Marilynne Robinson - Lila

“The roses are beautiful. On the grave. It’s very kind of you to do that.”

She shrugged. “I like roses.”

“Yes, but I wish there were some way I could repay you.”

She heard herself say, “You ought to marry me.” He stopped still, and she hurried away, to the other side of the road, the flush of shame and anger so hot in her that this time surely she could not go on living. When he caught up with her, when he touched her sleeve, she could not look at him.

“Yes,” he said, “you’re right. I will.”

She said, “All right. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” Why did she say that? What was she planning on doing tomorrow? He just stood there. She could feel him watching her. Of all the crazy things she had ever done. It was that feeling that she had had walking along beside him that put the notion in her mind. It comes from being alone too much. Things matter that wouldn’t if you had a regular life. Just walking along beside that old man, past the edge of town, not even talking most of the time, with the cottonwoods shining and rustling and shading the road. She never really looked at him, but he was beautiful, gentle and solid, his voice so mild when he spoke, his hair so silvery white. If she ever thought of herself marrying anybody, it would have been a man who was young enough not to mind a day’s work. Being a preacher was a kind of work, though. And he had that house to live in. Gardens around it. Gone to weed.

What was she thinking about? It was never going to happen. She might be crazy, but he wasn’t. She tried to remember that he said those words — You’re right. I will — in a way that really meant, That’s the strangest thing anybody ever said to me in my whole life. It wasn’t hard to hear them that way, except from him. He always seemed to say what he meant. Near enough. But she could see how it might’ve been different this time. She lifted the loose plank and took out the jar where she kept her money. She had the five dollars Mrs. Graham paid her, since, upset as she was, she didn’t trust herself to go into the store and buy the tin of deviled ham she’d had on her mind. So all together it came to about forty-five dollars. If she hadn’t been buying things, cigarettes, margarine, there’d have been more. Still, forty-five dollars would take her a long way on a bus. She could go to California, where there wouldn’t be winter to worry about. Crops coming in all year long. Doane and Marcelle had always talked about going to California. That was a nice thing to think about. She could do it on her own. Nobody to trust. She knew he wouldn’t come to her place, and she couldn’t go to his. He might be looking for her, since it was tomorrow, or he might not be looking for her. She would go in to town in the next few days to get her ticket, so if he happened to see her he wouldn’t make much of it. She might never know — maybe he meant what he said, but if he didn’t, and she saw him again, she wouldn’t be able to stand the shame. Or she would, and that would be another, harder shame. It would be best if she could just say, I’m leaving, like I was meaning to do the whole time.

So she spent the next day at the river. She sat down on a rock and dropped a fishing line into the water. She had brought her tablet and pencil and her Bible. Ezekiel said: And they had the hands of a man under their wings on their four sides; and they four had their faces and their wings thus: their wings were joined one to another; they turned not when they went; they went every one straight forward. As for the likeness of their faces, they had the face of a man; and they four had the face of a lion on the right side; and they four had the face of an ox on the left side; they four had also the face of an eagle. Doane would be saying, What did I tell you. But it made as much sense as anything else. No sense at all. If you think about a human face, it can be something you don’t want to look at, so sad or so hard or so kind. It can be something you want to hide, because it pretty well shows where you’ve been and what you can expect. And anybody at all can see it, but you can’t. It just floats there in front of you. It might as well be your soul, for all you can do to protect it. What isn’t strange, when you think about it.

The shadows had moved and the bugs were beginning to bother, so she found a sunnier place. There were huckleberries. If she could only forget why she was there, she’d be fairly pleased with herself. One big old catfish would make it a good day. That letter was in the Bible. She tore it in half and put a rock on it, in a wet enough place that the ink would bleed. Dear Lila (if I may) . She thought sometimes that if she decided to do it she could cut off her hand. There was a kind of peace in that. In one way, at least, she could trust herself, crazy or not. She might burn that sweater while she was cooking her catfish. She might burn the Bible, for that matter. Old Ezekiel would nestle down into the flames. He seemed to know all about them. The umbrella would fit in her suitcase, crosswise.

She decided to go to church the next Sunday. If she came late and left early, if she sat in the last pew, he would never be near enough to speak to her or to pay her any notice. She wouldn’t mind seeing him one last time, standing there in the pulpit, in the window light, talking to those people about incarnation and resurrection and the rest. She’d hear a little singing. After that she would never step into a church again.

When she came up the bank from the river, she saw him standing in the road, about halfway between her and that damn shack. So there she was, Bible in one hand, catfish jumping on a line in the other, barefoot, and he turned and saw her. He started walking toward her. She couldn’t think what else to do, so she waited where she was. He didn’t speak until he was close to her, and then he didn’t speak, still deciding what to say.

He said, “I know you don’t like visitors, but I wanted to talk to you. I wasn’t actually coming to your house. But I hoped I might see you. I want to give you something. Of course you are under no obligation to accept it. It belonged to my mother.” He was holding it in his hand, a locket on a chain. “I should have found a box for it.” Then he said, “We spoke about marriage. I haven’t seen you since then. I don’t know if you meant what you said. I thought I’d ask. I understand if you’ve changed your mind. I’m old. An old man. I’m very much aware of that.” He shrugged. “But if we’re engaged, I want to give you something. And if we’re not, I want you to have it anyway.”

“Well,” she said, “I got my hands full.”

He laughed. “So you have! Let me take something. A Bible!”

“I stole it. And don’t go looking at my tablet.”

“Sorry. Ezekiel.” He laughed. “You are always surprising.”

“I stole your sweater. Was that a surprise?”

“Not really. But I was glad you wanted it.”

“Why?”

He said, “Well, you probably know why.”

She felt her face warm. And the fish kept struggling, jumping against her leg. She said, “Damn catfish. Seems like you can never quite kill ’em dead. I’m going to just put it here in the weeds for a minute.” And there it was, flopping in the dust. She wiped her hand on her skirt. “I can take that chain now, whatever it is.”

He said, “Excellent. I’m — grateful. You should put it on. It’s a little difficult to fasten. My mother always asked my father to do it for her.”

Lila said, “Is that a fact,” and handed it back to him.

He studied her for a moment, and then he said, “You’ll have to do something with your hair. If you could lift it up.” So she did, and he stepped behind her, and she felt the touch of his fingers at her neck, trembling, and the small weight of the locket falling into place. Then they stood there together in the road, in the chirping, rustling silence and the sound of the river.