Marilynne Robinson - Home

“Robby for Robert,” Jack said.

He nodded.

“Robert B.”

He nodded and laughed.

“B. for Boughton.”

He nodded.

Jack said, “I believe that is the best name in the world.”

Ames said, “Your father was always naming his sons after other people. He didn’t have a Robert of his own.”

“No,” Boughton said. “Glory would have been Robert, but she wasn’t a boy.”

Jack looked at her.

His father, afraid he had been rude, said, “It worked out very well — four of each.”

Jack shrugged. “Faith. Hope. Grace. Roberta—”

“No,” his father said. “Charity was my first thought. But your mother sort of put her foot down. She thought it would make her sound like an orphan or something. The word is actually agape. Caritas is the Latin. Nothing you would name a child.”

Glory said, “I think we should change the subject.”

“Your mother wanted to call her Gloria, the usual spelling, but I couldn’t see that, when all the other names are in English.”

Jack said, “ Fides, Spes, Gratia, Gloria .”

“Ah, the old jokes,” Glory said.

“Yes, it was Teddy who came up with that one,” the old man said. “Everything was high school Latin around here for a while, wasn’t it.” He looked at Jack. “Teddy called yesterday, by the way.”

Jack nodded. “Sorry I missed him.”

“Well, I suppose he’s used to it by now. I guess he’d better be.”

Jack smiled at his father. “Yes, well, there’s something else I forgot. If you’ll excuse me for a minute—” And he put down his fork and stood up and left the table and left the room.

Boughton shook his head. “First he was off picking flowers. Now he’s left the table in the middle of dinner. I suppose because I mentioned Teddy. I don’t understand it. They used to be close, when they were boys. At least he’d talk to Teddy now and then. I believe he did. That was my impression.”

Glory said, “You might lower your voice a little, Papa.”

“Well, sometimes I just don’t understand his behavior,” he said in an emphatic whisper. “I thought after all this time he might be—”

Glory touched her father’s wrist, and Jack walked into the silence of interrupted conspiracy, or so he must have thought, smiling as he did, guilelessly, eyebrows raised. “Sorry,” he said. “If you’d like, I could just wait out here in the hall for a minute or two. Until you’ve finished.”

“No. You’d better sit down,” his father said. “Your dinner is cold enough already.”

Jack smiled. “Yes, sir.” He was holding a baseball in his hand. When he had sat down, he held it up for Robby to see. “What have we here?” he said.

Robby said, “Um, fastball!”

Jack laughed with surprise, and looked at his hand. “Right you are!” He shifted the ball in his fingers. “And what is this?”

“Knuckleball!”

“And this?”

“Um. Curveball.”

He shifted the ball again.

“Um. I forget that one. Let me think. A slipper!”

“Well,” Jack said, “when I was a boy we used to call it a slider. Same idea.”

Robby put his hands to his face and laughed. “No, a slipper is, like, a shoe!”

Jack nodded. “I suppose you could get in trouble with the umpire if you were out there throwing slippers,” and then he watched the child with grave, pleasant interest until he had finished laughing. “So I guess you want to be a pitcher.”

Robby nodded. “My dad was a pitcher.”

“A very fine pitcher, too,” Boughton said. “I don’t think people play that game as much as they used to anymore. They’re home watching it on television.”

“My dad taught me all those pitches,” Robby said. “With an orange!” He laughed.

Ames said, “We were just talking baseball over lunch the other day. I thought I’d show him a few things.”

“He’s a quick study,” Jack said.

Ames nodded. “I’m a little surprised he remembered all that.”

Robby said, “We have a real baseball, but it’s up in the attic somewhere. My dad hates to go up in the attic.”

“Well,” Ames said. “I see I have been remiss.”

Jack put the baseball beside Robby’s plate. “This one is for you. It’s a present. I knew you probably had one of your own, since your dad was a pitcher. But an extra one can come in handy.”

Robby looked at his mother. She nodded.

“Thanks,” he said. He took up the ball, shyly, tentatively.

“It’s brand new, so you’ll have to take care of it. Do you know how to take care of a new baseball?”

“No, but my dad’ll tell me.”

Jack said, “It’s pretty simple. You just rub dirt all over it. Scruff it up a little.”

“Rub dirt on it—” the boy said, doubtful. “I guess I’ll ask my dad, anyway.”

Jack laughed. “That’s always a good idea.” And he glanced at his own father. “My dad and I used to play a little ball.”

The old man nodded. “Yes, we did. We had some good times, too, didn’t we?” He looked at his hand. “Hard to believe it now, when I can’t even tie my own shoes! I think back to those times, when I was just an ordinary man, not even a young man, and it’s like remembering that I used to be the sun and the wind! Taking the steps two at a time—!”

Ames laughed.

“Well, it all just seemed so natural, like it could never end. Your mother would be there in the kitchen, cooking supper, singing to herself. And she’d have a cup of coffee for me, and we’d talk a little. And I could tell just by hearing all the voices who was in the house. Except for Jack, of course. He was so quiet.”

Ames said, “The sun and the wind!”

“Oh yes, you can laugh. A big brute like you wouldn’t even know what I’m talking about. It seems to me I’ve gotten old for both of us.”

“I beg to differ, Reverend. I feel I’ve done my share of getting old.”

Robby said, “He told me he’s too old to play catch.”

Ames nodded. “And so I am. It’s a sad fact.”

Glory saw her brother glance at her, as if an intention had begun to form, and then he looked away again and smiled to himself.

THEY ATE THEIR PIE. “I SUPERVISED,” HER FATHER SAID. “Jack pared the apples and Glory made the pastry, and I made sure it was all up to my specifications.” He laughed. “Jack put my chair out there in the kitchen, right in the middle of everything. It was very nice. We’ve had some good times, we three. I told you that he’s almost got the old DeSoto running. Yes. Good times. And he plays the piano! I must say, that came as a surprise.”

“Yes,” Jack said, “I could play a little now, if you’d like.” And he excused himself. They heard him from the next room, trying one hymn and then another—“‘I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses,’ then ‘Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer! that calls me from a world of care.’” Glory brought him a cup of coffee. “Thanks,” he said. “‘If I have uttered idle words or vain, if I have turned aside from want or pain.’” He laughed. “If only I knew how you do that!” Then “‘Love divine, all loves excelling’—they’re all waltzes! Have you noticed that?” Lila and Robby came to listen, then Ames, who had stayed behind a little to offer Boughton help, should he admit to needing it.

Lila said, “I like waltzes.” So Jack plunged into a brief and distinctly Viennese “There’s a Garden Where Jesus Is Waiting.”

Ames looked on without expression. Her father’s expression was statesmanlike.

And then Jack played, “‘I want a Sunday kind of love, a love that lasts past Saturday night.’ I’ve forgotten the words. ‘I’m on a lonely road that leads to nowhere. I want a Sunday kind of love.’”