He was always reliable.

Yes, but my husband meant he was somebody that was straight up and down, like the hands of a clock, somebody you could depend on, somebody to trust completely.

That was nice of him to say, Mary said.

Yes. He meant it too.

Outside the bedroom it suddenly turned dark, a cloud was passing over, and it began to rain. It pounded straight down. A sudden dark fallen curtain. Then in a moment it stopped.

I hope Dad heard that, Mary said.

The air was cool and fresh now coming in the window.

Oh, doesn’t it smell good, she said.

Lorraine went to the window and opened it wider and Alene joined her and they stood watching as the sun came out again and the rain dripped off the eaves.

In the evening Mary and Lorraine stayed with Dad, sitting on into the night beside the bed. Finally Lorraine went up to bed and left the door open so she could hear if there was anything to hear, and Mary got into her nightgown and crawled in beside him. I’m still with you, she said. Don’t worry about anything. I’m right here. She switched the lamp off and took his hand. She went to sleep immediately.

When she woke at midnight he was still breathing. She went to the bathroom and came back and lay down and took his hand and went to sleep. At two suddenly she woke again. He wasn’t breathing, then after a long while he breathed again and shuddered. She turned on the lamp and looked at his face and got out of bed. I’ll be right back. She went to the bottom of the stairs.

Lorraine! Please! Can you hear me? Lorraine!

She came to the landing. Mom. What’s wrong?

Come down here. Now.

She hurried back to the bedroom and when Lorraine came they sat together beside the bed and held Dad’s hands and he took a short breath and after a long time breathed again. Then he made a sound down in his throat, followed by a drawn-out choking rattle, then a little weak noise again. Minutes went by. He breathed once more, a small shallow inhalation, almost nothing, and the little sigh, they waited, watching his face, waited … waited, but there was nothing more, that was all there would ever be, he never breathed again.

Mary began to cry, rocking herself. I’m not ready! I thought I was. But I’m not ready! Not yet!

Lorraine began crying too and she put an arm around her mother. They leaned toward the bed and Mary took Dad’s hand and kissed the back of it and held it to her cheek and then stood leaning over and pressed his quiet face between her hands and kissed his forehead and kissed him a long time on his cooling open lips. Good-bye, sweetheart. Good-bye, my dear.

Lorraine bent over and kissed his cheek and touched his face. Be at peace now, Daddy. Good-bye.

They removed his clothes and bathed his body, lifting each arm, and washing his hands, his papery fingers, they closed his mouth, pressing his jaw up, pressing his lips together though his mouth still stayed slightly open, and closed his eyes. They washed his face and ears and washed his scalp and washed all of his body front and back, holding his long thin cooling body as they did. They put clean pajamas on him and folded his hands together over his chest. Finally they lit a candle and turned off the lamp. They sat down beside him.

After a long time Mary said, I think I’m ready now. Are you, dear?

I am, Mom.

They got dressed and called the nurse. It was about five then, the sky just turning light. The nurse came in right away and looked at Dad and collected the remaining medicines and filled out the papers. She left the house and at six o’clock they called George Hill, the mortician. Before he came they went back in the room one last time. Dad’s face was cold now to the touch, his eyes had come open slightly. They sat until George Hill arrived. Then they kissed Dad’s face a last time and left the bedroom weeping. George and his assistant wheeled in a gurney and lifted Dad’s body onto it and spread a white sheet over him. They rolled him carefully out through the doorway into the living room, mindful not to bump anything.

We’ll be going now, Mrs. Lewis, George Hill said. If that’s all right.

Mary nodded. She choked and couldn’t speak. She and Lorraine went with the men out of the house and stopped at the gate and watched them fold up the wheels of the gurney and lift it into the back of the van. George Hill looked at them once more and nodded and got in and drove slowly away.

They walked back into the side yard and stood with their arms around each other, facing the east as the long day began.

PEOPLE BEGAN TO COME to the house in the middle of the morning, to offer sympathy and gifts of food, and Berta May came over again to help. Mary and Lorraine had dressed in good clothes by now and they met the people at the door and brought a few in for a brief visit.

It rained that morning again, around ten o’clock, another of the short hard summer rains that blew through, then the sky cleared again.

Later that morning Richard arrived from Denver in a new car and came up to the house. Lorraine hugged him and he was unusually quiet and Mary allowed him to take her in his arms. I’m sorry for your loss, he said. It makes me sad to hear of it. He sat out on the porch for a while and about noon he left and went over to Highway 34 and rented a motel room for the night and stopped to eat lunch at one of the highway cafés.