Marilynne Robinson - Home

“Yes,” he said. “This being a Scotsman is no bed of roses. A Scotsman!” He laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever even seen one of those.”

“I suspect Scottishness is another name for predestination. It explains everything, more or less.”

“The poor old bastard. Sorry. I wouldn’t want to have me for a problem. At his age. Not that I won’t.” Then he said, “You know, if there has been another break-in, the cops might come by.”

“The cop. This is Gilead.”

“I’m serious, Glory. That could be very bad. For the old gent. For me, too. He already thinks I did it.”

“You’re making too much of this, Jack. If he thought you were a thief, would he give you the keys to the family coffers?”

“Yes, he would. That is exactly what he would do. He would think I might have needed money. He would give me money to keep me from stealing again. That’s what he was talking about in there.”

“Maybe.”

He nodded. “You know I’m right.” He said, “I don’t want you to comfort me, Glory. I want you to help me. This could ruin everything. I deal with things like this very badly. I’ve gotten worse with practice.”

“Of course I’ll help you. But you have to tell me what I should do.”

He said, “Just think it through with me. Help me think what to do if things go wrong. It probably seems crazy to be so scared, but I am scared.” He laughed. “I’ve done — I’ve done a lot of hard things in my life, but another— If I had to do thirty days, that would pretty well finish me up.” He said, “I fear I am not in my perfect mind, little sister. I don’t know how to deal with this.” Then he said, “You have to keep me sober. That’s the first thing.”

“I’ll do my best, Jack. I will. I swear to God. But if you want me to help you think this out, you’ll have to give me a little time. And you’ll have to promise me that you’ll try to ignore Papa. He shouldn’t talk to you the way he does. He isn’t himself. He’s always loved you more than any of us.”

“I do try to—”

“If he were himself, he would be grateful to you for ignoring the things he’s been saying.”

He wiped his face with the heel of his hand. “Thank you, Glory. That’s good of you.”

They saw the mailman stop and put letters in the box, and they began walking down from the garden together.

He laughed. “It’s amazing. I’m in hell over a miserable thirty-eight dollars.”

She looked at him. “Oh,” he said. “Oh.” Then, “It was in the newspaper, Glory. In the article.” He was ashen. He stopped and rubbed his eyes. “I can show you. I have the paper in my room.” Then he smiled at her, that weary, bitter smile of his, as if he knew her far too well, and did not know her at all.

She said, “Forgive me, Jack.”

He said, “Sure, I forgive you. What choice do I have?” He took the mail from the box, a bill and a letter from Luke to their father, glanced at it, and handed it to her. “Do you ever hear from him? Your, um, fiancé?”

“What? No.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

“Do you write to him?”

“No.”

He said, “Five years. That’s about eighteen hundred days. So you’d have been getting letters at the rate of one every four days, more or less.”

“He traveled.”

Jack laughed. “Yes. Of course he did. Still, he was a prolific son of a bitch.”

“Sometimes he just clipped poems out of magazines and signed his name.”

“Which was?”

“What does it matter?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m your big brother. I might want to stalk him down someday. Give him a black eye. Recoup some remnant of the family honor.”

“Well,” she said, “you’d better start eating a little, then.”

“A big fellow, is he.”

“No.”

“I get it. Another crack about my physique.”

“Yes. You deserve it. You know I don’t like to talk about any of this.”

He seemed to consider. “One sinner to another,” he said. “I have never found comfort in confession, either. It just unleashes every bad consequence you might have avoided by keeping your transgressions to yourself. That has been my experience, at any rate.”

She said, “So I guess I have that to look forward to.”

He shrugged.

She said, “I promised I would help you, and I will. But you probably don’t want me to be mad at you. I don’t think as well when I’m mad.”

He smiled. “Fair enough. I’ll forget I ever heard of what’s-his-name.”

“Good.”

“Well, maybe I won’t forget the part about clipping out poems. That could come in handy. And the number four hundred fifty-two just seems to have lodged in my brain.” He watched her face. “And then there is such comfort for me in the thought that there has been some minor smirching of your soul, I doubt I will forget that. Though I promise I’ll make the attempt.” Then he said, “What is this? Ah, tears! One friend in the world and I’ve made her cry!”

She said, “I’m not crying. Do you want my help?”

He laughed. “I need your help. I want it — abjectly.”

“I’ve told you. I’ve promised you.”

“You are crying.”

“So what? Look after Papa. I’m going up to my room. We can talk about things when I’ve had some rest.”

He opened the door for her and followed her inside. He said, “Glory.”

“What?”

“I know this is a lot to ask. I know that. But I wish you wouldn’t leave me alone just now.” He put his hand to his face. He laughed. “What was that expression you used a minute ago? Ah yes. ‘I swear to God.’”

She stepped closer to him so that she could speak softly. “Has it ever, ever occurred to you that you are not the only miserable person in this house? That must be fairly obvious. The least we can do is avoid making things worse than they have to be.”

He smiled. “You think I’m a petty thief.”

“How on earth can I know what to think?”

“Children!” their father called. “I could use some help here!” “Coming, Papa!”

The old man was propped on one arm in a tangle of covers. “Such dreams I’ve had this morning! I’ve used a day’s worth of energy just wrestling around in my sheets! Is Jack still here? Yes, there he is, there you are.” He sank back on his pillows.

Jack smiled from the doorway. “Still here,” he said. “You’re not rid of me yet.”

“Oh yes, rid of you! Come here where I can look at you, son. That’s how it was in the dream. I could never get a clear look at you.” He said, “Do you remember when you were about thirteen and you got the new suit for Easter? And some of the others grumbled a little, because they said you would never come to church anyway? But that day you did. The suit was big on you, but you looked so fine in it. You had your tie hanging around your neck, and you came to me, and I tied it for you. Do you remember that?”

“Yes, sir. I believe I was late.”

“No, you were almost late. That’s an important difference. You came running around the side of the church and sort of vaulted over the railing and landed on the steps, just as quick and graceful as could be. And then you looked at me, and I think you hoped I would be pleased, and of course I was, very pleased, and so was your mother. Yes. Bring that chair over here and sit down for a minute. Let me look at you for a minute.”

Jack laughed. “Maybe I should shave first. Comb my hair.”

“You just come here and sit down like I told you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You just mind for once.”

Jack put the chair beside his father’s bed and sat down.

His father patted his knee. “Now you see how easy it is,” he said. “I’ve never asked you for very much, have I?”