Marilynne Robinson - Home

“All right,” she said. “No secrets, no confidences.” Then, after a minute, she heard herself say, “I was never married.”

“Oh?” and he began to laugh, wearily and uncontrollably. “Is that the secret? I’m really sorry. It’s because I’m tired,” he said, wiping tears from his face.

“My fault,” she said. “You gave me fair warning.”

“I did, didn’t I.” The laughter persisted, somewhere between a sob and a cough. “I’m really sorry. The thing is, you know, I’m not married either.”

“But no one ever thought you were. I mean, you didn’t make people believe that you were.”

He laughed into his hands, miserably. “That’s true. I never did.” Then he said, “I hope you’re not mad at me, Glory. I don’t know why you wouldn’t be. Please don’t be mad.” He was struggling to catch his breath.

“Oh heck,” she said. “I’m going to get you some coffee.”

“Heck, yes! Bring on the coffee!” he said, and he laughed.

“I say ‘hell’ sometimes. If I’m mad. But I’m not mad. I’m just sort of flummoxed.”

He said, “I do that. I flummox people. It’s really about the best I can hope for, in fact.”

“Well, I’ve gotten pretty used to it. It’s actually a little bit interesting, in a way.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Seriously. I know I did the wrong thing, laughing like that.” He shook his head ruefully, and laughed. “You’re a good soul, Glory.”

“I am,” she said.

“I know that what happened to you was bad. I was an idiot to laugh.”

“It was very bad. One midnight I went out and dropped four hundred fifty-two letters down a storm drain.”

He laughed. “Four hundred fifty-two!”

“It was a long engagement. A policeman saw me and came over to ask me what I was doing. I told him I was throwing away four hundred fifty-two love letters and one cheap ring. He said, ‘Well, I sure hope things work out for you.’” They laughed. “I’m all right,” she said. “It was all horrible enough to be funny, I suppose. Now that it’s over.”

“Yes, there’s always that to look forward to.” Then he shrugged and said, “It’s enough to make me hope there’s a minute or two between death and perdition.”

“Oh come on, Jack. I don’t really think you get to believe in perdition unless you believe in all the rest of it.”

“No? But perdition is the one thing that always made sense to me. I mean, it has always seemed plausible. On the basis of my experience. And I don’t think this is a good time to try to talk me out of it. I’m tired. I’m sober—” He laughed, and she glanced at her watch. “Let me guess,” he said. “Eight-twenty-eight.”

“Eight-seventeen.”

“If you tire of my company, I’ll understand.”

“No, not at all. Could I make you some supper?”

“I just had supper.”

“No, you didn’t. I watched. Six bites of potato.”

“I haven’t had much appetite, I guess.”

“Well, I have news for you, Cary Grant. Your pants have begun to bag.”

“Ah. You have mastered the art of persuasion. A scrambled egg then?”

“And toast.”

“And toast.”

Jack sat at the table, twitching his foot. He cleared his throat.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Not a thing.” Then, after a minute, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe I have just been told that I am not the only sinner in this family.” And then he laughed and put his hand to his face. “Now, that was probably a mistake. What a fool I am.”

Glory said, “Well then, let’s just say you’re not the only fool in the family.” She broke an egg into the frying pan.

“But you haven’t told the Reverend about this, I take it.”

“How can you even ask?”

He nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

“Stupidity isn’t a sin, so far as I know. But it ought to be one. It feels like one. I can forgive myself all the rest of it.”

“You can forgive yourself.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Interesting.”

She glanced at her watch.

He said, “We’ll change the subject.”

Then he said, as if taking upon himself the effort of sustaining conversation, “That woman in St. Louis I mentioned — she sang in the choir at her church, of course. And sometimes, if the lady who played piano for them couldn’t come to practice, I’d fill in for her. I’d come anyway, just to listen. That old lady could really play, but she was kind. She taught me as much as I could learn. I played for their service a few times. I used to come into the church on weeknights to use the piano, and so long as the music wasn’t too worldly, they didn’t mind. I could have made a decent living playing in bars, but they were — well, they were bars. So I hung around at her church. It was all right. I mean, I was happy then.” He looked at her, smiled at her. “Why are you laughing? You don’t believe me.”

“Sure, I believe you. I’ve been wondering where you learned to play those hymns so well.”

“There it is. Proof of my veracity. And you’re laughing anyway.”

“It’s because I met, you know, the man I didn’t marry, at a choir rehearsal. He was passing in the street, he said, and he heard the music, and it took him back to the sweetest moments of his childhood. He hoped we would not mind if he stood very quietly and listened for a while.”

“Why, what a cad. ‘Sweetest moments of his childhood.’ I could have warned you. That one phrase would have given him away.”

“Yes, no doubt. But at the time I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. So I couldn’t avail myself of your wisdom.”

“True.” Jack cleared his throat. He cleared it again. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was hovering around choir rehearsals looking for vulnerable women. I met my — the woman I mentioned — as I was walking by her apartment building one day. It was raining and she was coming home from school — she was also an English teacher. She dropped some papers and I helped her gather them up. And so on. I’d found an umbrella on a park bench a couple of days before, and here was a lady needing rescue. We became friends almost without calculation or connivance on my part. It was all very respectable. It was.”

She said, “‘Looking for vulnerable women.’”

“Oh well, that isn’t quite what I meant.”

“That is what he was doing, though. You’re exactly right. It’s only that I had never put it to myself in just those words.”

“Sorry.” He smiled and touched his hand to his face. She thought, Why has he turned pale? Then he said, “You know, by vulnerable I suppose I really meant — religious. Yes. Pious girls have tender hearts. They believe sad stories. So I have heard. All to their credit, of course. And they usually lead sheltered lives. Little real knowledge of the world. They are brought up to think someone ought to love them for that sort of thing, their virtue and so on. And they are ready to believe anyone who tells them about, you know, his angel mother, and how the thought of her piety has been a beacon shining through the darkest storms of life. So I have been told. And often, on a cold night, there will be cake and coffee, absolutely free of charge. That can bring out the hypocrite in a fellow, if he has a thin coat or a hole in his shoe. As I understand.” Then he said, “If I had a daughter, I wouldn’t let her go anywhere near a choir rehearsal.”

She said nothing.

Jack stood up. “Yes,” he said, “well. There’s still a little bit of daylight. I’d better go make myself useful, hadn’t I. Earn my bread in the sweat of my brow, as they say.” He stopped by the door and stood there, watching her. After a long moment he said, “I know I should leave this town. But I can’t leave yet.”