Marilynne Robinson - Home

Then one day the mail came, a bill or two, a note to her from Hope, and a letter addressed to her father, who had come into the kitchen for a glass of water. “This letter is from Jack,” he said. “I know his hand. This is his hand.” He sat down and placed the letter on the table in front of him. “Quite a surprise,” he said softly, gruffly. Then he was so still she was afraid he might be having a spell of some kind, a stroke. But he was only praying. He put out his hand and touched a corner of the envelope. “I believe I’ll be needing a handkerchief, Glory, if you don’t mind. They’re in that top right-hand drawer.” And there they were, in a neat stack, large and substantial. He had always carried a beautiful handkerchief, since in his line of work he never knew when it might be needed. She brought him one, and he wiped his face with it. “So we know he’s alive. That’s really something.”

She thought, Dear God, what if he’s wrong? What if this is a mistake brought on by yearning and old age?

She said, “Do you mind if I look at it?”

“Well, it’s a letter from your brother! Of course you’ll want to look at it! Thoughtless of me!”

She took it up. It was slight, no more than a slip of paper, in an envelope with a St. Louis return address and postmark. Reverend Robert Boughton in a small, distinct, graceful hand. “Should I open it?”

“Oh no, my dear, I’m sorry, but I’d better do that myself, in case there’s anything confidential in it. He might appreciate, you know, consideration for his privacy. I don’t know. At least he’s alive.” He wiped his eyes.

She put the envelope down on the table, and the old man laid his hand beside it. From time to time he tipped it up to look at the writing on it, and the postmark. “Yes, it’s from Jack, all right. A letter from Jack.”

She thought he might be waiting for her to leave the room, and yet she was afraid to leave. He might be disappointed, or the note might really be from Jack, but upsetting somehow, written from a ward for the chronically vexatious, the terminally remiss. From jail, for heaven’s sake. He had better have a good reason for rousing these overwhelming emotions in his father. He had better have a good excuse for exposing the old man to the possibility of inexpressible disappointment. Even if he was dead.

“Glory, I think you will have to help me. I was waiting till I got a little steadier, but I guess that’s not going to happen. You’ll want to use a penknife. We don’t want to damage that return address.”

She found a paring knife and sliced the envelope, removed a folded slip of paper, and handed it to him. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. He found the handkerchief in his lap and set it on the table. “Let’s just see what he has to say.” And he opened the note and read it. “Well. He says he’s coming home. He says here, ‘Dear Father, I will be coming to Gilead in a week or two. I will stay for a while if that is not inconvenient. Respectfully, Jack.’ Inconvenient! What an idea! We’ll have to write to him. I’ll do it myself, but I have to rest a little first. I don’t think I could hold a pen right now.” He laughed. “This is quite a day!” he said. “I wasn’t always sure I’d live to see a day like this.” She helped him into his chair in the bedroom, slipped off his shoes, and covered him with a quilt. She kissed his forehead. He kept the letter in his hand. He said, “Ames will want to know.”

So while he napped, prayed, composed himself, set aside grievances and doubts, suffered the pangs of anticipation, sought footing in the general blessedness of his life for a posture of heroic and fatherly grace, and perhaps skirted dangerously near rupture of some part of the sensorium given over to grand emotion — her father’s silences were never merely silences — she walked over to Ames’s house.

The place looked exactly as it always had, but swept, polished. It was built in the style of any modest farmhouse in that region, with nothing in the way of ornament about it except the spindle shape of the porch pillars and bannisters. For all the years of her childhood old Ames had seemed to live in his study on the second floor. At night she always saw light in that window, and in the daytime when she was sent with a note or a book for him she stood in the kitchen and waited until he heard her voice, finished a paragraph he was writing or reading and came down the stairs. The kitchen had smelled of cleanliness, never of use, as though an essence emerged from the linoleum to fill a vacuum left by the idle stove and the empty pantry.

Now there were geraniums in the kitchen window and there was something like glee in the whiteness and crispness of the kitchen curtains. New gardens had been planted along the walk. The Boughtons had all come home for Ames’s wedding, except for Jack, of course. It was the last wedding at which her father would ever officiate, he said, and the most joyful of them all. He relented a few times, married six or seven other couples he felt a special affection for. He had expected to marry Glory, but she had sent a letter explaining that, on impulse, just to get things settled, they had gone to a justice of the peace. Her father performed a few more baptisms besides those of his own grandchildren. Still, he called the Ameses’ marriage the culmination of his pastorate. Lila, the improbable bride, in her yellow satin suit and pillbox hat, had stood smiling with gentle embarrassment, tolerating their photographs, humoring them. Her arms were full of roses she had grown and gathered herself. Her roses were her particular pride. They still teased her because she had refused to toss her bouquet. Like his parsonage, old Ames seemed to have been transformed without being changed. Now he was not only fatherly but a father, not only courteous but squire to a wife who seemed to be always aware of his courtesies to her and to be wryly touched by them.

He was sitting on the porch swing reading a book, but when he saw Glory coming he eased himself up and stood waiting for her with the gallant deference he showed to anyone over the age of twelve, and by which she had always felt flattered. Now she sensed a kind of condolence in it, though she tried not to. She tried not to wonder what he knew.

“Splendid afternoon,” he said. “How are you? How is your father? Would you like to sit down?”

She said, “We’re fine, I think. I can only stay for a minute, though. This morning Papa got a letter from Jack. He wanted me to tell you. I mean from Johnny.”

“Oh yes. A letter from Jack.”

“He says he’s coming home.”

“Hm. Does he. How is your father taking this?”

“It’s hard for him, I think. To know what to expect. Jack has never been the most reliable person in the world.”

Silence again. “Did he say when he was coming? Did he say why?”

“He said he would come in the next week or two. That’s about all.”

“Well, that’s wonderful.” He said this without a trace of conviction. “Would your father feel up to a visit this afternoon?”

“I think he would.”

As he followed her down the walk to open the gate for her, he said, “It might be best if he doesn’t get his hopes too high.” Then they laughed. He said, “Well, there’s not much we can do about that.” But Glory had her own hopes, which were also too high — that this visit would happen at all, that it would be interesting, and that Jack would not remember her as the least tolerable, the most officious, the least to be trusted of his brothers and sisters. She thought and hoped he might hardly remember her.

WHEN SHE CAME HOME SHE FOUND THAT HER FATHER had written his letter, addressed it, and sealed it. “Yes, I put a little check in there just to be sure. Travel is expensive these days. I hope it won’t offend him, but I thought it was a way to emphasize how eager we are to see him. I thought it was a good idea on balance. I’ll take it out if you think I ought to—”