Marilynne Robinson - Lila

“Well,” he said, “you know I’m always interested. If there’s anything you want to talk about.” He hung up his hat and his coat.

“One thing. Do you think the child knows what I’m thinking? I mean, by the way it makes me feel? Do you think it might get scared or something? Sad? Because I do worry about that. Now and then.”

He searched her face, abruptly serious.

“You don’t know nothing about me,” she said, because that was what he was trying not to think. “I got feelings I don’t know the names for. There probly ain’t any names. Probly nobody else ever had ’em. I tell you what, I wouldn’t wish ’em on a snake.”

“Well,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Is there something I can do?”

“No. You haven’t even ate your lunch yet.”

He shrugged. “Lunch can wait.” Then he made his voice just as gentle as he could. “Lila, I know I’ve said this any number of times. But people do talk to me. About all sorts of things. Sometimes it helps. At least that’s what they tell me.”

She said, “Then for the rest of their life you’re gonna think about it. Every time you look at them. Hear their name even.”

“True.”

“Well, I spose it would have to be true, wouldn’t it. The worse it was, the more you’d remember. Maybe I don’t want you looking at me that way.”

“Fine,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

“I don’t know how those people go on living in the same town with you.”

“A few of them do leave the church. Maybe because they’ve told me more than they meant to. I’ve suspected that was part of it. In some cases.”

She said, “Now you’re looking at me. Probly thinking it’s worse than it is. Maybe it couldn’t even be no worse.”

He laughed. “I don’t know how this happened. I hardly even step through the door and I seem to be in a whole world of trouble.”

“Well,” she said, “I ain’t going to talk about it. I’m going to make you a sandwich.”

“That’s wonderful.” He sat down at the table and picked up the newspaper he had read at breakfast. He glanced over it a little. Then he said, “I like to look at you, Lila. Lila my wife. There’s a lot of pleasure in it for me. Of course I also like to talk with you.”

“Well, that’s probly because I never tell you nothing.” She thought, Anything. I can talk better than this. I guess I just don’t want to.

“You’ve told me a couple of things. I don’t think either one of us is any the worse for it.”

She almost said, There was a man. Why did she feel so mean sometimes? He would say, Well, yes, of course I assumed. Well, of course I knew — and he’d blush because he’d said that. There would be tears in his eyes, the poor old devil. What else could he say? He went and married her, and now he has to make the best of it. But she felt those words in her mouth and her heart was thumping. And she could have said something else. Probably worse. There was a child. She never did lie to him, and he knew it, so there were things she had to be sure not to tell him, things she could never say. She wanted to rest her head on his shoulder, but he was looking through the paper again. She could pull a chair up next to him and he’d probably put his arm around her. So she came and stood beside him, against him, and touched his hair. She said, “I never even thought of telling anybody what was on my mind, all those years. Not Doll, not any of ’em. I don’t even think I knew people did that.”

“Have I told you everything about myself? I suppose I have. Not much to tell, really.”

She said, “Well, you never told me what you’re scared of. There must be something, with all the praying you do.”

He laughed. “You can probably guess.” He glanced up at her. “I’m afraid to death some fine young man you knew once will show up at the door and you’ll pack your bag. Just the things you brought with you. And you’ll leave a note for me that says, Goodbye, Reverend. I won’t be coming back.”

“Will I take your mama’s locket when I go?”

“No. But you’ll have to ask the young man to help you undo the clasp. Then when I see it there, I’ll know. That you’d left with somebody.”

She shook her head. “Most likely I’d take it.”

He said, “I’d be grateful if you did.”

“Well, I believe you would. You’re just the strangest man. I guess this better all happen after the baby comes?”

“I suppose so.”

“It would have to. I never knew a man who would want to take on another man’s child like that. I mean, before it was even born. Then I guess he’d make me leave it here anyway.”

“I hope he would. I mean, I hope you would let me keep it. I’d work something out, hire a woman to take care of it. People would help. We’d be all right.”

After a minute she said, “Well, I never made you that sandwich.” But she sat down at the table across from him. He met her eyes. “You sure been thinking about this.” She heard her voice break.

He said, “I have to believe I wouldn’t die of it. For the child’s sake. And for yours, if you ever wanted to come back. But I do feel that a child should have a living father, if the old codger can manage it. Someone to fall back on. As long as possible.” He shrugged. “I think through things. It calms me. Otherwise I don’t react as well as I could have. As I would have wanted to.”

They’d been married a year, no, almost a year and a half, and he was still just as lonely as ever, and that scared her. So she said, “It’s nice you think some man somewhere’s going to bother to come looking for me. No chance of that happening, Reverend. You got me all to yourself. If that’s what you want.”

He said, “I guess I want it too much to believe I have it.”

She said, “I feel the same way, pretty much.”

He nodded. “That’s good to know.”

“I never thought I’d be living in a house like this, that’s for sure. I mean a house where I was the wife and anybody cared if I stayed or left.”

He nodded. “I hope sometime you’ll feel — a little more at home, Lila. I hope sometime you’ll move things around a little in here. These old pictures my mother put up — I probably haven’t looked at some of them in fifty years. Most of them she just cut out of magazines. Well, you can see that, the way they’ve faded. My grandfather made the frames for them. I think it was mainly a way she had of keeping him out of her kitchen. He always wanted to be doing something. My point is that things don’t have to stay the way they are. If you want to change them.”

She said, “You ever heard of a credenza?”

He laughed. “A credenza. I’ve seen the word somewhere, I suppose. I’m not quite sure I know what one is.”

“Well, I’m glad if you don’t.”

He nodded. “Happy to oblige.”

“That’s one thing I don’t ever want around here.”

“It might be hard to find one in Iowa. So that’s good.” He said, “Because this is your house, Lila, no credenza will ever come under its roof!”

“Now you’re laughing at me.”

“I’ve made a solemn promise! I gave you my word. I’ve never been more serious.” He was at the cupboard, rummaging. “Sometimes I just laugh because I’m surprised. But I’d better have a little lunch. I get cranky on an empty stomach. Can’t risk disheartening some poor sinner. You never know when one might wander in. Just a peanut butter and jelly sandwich will make me worthier of my calling. Till supper anyway.”

“I was going to do that, then we got talking.”

“I’m glad we got talking. I’m always glad when we talk. I have so much to learn. Here I could have wandered in someday with a credenza, meaning no harm—” Then he looked at her. “I’m sorry!”