Marilynne Robinson - Home

Jack took the box and tilted it to the light and looked into it. He said, “I believe you must have eaten it.”

Robby laughed. “No, I didn’t.”

“You were so interested in that movie you didn’t notice. It could have been a silver dollar and I bet you wouldn’t have noticed it.”

“Oh yes, I would. I’d notice a silver dollar!”

“It was probably a rubber snake. I bet it was a tarantula.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Robby said. “Let me see,” but Jack held the box away from him, peered into it, then extracted something between two fingers. “You’re a pretty lucky kid,” he said. “I’d like to have one of these.”

“What is it? What?”

Jack laid the little toy on the table. “That,” he said, “is a magnifying glass.”

Robby looked at it. “It isn’t very big.”

“Well, you have to start somewhere.”

“Start what?”

“Looking for clues. Here. I think I have a spot on the cuff of my shirt. What does it look like to you?”

Robby peered at it through the little lens. “It just looks like a spot.”

Jack shrugged. “Well, there you are. Case closed.”

Robby laughed, and so did Lila.

Ames said, “Robby, why don’t you run off and find Tobias. He’ll want to see what you’ve got there. Maybe you can find a bug to look at. Now run along.” The boy hesitated, and then he left.

Jack turned to look at Ames, a bland, weary look that meant, “I understand why you do that, why you send your child away.” No doubt Ames and Boughton had just prayed for his soul, probably slandering before heaven whatever life he had had, and had lost, the life he mourned. Deploring it under the name of sin, or some milder word they had agreed on. Transgression. Dishonor. Unmet obligation. He had walked in upon this conjuration of himself in the bleak light of his father’s suspicions, which were innocent and uninformed and therefore no doubt exaggerated to ensure the sufficiency of his intercession. Jack had walked in on a potent thought of himself, like Lazarus with the memory of cerements about him no matter how often he might shave or comb his hair.

“Mrs. Ames,” he said, “did you enjoy the movie? I’ve seen it a few times myself. The newsreel was interesting. A little strange for a matinee, I thought.”

Lila said, to Boughton and Ames, “The newsreel was terrible. It showed an atom bomb going off, and all the buildings that would have been burned down by it. There were dummies inside, like families eating their supper. They shouldn’t be showing that to children.”

“They shouldn’t be doing it in the first place,” Boughton said. “They love those mushrooms. All that racket.” He still had not opened his eyes. “Dulles.”

Jack said, “Yes, Dulles. A Presbyterian gentleman, as I understand.”

Boughton snorted. “So he says.”

Jack had settled back in his chair and folded his arms, as he did when he wanted to seem at ease. He said, “They make it hard to bring up children these days. Hard to protect them. I suppose. Fallout in the milk they drink. You’d expect a Presbyterian gentleman to give these things a little more thought. In St. Louis they did a study of what they called ‘deciduous teeth.’ Baby teeth. There was radioactive material in them. It was alarming. To people trying to bring up children. So I have read.”

Ames looked at Jack, a little reprovingly. “Your father certainly has no brief to offer for John Foster Dulles. Neither have I.”

Boughton muttered, “But he’ll vote for Eisenhower.”

After a moment Jack cleared his throat. “Granting that responsibility is not a standard I myself have adhered to, particularly—”

His father opened his eyes.

“Granting that I have been a disappointment. Worse than a disappointment. Still.”

His father looked at him. “No, you haven’t. What’s your point?”

Lila said, “I know what he means. Things don’t make much sense. It’s hard to know who you’re supposed to look up to. That’s true.”

“Yes. No disrespect intended. I just feel I should put in a word for the reprobate among us. For their relative harmlessness. Being their sole representative, of course.” He smiled. “I’m not making excuses. But those of us who take a moment from our nefarious lives to read the news can find it all a little disorienting. Our fault, no doubt.” Then he said, “Reverend Ames, I would appreciate any insight you could give me.”

Ames glanced at him to appraise his sincerity, as if surprised by the possibility that it might be genuine. He said, “That’s a lot to think about.”

“It comes up fairly often. Among people I know. People living at close quarters, with time on their hands—” He laughed.

There was a silence. Boughton had closed his eyes again. His head fell. After a moment Glory said, “I think Papa must be getting tired.”

“I’m right here. You can ask me. I still exist in the first person.”

“Are you tired?”

“Yes, I am. I will want to go home soon. Not just yet.” No one said anything for a minute, and then the old man lifted his head. “Yes, we should be going home.”

Glory would have expected Jack to come with her, hoped he would, but he stayed where he was, as if at ease in his chair, and did not meet her eyes. She walked her father to the car and helped him into it, with Lila, who went along to help him out of the car and up the steps of his own house. After she had settled the old man for a nap, Glory phoned Ames to tell him that Lila would stay and help her make dinner. Robby was having supper with Tobias. Dinner would be ready in an hour or so, but he and Jack could walk over whenever they felt like it. In half an hour Ames came in by himself. He said Jack would be along in a little while, and they waited dinner until it was slightly ruined, and ate in silence.

Her father asked, “Did you and Jack have any kind of talk, the two of you?”

Ames said, “Not really. I think he wanted to talk, but he couldn’t bring himself to say what he had on his mind. He only stayed for a few minutes after you went home.”

“He didn’t give any indication where he might be going?”

“He said he might be late.”

GLORY LISTENED ALL NIGHT FOR THE SOUND OF THE DOOR opening. Twice she put on her robe and shoes and went outside to look in the barn, in the car, the shed, the porch, but her father heard her and called out, called to Jack, thinking, no doubt, that it was Jack he heard. Better to let him think so. She crept upstairs and stayed in her room until morning.

Her father told her not to bother with breakfast, but she made coffee for him and put toast and jam on the lamp table next to his chair. And the newspaper, as if this were an ordinary morning. She did what she could to make him comfortable. He was irritated by the delay.

“I’ll be gone a little while,” she said, and he nodded. He asked nothing, which meant he knew everything.

He said, “You’d better go.”

She dressed and brushed her hair. Then she looked into Jack’s room. The bed was neatly made, his books and clothes were still there, and his suitcase. She found the car keys where she had left them, on the windowsill in the kitchen.

She thought Jack might have found his way out of town somehow, hitched a ride with someone passing through, and if she did not find him in Gilead, she would drive to Fremont to look for him, just to see if he might be on the street. If she was delayed, she would telephone Lila and ask her to look in on her father. Two hours there and back, at best. Her father would be as patient as he could, knowing as he clearly did why she had to leave him.

She put the keys in her pocket and walked out to the barn. She opened the door and stepped into the humid half-darkness. And there he was, propped against the car, with the brim of his hat bent down, holding his lapels closed with one hand. He held the other out to her, discreetly, just at the level of his waist, and said, “Spare a dime, lady?” He was smiling, a look of raffish, haggard charm, hard, humiliated charm, that stunned her.