Marilynne Robinson - Home

He said, “That can be very good, if the dumplings aren’t wet. Heavy. I’ve had to eat some terrible dumplings in my life.” Then, his eyes still closed, he said, “I can’t look at Jack’s hands. I don’t want to know what he did to them.”

Jack cleared his throat. “It’s mostly just engine grease I haven’t scrubbed off yet. I scraped them up a little, I guess.” He folded his arms to conceal them, and he smiled.

His father looked at him, sharply. “I don’t know what happened. Something happened last night.”

“Nothing good. You really don’t want to know. No point in it. Sir.”

“So, are we going to have the sheriff coming around here?”

“No, sir,” he said. “I have done nothing that would interest the sheriff.” His voice was soft and sad.

“Papa, Jack’s all right. Everything’s all right. But he’s tired now,” Glory said. “I think we should talk about something else.”

The old man nodded. “We’re all tired now.” Then he said, “So many times, over the years, I’ve tried not to love you so much. I never got anywhere with it, but I tried. I’d say, He doesn’t care a thing about us. He needs a little money now and then, that’s the extent of it. Still, I thought you might come home for your mother’s funeral. That was a very hard time for me. It would have been a great help. Why did I think you might come home? That was foolish of me. Your mother always said, You imagine some happiness is going to come out of all this, all this waiting and hoping, but it never will. So I tried to put an end to it. But I couldn’t.”

Jack smiled and cleared his throat. “Maybe now you can. Maybe I should tell you what I was up to all those years. That might put an end to it.”

The old man shook his head. “It couldn’t be worse than what I’ve imagined. I’ve thought of every dreadful thing, Jack. Lying awake nights. But it only made me grieve for you. And for myself, since there was no comfort I could give you.”

Jack said, “Well, I wouldn’t want you to think — I mean, ‘dreadful’ is a strong word. There are worse lives than mine. I know that’s not much to be proud of. But still.”

Glory said, “We all loved him, Papa, all of us, and there were reasons why we did. Why we do.”

“Could you expand on that a little, Glory?” Jack said. “I’d be interested.”

His father said, “Well, it’s just natural. What I’d like to know is why you didn’t love us. That is what has always mystified me.”

After a moment Jack said, “I did. But there wasn’t much I could do about it. It was hard for me to be here. I could never — trust myself. Anywhere. But that made it harder to be here.”

His father nodded. “Drink,” he said.

Jack smiled. “That, too.”

“Yes, well, maybe it’s a joke, I don’t know. Last night was about as bad a night as I have passed on this earth. And I kept thinking to myself, asking the Lord, Why do I have to care so much? It seemed like a curse and an affliction to me. To love my own son. How could that be? I have wondered about it many times.”

Jack said, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t be more sorry. But at least you know why I stayed away so long. I had no right to come home. I shouldn’t be here now.”

“No right to come home!” his father said, and his voice broke. “If I’d had to die without seeing your face again, I’d have doubted the goodness of the Lord.” He looked at Jack. “That was a fear I had. So I was very happy, you know, there for a while.”

Jack said, “What are your feelings now, about the goodness of the Lord?” He said, “I really don’t think the Lord’s good name should depend on my behavior. I’m not equal to the responsibility.”

The old man shook his head. “Nobody is. I’m not equal to it, either, the way I’ve been talking to you here—”

“No matter. I knew most of it anyway.”

His father pondered for a while. “You knew it, and it didn’t make a bit of difference. I should have realized that. I suppose I did.”

Jack pushed back his chair and stood up. “Yes, well, if you’ll excuse me—”

Glory said, “No, Jack, you sit down. We’ve worried about you enough.”

His glance at her was weary, even bewildered. “I just thought I’d go up to my room.”

“No.” She touched his shoulder. She could see him make the decision to trust her, at least not to offend her. He sat down again.

His father said, “Kindness takes more strength than I have now. I didn’t realize how much effort I used to put into it. It’s like everything else that way, I guess.”

Jack said, “I can’t leave quite yet. But I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

“Oh yes, you came for your own reasons, and you’ll leave for your own reasons. And it just happened that I was here, I wasn’t dead yet.”

Glory said, “I’m sorry, Papa, but this has gone on long enough.”

The old man nodded. “Maybe I’m finding out I’m not such a good man as I thought I was. Now that I don’t have the strength — patience takes a lot out of you. Hope, too.”

Jack said, “I think hope is the worst thing in the world. I really do. It makes a fool of you while it lasts. And then when it’s gone, it’s like there’s nothing left of you at all. Except”—he shrugged and laughed—“except what you can’t be rid of.”

His father said, “I’m sorry you’ve had to know about that, Jack. And now we’ve got Glory crying.”

Jack shrugged and smiled at her. “Sorry.”

Glory said, “Don’t worry. There’s no harm in it.”

Her father sighed. “Yes, well, I wish I could take it all back, everything I’ve just said. But I suppose you did know it already. Still, it’s different when you say things like that out loud. It already seems like I didn’t mean it. Now I know I’m going to just lie on my bed and worry about it, and wish I’d held my peace. I did that for so long.”

Jack said, “You did. You were always very kind.”

The old man nodded. “I hope that still counts for something.”

“It’s the only thing that counts.”

“Thank you, Jack. And I know you want to be done with me now. I’ve worn us out, both of us. I’ll just let the two of you get back to your conversation.”

Glory helped him to his room and into his bed, and when she came back, Jack was slouched in his chair with his ankles crossed, laying out cards for solitaire.

He said, “Has a day ever passed when you haven’t thought of him?”

“Who?”

“Whom. The old gent. Whom did you think I meant? Mr. 452 Love Letters?”

She said, “You’re so jealous!”

He laughed. “True. It isn’t fair. I never got even one. Just the other day in the Post I noticed a poem by Mrs. Lindbergh that I wouldn’t mind getting in the mail. Much better than nothing. Though I’ve learned that nothing also has charms. It’s more nuanced than ‘return to sender,’ for example.”

She said, “I doubt I’ve gone a whole day without thinking of Papa. I’m sure there have been hours here and there.”

“I’ve thought about this place so many times. When I was a kid I used to wish I lived here. I used to wish I could just walk in the door like the rest of you did and, you know, sit down at the table and do my homework or something.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “I actually tried it out once or twice.” Then he said, “I know why people watched me. I’m not even sure that was what made me uneasy. I think it made me feel safer sometimes. I used to test it, stir up a little trouble to make sure the old fellow was still keeping an eye on me. Sometimes I’d be out in the barn, in the loft, listening to the piano, you all singing ‘My Darling Clementine,’ and I’d think, Maybe they’ve forgotten all about me, and it felt like death, in a way.” He said, “I was usually closer to home than he thought I was. Where he didn’t look for me.” He glanced at her. “Don’t cry, please. I’m just telling you how it was.” He laughed. “How it is.” Then he said, “There are a couple of bottles in the loft. If you want to get them down, I’ll hold the ladder.”