Marilynne Robinson - Lila

She had never heard anyone talk this way about existence, about the great storms that rise in it. But when she saw these words, she understood them. A time came when Doane couldn’t figure a way to keep them fed. His good name meant nothing because along these new roads he was just one more dirty, weary man with dirty, weary women and children straggling after him. He couldn’t very well keep his pride when he couldn’t even ask for work without seeming to ask for pity. Those years of saying, if he had to, Be fair to me and I’ll be fair to you, and being twice as careful to live up to his side of the deal as he was to make sure the other fellow lived up to his, all that was gone, and still they trailed after him, trusting him because they always had. They got work once pulling the tassels off corn, miserable work at best, out in the field with all the dust and heat and the grasshoppers getting on you and the itchiness of the silk and the edges of the corn leaves rasping against you. But by that time they almost weren’t up to it. They went so slow they didn’t finish the rows they were supposed to do, even though they worked until dark, till they could hardly lift their arms. And then they weren’t paid but half what had been agreed on, because they didn’t finish. Mellie cussed and cried where the man could hear and Doane slapped her. That was the first time he ever did any such thing. What does it matter if some ignorant man nobody would even notice loses the pride he has been so careful of all his life? If somebody said to him, No work here, mister — that’s just how it was, no harm intended. But it was also a great voice they heard everywhere, saying, Now, those half-grown children will be hungry and you’ll have the shame of it and there’s nothing you can do but wish at least you didn’t have to look at them. And he did seem to begin hating the sight of them. But they were bitterly loyal to him for the insult he suffered because his pride had been their pride for so many years.

When he finally took to stealing, it was a big dog that caught him at it. So he went to jail with his pant leg slit open to make room for the bandage and the swelling, and no stick to help him walk because it would have been a weapon. They scattered after that. Marcelle stayed as near to the jail as she could manage to, and so did Mellie, and Em, who was never good for much and by that time needed Mellie to look after her. Arthur and his boys had been stealing a little, and meant to do a little more stealing, so they took off. People remembered Doll for her face, and that made it a problem for them to travel together. It was the same whether the boys were recognized or she was and they were seen with her. So then it was just Lila and Doll. Arthur and his boys had no sense at all, and still it was a lonely thing to have them gone, too.

How could it be that none of it mattered? It was most of what happened. But if it did matter, how could the world go on the way it did when there were so many people living the same and worse? Poor was nothing, tired and hungry were nothing. But people only trying to get by, and no respect for them at all, even the wind soiling them. No matter how proud and hard they were, the wind making their faces run with tears. That was existence, and why didn’t it roar and wrench itself apart like the storm it must be, if so much of existence is all that bitterness and fear? Even now, thinking of the man who called himself her husband, what if he turned away from her? It would be nothing. What if the child was no child? There would be an evening and a morning. The quiet of the world was terrible to her, like mockery. She had hoped to put an end to these thoughts, but they returned to her, and she returned to them.

* * *

Every Sunday after that one she went to church, her hand at the crook of the Reverend’s arm. Every Sunday she had swelled a little more, and people could think what they liked about it. He was fairly pleased with what he had planted, and shy as well. An old fellow like him, he said, had to expect a few remarks of one sort and another. He was kind to her in every way he could think of, always trying to find out what she liked and disliked and ready to spare her any annoyance, even though that meant seeing a little less of Boughton. Did she feel annoyance before she knew the name for it? Would she have felt she had the right to it? He did say that why things happen the way they do is essentially a theological question, at least a philosophical question, and she said she supposed he was right, since he would know.

Once, when they were out walking, he asked her what was on her mind, because she had been so quiet, and she said, “Nothing, really. Existence,” which made him laugh with surprise and then apologize for laughing. He said, “I’d be interested to know your thoughts on it.”

“I just don’t know what to think about it at all sometimes.”

He nodded. “It’s remarkable, whatever else.” He picked up a few rocks from the road and tossed them at fence posts, hitting them sometimes.

“Remarkable,” she said, considering the word. She has made remarkable progress. It had begun to seem to her that if she had more words she might understand things better. And it would take up the time. “You should be teaching me.”

“I suppose. If you like.”

The corn was head high, rustling its heavy, dusty leaves, and for a while anyway it had nothing to do with her. He would hardly let her clear the dishes.

“I never meant to be ignorant my whole life. But there was never much I could do about it.” That was true enough. And they might have something to talk about besides how she was feeling from one day to the next. She was about to start making things up, just for the sake of conversation.

He said, “I guess I should have realized. But I’ve never for a moment thought of you as ignorant, Lila. I couldn’t if I tried.”

“Well, once you start teaching me you’re going to find out.”

“We’ll see.”

She said, “I had to learn that word ‘existence.’ You was talking about it all the time. It took me a while to figure out what you even meant by it.”

He nodded.

She said, “There’s a lot I haven’t figured out. Pretty well everything.”

He took her hand and swung it as they walked, a happy man. “I feel exactly the same way. I really do. So this will be very interesting,” he said. “You’ll talk to me. I’ll find out what you think.”

She shrugged. “Maybe.” And they laughed. If there was one thing she wished she could save from it all, it was the way it felt to walk along beside him.

He said, “You know, there are things I believe, things I could never prove, and I believe them all day, every day. It seems to me that my mind would stop dead without them. And here, when I have tangible proof”—he patted her hand—“when I’m walking along this road I’ve known all my life, every stone and stump where it has always been, I can’t quite believe it. That I’m here with you.”

She thought, Well, that’s another way of saying it ain’t the sort of thing people expect. She had heard the word “unseemly.” Mrs. Graham talking to someone else about something else. No one said her belly was unseemly, no one said a word about how the old man kept on courting her, like a boy, when she was hard and wary and mainly just glad there was a time in her life when she could rest up for whatever was going to happen to her next. She felt like asking why he couldn’t see what everybody else had seen her whole life. But what if that made him begin to see it? First she had to get this baby born. After that she might ask him some questions.

She might tell him some things, too. Why she maybe thought of marrying him. Once, Doll wanted her to marry another old man. What would he think of that? Doll heard somewhere about a widower who might be looking for a wife. She sent Lila to his house, with ribbons in her hair. The times were so bad then, and Doll wouldn’t stay anywhere long, so she couldn’t marry him herself. He had new overalls on, and his hair combed to the side, and he was sitting there on the porch waiting for her. The shanks of his legs were just two white bones with hair on them, and his boots were big and worn and one not quite like the other. They made her think of two very old dogs from the same litter. He told her his wife was dead and his children were gone, that he owned his house and a few acres outright, and that he would enjoy a little help around the place and a little company. She couldn’t say a thing. Then his voice rose and he said, “None of this was my idea. I’m a decent man. Have been all my life. You can ask anybody. That woman with the mark on her face, she knows it, too. She’s been talking to the neighbors. She said she couldn’t take care of you anymore. I should have just told her in the first place it was ridiculous. Well, you wait here a minute.” He went into the house and came back with a silver dollar. He held it out to her and she took it. “Now, goodbye,” he said. Then she went to find Doll. She said, “He give me this.” She wasn’t crying. Doll said, “You shouldn’ta took it.” And then she said, “He would’ve been good to you. That’s what matters. You got to do the best you can, and be grateful for whatever comes of it.” And, after looking at her for a moment, mildly and sadly, she said, “If there was just something about you.”