Marilynne Robinson - Home

“First ‘Blessed Assurance,’” the old man said. “If you know that one.”

“I believe I do.” Jack sat down at the piano, tinkered at the keys for a moment, found the tune, and played it through. His father did not sing.

“Now ‘Whispering Hope.’”

“Yes, sir.”

When the song ended, his father said, “‘Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice.’ That can actually happen. I have had that experience. Hope is a very valuable thing, since there is not always so much to rejoice about in this life.”

Jack went to stand in his father’s doorway, to spare him the effort of raising his voice. The old man said, “Come here, Jack. Bring the chair over here. There’s something I need to say to you. You’re probably going to have to forgive me for this.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Well, I know that. I can count on that. And you’re a grown man now.”

Jack laughed. “True.”

“So I want to put a question to you. All right?”

“Go ahead.”

“I feel I didn’t do right by you. I wasn’t a good father to you.”

“What? Really?”

“No, it’s a feeling I have always had, almost since you were a baby. As though there was something you needed from me and I never figured out what it was.”

Jack cleared his throat. “I really don’t know what to say. I’ve always thought you were a very good father. Much better than I deserved.”

“No, but think about it now. You were always running off somewhere. Always hiding somewhere. Maybe you don’t even remember why you did those things. But I thought you might be able to give me some idea.”

“I can’t explain it. I don’t know. I was a bad kid. I’m sorry about all that.”

The old man shook his head. “That isn’t my meaning at all. You see, I feel as though you haven’t had a good life.”

Jack laughed. “Oh! Well, I’m sorry about that, too.”

“You misunderstand me. I mean your life has never seemed to have any real joy in it. I’m afraid you’ve never had much in the way of happiness.”

“Oh. I see. Well, I’ve been happy from time to time. Things are a little difficult now—”

“Yes, because you wouldn’t be here otherwise. That’s all right. I just never knew another child who didn’t feel at home in the house where he was born. All the others, you know, they come back for the holidays. It was always like a big party in here, all the games they would play, all the noise they made, and your mother laughing at the endless pranks and the nonsense. And if you could find a way to leave, you’d be gone.”

“I can’t explain that. I’m sorry about it—”

“And then you really were gone, weren’t you. Twenty years, Jack!”

Jack drew a deep breath and said nothing.

“And why am I talking to you about this? But it was always a mystery to me. Be strict! People would say that to me. Lay down the law! Do it for his sake! But I always felt it was sadness I was dealing with, a sort of heavyheartedness. In a child! And how could I be angry at that? I should have known how to help you with it.”

“You helped me. I mean, there are worse lives than mine. Mine could be worse.” He laughed and put his hand to his face.

“Oh yes. I’m sure of that, Jack. I see how kind you are now. Very polite. I notice that.”

“These last years I’ve been all right. Almost ten years.”

“Well, that is wonderful. Now, do you forgive me for speaking to you this way?”

“Yes, sir. Of course I do. I will. If you give me a little time.”

The old man said, “You take your time. But I want you to give me your hand now.” And he took Jack’s hand and moved it gently toward himself, so he could study the face Jack would have hidden from him. “Yes,” he said, “here you are.” He laid the hand against his chest. “You feel that heart in there? My life became your life, like lighting one candle from another. Isn’t that a mystery? I’ve thought about it many times. And yet you always did the opposite of what I hoped for, the exact opposite. So I tried not to hope for anything at all, except that we wouldn’t lose you. So of course we did. That was the one hope I couldn’t put aside.”

Jack withdrew his hand from his father’s and put it to his face again. “This is very difficult,” he said. “What can I do — I mean, is there something I can do now?”

“That’s true,” his father said. “Not a thing to be done. I’m sorry I brought it up. I thought it was troubling my sleep. I guess it was. Why did that make me think it was important? I don’t know. All that old grief coming back on me. I’m tired now, though. It seems like I’m always tired.” And he settled into his pillows and turned onto his right side, away from Jack, toward the wall.

GLORY CAME OUT TO THE KITCHEN AND WAITED, AND after a few minutes Jack came out, too. “Would you mind just staying here with me for a few minutes, Glory?” he said. “Till I’ve had some time to check for broken bones.” He laughed and rubbed his hands over his face. “Ahh. I’m feeling the impulse to do something unwise. You don’t have to sit here until the bars close. Unless you want to.”

She said, “I’m happy to sit here as long as you like.”

“When do the bars close in this town, on a weeknight? It used to be ten.”

“I’m not the one to ask, I’m afraid.”

“It’s not quite eight o’clock now. Two hours, maybe three. That’s a long time.”

“Believe me, I have no plans for the evening.”

He laughed. “Good.”

“Would you like coffee?”

“Coffee? Sure. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all.”

He said, “You should be impressed that I don’t know when the bars close. That means I haven’t even gone near enough to one of them to read the sign on the door.”

She laughed. “I am impressed. Now that you point it out.”

“Yes, I think I should draw up a list of my accomplishments. That would be number one. Then: I am not incarcerated. And: I nearly finished college—”

“I thought you finished. We were all going to come to your graduation.”

“And then the Reverend got a phone call from St. Louis.”

“He said he should have expected that you wouldn’t want to go through the ceremony.”

“Well, there were some other considerations — some problems, shall we say. Omissions, mainly. Does that surprise you?”

“Not at all,” she said.

He shook his head. “I am a monster of consistency, little sister. Though increasingly I realize that the consistency was mostly alcohol. But now I am a changed man, most of the time. For example, I have just told you the truth about something. I owe it all to the influence of a good woman.”

She laughed.

He said, “What? Is that so hard to believe?”

“No, no. That’s a phrase I used to hear a lot, that’s all.” She said, “Should I tell you the truth about something?”

“Sure. But you don’t have to. This doesn’t have to be an exchange of hostages or anything.”

“I am giving you a hostage, though. I’m trusting you with this. You have to take it to your grave.”

“Will do. On my honor, as they say. If you really want to tell me.”

“I think so. I do want to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you’re my brother, I guess. Because I want to see how it sounds when I say it out loud.”

“How it sounds to me, or to you? There could be a difference.”

“I suppose so. Does that matter?”

“Well, you know, I’m not the ideal sounding board. Especially if there’s moral complexity involved. That was never my strong point. You might reveal some embarrassing deficiency in me. One more deficiency—” He laughed. “I’m in enough trouble as it is.”