Kent Haruf - Benediction

You have to do what you want. But I can’t leave, you know that.

I didn’t, he said. He leaned to kiss her and she turned her cheek. I see, he said. You won’t even kiss me.

Not now. I don’t feel like that.

He looked out toward his new car. There are just all kinds of things happening today and not happening today, he said. Isn’t that right.

You can understand why.

I’ll see you, Lorraine.

She waited on the porch watching him walk around to the far side of the car. He got in and looked at her for a moment. He didn’t wave. Then he put the car in gear and sped off throwing gravel up behind just as a gray cat darted out in the street ahead of him. Oh! she cried. Don’t hit it! The car swerved in time and the cat ran out with its tail straight up and ran into the neighbor’s yard. She watched the car go on up to the highway and turn west toward Denver.

In the house, when she went back inside, Rudy and Bob were standing in the living room, talking to her mother. She could see Willa and Alene out in the kitchen.

I guess we better be getting on too, Rudy said. He looked at Lorraine. If there’s anything we can do, you’ll let us know?

Yes, of course, she said. We appreciate all you do for us.

We wanted to be here, Bob said. You know what we thought of Dad.

Yes, we know, Mary said. You’ve both been very kind. You’re good friends.

One thing we wanted to ask you, Rudy said.

Yes?

We wondered what you was thinking about tomorrow.

Tomorrow? Lorraine said.

Because we figured you will want to close the store for the funeral the next day.

Of course.

But the question is. Tomorrow.

What do you think, Mom?

I think Dad would want it to be open. Keep it closed today and again for the memorial, but open the doors tomorrow like always.

That’s what we was thinking, Rudy said. He was looking at Lorraine again. But we thought we should ask.

That would be the appropriate thing, she said. If you will open tomorrow, please.

Well, we better get going, then. We’re sure sorry about Dad. We sure are. His eyes filled with tears. That’s one thing for certain. We’re going to miss him every day. It’s not going to be the same without him down there.

They started to shake hands with Lorraine but she stepped forward and kissed each man on his clean-shaven cheek, red and streaming with sweat and uncomfortableness, and then they both hugged Mary in their warm good suits, their eyes full of tears, and went out the door and climbed into Rudy’s car and drove away.

Then at dusk Rob Lyle came once more to the house. Mary and Lorraine and the Johnson women were out in the kitchen dishing up food and they asked him to join them.

No, thank you, he said. I only came by to see if you were all right.

You can just please stay here and join us, Mary said. We ask you to. You can see all this food. People have been so kind. You’ll be doing us a favor.

Lorraine handed him a plate.

All of these gifts of food are a tribute to your father, aren’t they. And to you and your mother.

People thought so much of him. All over this county, Lorraine said. Help yourself and come into the dining room with us.

They made another place at the big dining table and the women and Lyle sat down and he said a prayer of grace and they began to eat. But after a short while Mary put down her fork.

Mom? What’s wrong?

I can’t eat.

You need to eat something.

I’m not hungry. I don’t feel like it.

You’ll feel more like it tomorrow, Willa said.

Maybe I will. I don’t know that.

Then suddenly the front door burst open and Berta May came rushing in. Alice! she cried. Is Alice here?

They all stood up from the table and gathered around her.

I don’t know where my girl is. I told her she had to be quiet. I told her you was grieving over here so she couldn’t make no noise. So I let her ride her bike. But, oh I’m afraid she took me too serious. She must of went someplace. Oh, I’m just afraid she’s got hurt or somebody’s done something wrong to her.

Has she been out late like this before? Lyle said.

Never. She never does this. Oh, what if something happened to my little girl. Berta May began to cry. Her chin quivered and she covered her face. Mary and Lorraine put their arms close around her.

What about her friends? Lyle said.

The old woman looked at him and dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. I called, she said, but they don’t know no more than I do. She don’t really have friends here anyway. We was waiting for school to start.

What about the police? Willa said.

I don’t want to call the police. This isn’t a police matter.

I could search around town, Lyle said. If you’d like me to do that.

If you could, maybe you’d see her somewhere. She might be playing with somebody that I don’t know about.

Is there a part of town she liked to ride in especially?

That’s it — I don’t know. I never paid enough attention. She always come back in the house to check in.

I’ll look, Lyle said. You don’t think she went out past the highway or rode over on the other side of Main Street.

I don’t think so. But I don’t know now. Oh where’s my girl? She began to cry again.

I’ll start looking, Lyle said.

I’m coming with you, Lorraine said.

The two of them hurried out to Lyle’s car and he drove along the quiet twilight street past the cars parked in front of the houses and onto the highway and back in the next street, and then up and down the alley, looking in the backyards. The light was fading out of the sky and at the street corners the streetlights were coming on.

I’m starting to get sick at heart about this, Lorraine said. What if something has happened? Oh God, I hope it hasn’t.

We can’t think that, Lyle said.

But what if it has? It brings up all the old feelings for me. My daughter died in a car accident. Did you know that?

Your mother told me.

I’ve never gotten over it. I never will. You never get over a child’s death. She turned away. Lyle reached across the seat and took her hand. Now it’s Alice, she said, this little girl. I’ve let myself care too much for her. I know I shouldn’t have; it’s just starting things over again. That’s the awful truth. That’s how I feel about it. But I’d take her in, in a minute, if she didn’t have her grandma. Oh, what if something’s happened to her too.

She stared out the window. Lyle held on to her hand. They crossed Main Street to the streets on the east side.

The boy that was driving the car, Lorraine said, that boy is thirty-three years old now. He’s become a grown man and my daughter’s life ended at sixteen. Now if something like that has happened here …

They drove across town and went bumping and rattling over the train tracks at the crossing and on to the north side, looking between the small houses and the turquoise trailer houses and the cars rusting in the weeds and the backyards.

My son is in trouble too, Lyle said. I won’t tell you all of it. I won’t say what he wouldn’t want me to say, but he’s in serious trouble. I’m really worried about him. He’s gone to Denver to live with his mother.

Will he be better there?

I doubt it. What’s wrong with him isn’t about geography.

Is this trouble he’s having, about you and him?

Some of it is.

They came back across the tracks. More cars were out in the evening now. High school kids driving up and down Main Street, honking at one another under the bright lights. Lyle and Lorraine turned off Main and drove along the railroad tracks to the town park. At the Holt swimming pool they stopped the car and hurried into the entrance. They could hear kids screaming and splashing. At the front counter there were two high school girls selling tickets, with the wire baskets of clothes stacked in ranks behind them.