Marilynne Robinson - Home

So she called him, and she heard him shift himself upright and set his glass in the sink, with that little delay that meant reluctance overcome. When he came into the room he smiled at her. “Well, here I am.”

His father said, “Bring that chair over here. Sit down.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s something I want to say to you.” He reached a hand out of the covers and patted Jack’s knee. He cleared his throat. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I feel I know what is troubling you, Jack. I believe I always did know, and I just haven’t been honest with myself about it. I want to talk to you about it.”

Jack smiled and shifted in his chair. “All right. I’m listening.”

“It’s that child of yours, Jack.”

“What?”

“Yes, and I want you to know that I realize how much I was at fault in it all.”

“What?” Jack cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”

“I should have baptized her. I have regretted many times I didn’t do at least that much for her.”

“Oh,” Jack said. “Oh, I see. Yes.”

His father looked at him. “Maybe you didn’t realize that, that she died without the sacrament, and maybe I shouldn’t have said anything about it, since it might only add to your grief. I was reluctant to mention it. But I wanted to be sure you understood the fault was entirely mine.” He put his hand to his face. “Oh, Jack!” he said. “There I was, a minister of the Lord, holding that little baby in my arms any number of times. Why didn’t I just do the obvious thing! A few drops of water! There was a rain barrel right there by the house — who would have stopped me! I have thought of that so many times.”

Glory said, “Papa, we’re Presbyterians. We don’t believe in the necessity of baptism. You’ve always said that.”

“Yes, and Ames says it. He’ll take down the Institutes and show you the place. And Calvin was right about many things. His point there is that the Lord wouldn’t hold the child accountable — that has to be true. As for myself, well, ‘a broken and contrite heart Thou wilt not despise.’ I must remember to believe that, too.”

They were silent. Finally Jack said, “Everything that happened was my fault. It was all my fault. It is hard for me to believe that you could find any way to blame yourself for it. I’m — I’m amazed.”

“Oh,” his father said, “but you were young. And you didn’t know her. Glory was always trying to get a good picture to send to you, she’d dress her all up, put bows in her hair. But you couldn’t really tell much from the pictures. She was such a clever little thing, such a sprightly, funny little thing. She couldn’t wait to get up and start walking. Remember, Glory? When she was no bigger than a minute she’d be tagging after her mother, they’d be playing together — I’ve often thought I should have baptized her mother, for that matter.” Then he said, “To know a child like that, and then not to do just anything you can for her — there’s no excuse.” He said, “The Lord had the right to expect better of me, and you did, too. I understand that.”

Jack pushed back his chair and stood up. “I–I have to—” He laughed. “I don’t know. Get some air.” He smiled at Glory. “If you’ll pardon me, I—” and he left the room.

Glory kissed her father’s forehead, and then she said, “You get some sleep now,” and turned his pillow and smoothed it. She followed Jack into the kitchen. He was sitting at the table with his head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He said, “Do you mind if I turn off the light?” So she turned it off. After a long time he said, “If I were an honest man I’d have told him I have never given a single thought to — any of that. Not one thought. Ever.”

“Well.”

“I mean, to whether or not she was baptized. I have thought about the rest of it, from time to time. I have.” He laughed. “Never because I chose to.”

She said, “That was all so long ago. You were young.”

“No. I wasn’t young. I don’t believe I ever was young.” Then he said, “Excuses scare me, Glory. They make me feel like I’m losing hold. I can’t explain it. But please don’t try to make excuses for me. I might start believing them sometime. I’ve known people like that.”

She paused. “You did know that she died.”

“That envelope had a black border. I thought it might be—”

“What? Someone who mattered?”

“I didn’t say that. I didn’t mean it. You just never expect a child to die—” He said, “I never thought of it then. Now I do. I think of it now, all the time.” He laughed and put his hands to his face. “That can’t be justice. It would be horrible to think it has anything to do with justice.”

What could she say to comfort him? “These things are hard to talk about. I say things I shouldn’t. I’m sorry.” And after a moment, “I don’t really think justice can be horrible.”

“Really? Isn’t that what vengeance is? Horrible justice? What would your papa say?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but grace seems to answer every question, as far as he’s concerned.”

Jack looked at her. “Then he shouldn’t have to worry about his reprobate son, should he. I wish you would point that out to him. I mean, it does seem like a contradiction, doesn’t it?”

She said, “It does. I think we’re beyond the point where we can raise questions about his theology, though. If I pointed out a contradiction in his thinking, I would probably upset him. He’s gotten touchy about that kind of thing. Well, he has been for years. Anyway, I don’t think he worries about all that any more than you do.”

He shrugged. “Like father, like son.”

THE OLD MAN SEEMED TO HAVE ALARMED HIMSELF WITH his candor. He was suddenly anxious to be with Jack, at companionable, fatherly peace with him. He mustered a sociable interest in television, especially baseball, and he and Jack talked about the teams and the season as passionlessly as anything of great moment could be talked about, as if they were summer weather, drought and lightning. He always seemed to nod off if there was news of turbulence anywhere.

Jack must have taken his father to be in fact asleep, because when the news turned to the troubles in the South, he said, softly, “Jesus Christ.”

The old man roused himself. “What is it now?”

“Oh, sorry,” Jack said. “Sorry. It’s Tuscaloosa. A colored woman wants to go to the University of Alabama.”

“It appears they don’t want her there.”

Jack laughed. “It sure doesn’t look like it.”

His father watched for a moment and then he said, “I have nothing against the colored people. I do think they’re going to need to improve themselves, though, if they want to be accepted. I believe that is the only solution.” His look and tone were statesmanlike. He was making such an effort to be mild and conciliatory, even after Jack’s misuse of the name of the Lord, that Jack simply studied him, his hands to his mouth as if to prevent himself from speaking.

Finally he said, “I’m a little unimproved myself. I’ve known a good many Negroes who are more respectable than I am.”

His father looked at him. “I don’t know where you get such a terrible opinion of yourself, Jack.”

“Well, I guess that’s something we should both be grateful for.”

His father said, “I’m serious. There’s a lot you could do if you put your mind to it.”

Jack laughed. “True enough. I could stay in a hotel. I could eat in a cafeteria. I could hail a cab. I could probably exercise my franchise. Unworthy as I am.”

“You’re a college graduate,” his father said firmly.

Jack smiled and glanced at Glory. She shook her head. So he said, “True.” Then he said, “Most people don’t have that advantage, however. I mean, white people.”