Marilynne Robinson - Home

“So,” he said, “we have made a list of my venial sins.”

“Presbyterians don’t believe in venial sins.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m not described by the word ‘Presbyterian.’”

“Oh, hush!”

He laughed. “All right. My lesser sins. Not that Presbyterians believe in them, either. Do you want a list of the grave ones? The mortal ones?”

“Not really.”

“That’s good.” He said, “Reverend Miles, Della’s father and my biographer, told me I was nothing but trouble. I felt the truth of that. I really am nothing.” He looked at her. “Nothing, with a body. I create a kind of displacement around myself as I pass through the world, which can fairly be called trouble. This is a mystery, I believe.” He said, “It’s why I keep to myself. When I can. Ah. And now the tears.”

“Don’t you think everybody feels that way sometimes, though? I certainly have. While you had Della you didn’t feel that way. If you weren’t alone so much, I mean, Papa’s right about that. If you’d just let us help you.”

He said, “When Mama died I’d been out of jail for a couple days. So I could have come home. Strictly speaking. But it takes awhile to shake that off, you know. Wash it off. To feel you could blend in with the Presbyterians. And the old fellow doesn’t miss anything. I wouldn’t have wanted him to see me. I was terrified at the thought. So I used his check to buy some clothes. I knew what he’d think of me when he saw I’d cashed it.” He smiled at her. “I was grateful for the check, I really was. I hadn’t been at that hotel where he sent it for quite a while. I was surprised the letter found me. But the desk clerk was impressed by the black border, so he brought it to me. He hadn’t even opened it. I spent part of the money in a bar. What was left of it.”

Glory said, “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Not that it matters. I don’t care if you’ve been in jail.”

He said, “No? It made quite an impression on me. I believe it’s as congenial a place to be nothing as I could ever hope to find.” He laughed. “In jail, they call it good behavior. Not a thing I’ve often been accused of.” He said, “Jail reinforced my eccentricities. I’m pretty sure of that.”

“Mama died more than ten years ago. So you were all right after you got out of jail.”

“Yes, I was. And now I know it was an aberration. Nothing I can sustain on my own. I’ve found out I still can’t trust myself. So I’m right back where I started.” He smiled. “You forgive so much, you’ll have to forgive that, too. Well, I guess you won’t have to.”

“You know I will.”

After a moment he said, “You probably wonder what kind of woman Della is, shacking up with the likes of me.”

“She reads French. She embroiders. She sings in a choir.”

“There are things I haven’t told you about her.”

She shrugged. “Some things are sacred.”

He laughed. “Yes, that’s it. That’s it exactly.” He wiped his hands on the dishtowel and looked them over. “Not too bad,” he said. He held them up to her inspection. “He should be able to stand the sight of my hands, at least. I wish there were something I could do about my face.”

“You could get a little sleep.”

“Not a bad idea. If you don’t mind. There are a few things I meant to get done today.”

“Sleep for an hour or two first.”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll do that. Thanks.” He stopped halfway up the stairs. “I told you a minute ago that I was in jail. I should have said prison. I was in prison.” Then he watched her to appraise her reaction.

She said, “I don’t care if you were in prison,” but the words cost her a little effort, and he heard it and smiled at her for a moment, studying her to be sure that she meant them.

He said, “You’re a good kid.”

IT WAS SUPPERTIME WHEN JACK CAME DOWNSTAIRS AGAIN. He said, “I slept a lot longer than I planned to. Sorry.” He did look more like himself, she thought. An odd phrase, since he was always himself, perhaps never more so than he had been in the last two days. He was wearing his father’s old clothes and the blue striped necktie, and he was conspicuously kempt and shaved. Old Spice. He buttoned the top button of the jacket, unbuttoned it again, then took the jacket off. “This is better, I think,” he said, and looked at her for confirmation.

“In this heat,” she said.

“Yes, but the tie’s all right.”

“It looks fine.”

He had some intention, clearly. That was probably a good thing, all in all. There was a kind of tense composure about him that seemed like morale. He said, “What’s for dinner?”

“Creamed chicken on toast. Leftovers. No dumplings this time. I made a peach cobbler, though.”

“Well,” he said, “I thought we might eat in the dining room. If that’s all right. With candles. The light seems so bright in here. To those of us who fear the light and love the darkness.” He laughed.

She thought, He doesn’t want Papa to be pained by the sight of him. Of course. She said, “Whatever you like. I’ll open the windows and put the fan in there. It gets stuffy in this weather.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

She went into her father’s bedroom and found the old man lying there pensively awake. When she spoke to him, he said, “I love hearing all the voices. Your mother says this house is like an old fiddle, what it does with sound, and I think that’s true. It is a wonderful house.” He was still worn from that long night, she thought, still half asleep.

“Would you like to get up now, Papa? I’ve made supper. Jack got some rest this afternoon, and he’s up and setting the table.”

He looked at her. “Jack?”

“Yes. He’s feeling a lot better.”

“I didn’t know he was ill. Yes, I’d better get up.” His concern was such that he seemed to have forgotten the recalcitrance of his body and to be surprised to find himself struggling to sit upright.

“Here, I’ll help you,” she said.

He looked at her with alarm. “Something’s happened.”

“It’s over now. We’re all right.”

“I thought the children were here. Where are they?”

“They’re all at home, so far as I know, Papa.”

“But they’re so quiet!”

She said, “Just a minute. I’ll ask Jack to play something while we get you ready for supper.”

“So Jack’s here.”

“Yes, he’s here.”

She stepped into the dining room and asked Jack to play, and then she went back to help her father. “‘Softly and Tenderly,’” the old man said. “A very fine song. Is that Gracie?”

“No, it’s Jack.”

The old man said, “I don’t believe Jack plays the piano. It might be Gracie.”

She brought her father down the hallway. He stopped at a little distance from the piano, released her arm, and stood looking at Jack with puzzled interest. He whispered, “The fellow plays very well. But why is he here in our house?”

Glory said, “He’s come home to see you, Papa.”

“Well, that’s very nice, I suppose. No harm in it.”

Jack played the hymn to the end, then he followed them into the dining room. He had put the jacket back on. He helped his father with his chair, Glory with hers, then seated himself by his father. The old man looked at him as if he had taken a liberty, not offensive but surprising just the same, in sitting down with them. He said, “Glory, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes. All right.” She closed her eyes. “Dear God in heaven, please help us. Dear God, please help everyone we love. Amen.”

Jack looked at her and smiled. “Thank you,” he said.

The old man nodded. “That pretty well sums it up.”