Marilynne Robinson - Home

“No, sir, you haven’t.”

“Just take care of yourself. That’s the one thing I ask. Don’t do yourself harm. Don’t neglect the things God has given to you for your comfort. Your family. Your brothers and sisters. The others tell me they haven’t heard a word from you.”

“Sorry. I’ll see to that.”

“Luke called yesterday. He asked if you would like to speak to him and I had to say I didn’t know. He told me to give you his love. He said they all sent their love.”

Jack laughed. “Thanks,” he said.

“You were off at the post office anyway. But that is a thing I don’t understand. A man with three fine brothers doesn’t have to deal with the world on his own, like some kind of lone wolf. They’d all be glad to help. I would, too, if there were anything left of me.”

“I’m all right.”

“Well, that’s just not true, Jack. I’ve still got eyes in my head. You’re bone weary. Anyone could see that.”

Jack stood up. “As I said, things are hard right now. I’m doing the best I can. Glory is helping me, aren’t you, Glory?”

“That’s good,” his father said. And then, as if to explain himself, “I just woke up from the saddest dream! My grandmother always said you can trust a morning dream. I hope she was wrong about that.”

“It sounds like I’d better hope so, too.”

“Well, you’re still here. You’re alive.” He closed his eyes.

JACK WAS RESTLESS, SO SHE GAVE HIM A SHOPPING LIST. IT surprised her that he was willing to brave Gilead again, and he was gone long enough to make her begin to worry, but then he came back with a bag of groceries. She saw him from the garden and followed him into the kitchen. He had put his hat on the refrigerator and loosened his tie. “One pork roast,” he said. “One pound of butter. One loaf of bread. Two yellow onions.” He put a carton of cigarettes on the table. “I owe you for these. And”—he said—“one small present for Glory.” He reached into the bag again and produced an elderly book. “ The Condition of the Working Class in England in 1844 . Friedrich Engels. It was the best I could do. There was nothing by Marx. Nothing by DuBois, either. Plenty of Norman Vincent Peale, but I thought you might already have read him.” He smiled.

She picked up the book and opened it. “This hasn’t been checked out since 1925.”

“I suppose that’s why it was there at all. It has just stood quietly on the shelf for a quarter century, waiting to tantalize my sister’s budding interest in Marxism.” He unswaddled the pork from its butcher paper. “The best piece of meat in the store, so the grocer told me. Pretty fine, don’t you think?”

“Yes, very nice.”

He wrapped it up again and set it in the refrigerator. “You don’t seem pleased.”

“Well,” she said, “the card is still in the book, and 1925 is still the last date on it.”

“Oh. Hmm. Are you suggesting that I might have stolen it?”

“No. Just that you might have failed to satisfy the library’s expectations before you walked off with it.”

“I certainly do intend to return it. If you really want me to.”

“Of course.”

“A minor infraction.”

“No question. But they would have let you borrow it. They might have asked you to sign your name.”

“I’ll confess, I considered that. But then I thought, Jack Boughton, noted rake and scoundrel, is observed in the Gilead public library checking out a virtual malcontent’s bible. Here I am trying to rehabilitate myself, as they say, to cut a moderately respectable figure in this town. So that seemed out of the question. I could have told the truth, that the book was for you because you had mentioned to me your interest in exploring Communism, but then I would have been exposing you to every consequence I dreaded for myself. And why do that, I thought, when there is so much room for it in this grocery sack? If slipping it in with the butter and onions resembles petty theft, I will not lower myself in Glory’s estimation, since that is the sort of thing she expects of me anyway.”

“Oh,” she said.

“What!?”

“I’m still being punished.”

“No, I meant that as a little joke, I believe.” He looked at her. “You don’t seem to see much humor in it.” He laughed. “You’re right. A relapse. It all seems a little crazy, doesn’t it. In the circumstances. Best not to seem light-fingered just now. You’re absolutely right.” Then he said, “When I walked into the store, there was that same silence I mentioned to you last time. If Gilead had forgotten any of the particulars of my troubled youth, it’s been reminded of them again. As if Jack Boughton were the only thief in the world. God help me if anything catches fire around here.” He looked at her. “I’ll take Herr Engels back tonight. There’s a slot in the door.”

“No, you aren’t going out at night anymore, remember? Not before the bars close. And not after the bars close.”

“Oh. Right. I forgot.” He smiled. “I’m under house arrest. But I don’t want to leave here,” he said. “Not just yet. The way things are going, though, I suppose I might as well leave.”

“You have to remember, nothing has happened. As far as you’re concerned.”

“Yes, that is so true. Jack Boughton is in hell over nothing at all. And it serves the bastard right, I’d say.”

“I’ll take the book back tomorrow,” Glory said. “I can just slip it onto a shelf. Not that anything would ever come of it, but it’s one less thing to think about.”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “All right. I was going to ask you if I could borrow it, though. I’ve never read it myself. I thought it might help me pass a night or two.”

“Well,” she said, “I’ll take it back day after tomorrow. Next week. It won’t make any difference. I might read it.”

He laughed. “Good girl. We might even be able to work up a disagreement, one of those ideological differences I read about in the news from time to time. Shouting and arm waving. In the heat of it all I might come up with a conviction or two.”

“That sounds wonderful,” she said, “except we’d better forget the shouting, for Papa’s sake. But we could still do the arm waving.”

He shook his head. “That would be so — Presbyterian, somehow.”

“There are worse things.”

“Oh yes, I’m well aware that there are.” Then he said, “I had no right to come back. It’s a terrible worry to him, having me here. He worries in his sleep.”

“He dreamed about you before you wrote to him, before he knew you were coming. You were always on his mind, all those years. It isn’t having you here that makes him worry.”

“Then it’s — what? — my existence, I suppose. My hapless, disreputable existence. And from his point of view I can’t even put an end to it. There is no end to it. I’ll always be somewhere in eternity, rotting, or writhing. The poor old devil feels responsible for my soul.”

“He never said one thing in his life about rotting or writhing!”

“True. It was always ‘perdition,’ wasn’t it. I finally looked the word up in the dictionary. ‘The utter loss of the soul, or of final happiness in a future state — semicolon — future misery or eternal death.’” He said, “This does all seem a little cruel, don’t you think? He’s a saint, and I believe he’s afraid to die because of me. To leave me behind, still unregenerate — I know that’s what he has on his mind. I can tell by the way he looks at me.”

“You told him things have been different.”

He laughed. “He thinks I’m a thief, Glory. He thinks I’m going to disgrace us all again. And that could happen, too. I mean, that I could be accused — that could happen.” He put his hands to his face.