Marilynne Robinson - Home

What had changed, after all? He had shamed himself in front of her, making her cover for his awful helplessness, defenselessness. Not that she could hold that against him, but that he could never forget what she had seen. She knew this by the way he looked at her now, by the chastened softness of his voice. He had made a generous attempt to lie to his father and failed, and in trying had dropped a stone into a very deep well of sorrow. The report of terrible particulars coming to him after so long, and for no reason except that his poor father seemed to forget everything else while he remembered them more bitterly. Jack promised her that he would never again try to end his life, but then he also told her he had done it only because he’d been drinking, and that must mean that if he happened to have another bottle somewhere—

In the course of time the dim glow of the lightening sky paled the curtains, and she heard Jack stirring in his room. Then finally she fell asleep, and gradually awoke again to the smell of bacon, of coffee.

JACK HAD BROUGHT IN HIS SUIT FROM THE PORCH, WHERE she had hung it to air, and he was brushing and pressing it. There were no really noticeable grease marks except one above a trouser pocket and a few on the underside of the lapels where he had held them closed with his hand. His solicitude for that suit must have sunk so far into him that he had been a little careful of it even in extremis. If he remembered to keep the jacket closed to hide the smudge on the trousers, it would be about as presentable as it ever was. This was clearly a relief to him. He asked her for a needle and thread and secured a hanging button. She enjoyed the wry seriousness with which he went about such things, these unlikely shifts and competences she knew she was privileged to witness. Still, there was something slightly hectic about it this morning, something disturbingly purposeful.

He hung the suit on the door frame and stood back to look at it. “Not too bad, considering. Hmm?”

“Not bad at all.”

“There’s toast in the oven. And I fried some bacon. I could scramble an egg for you.”

“You’re being very nice.”

He nodded. “I called Teddy.”

It took her a moment to understand what he had said. “You called Teddy?”

“Yes. I woke him up. But I thought I’d better make the call before my resolve faded.”

“Just toast will be fine,” she said.

“As you wish.” He stacked toast on a plate and set it in front of her, and jam, and butter, and a cup of coffee. He said, “I went in to check on the old gent this morning, and he didn’t know who I was. He didn’t know who he was, either. No idea. He was very polite about it.” He propped himself against the counter. “So I thought I’d better talk with Teddy. He’s calling the others. He said he could be here by Tuesday.” It was the first time he had looked at her directly, met her eyes.

“All right. I’ll have to get the house ready. Make up the beds. I’ll need some groceries.”

Jack said, “I’ll be here to help you with that. Until Tuesday. Then I’ll be out of your way.”

“What? But you said you’d be staying, let’s see, ten more days. To wait for that letter.”

He smiled. “There won’t be a letter. I don’t know what that was — a joke. Don’t ask me to stay here, Glory, when all this is happening. You know I can’t trust myself. I could do something — unsightly. I could make everything much worse.” He said softly, “I really can’t deal with the thought that he will die.” Then he said, “Tears and more tears. But I won’t be leaving you here by yourself. Teddy said he would call from the road, from Fremont, and I’ll stay until he does. You won’t be alone.”

“Ah,” she said, “but who will look after you?”

“It will be fine. Better for me, anyway. Better for everyone. You know that.”

“But we won’t even know where you are, Jack.”

He said, “What does it matter?”

“Oh, how can you ask? How can you possibly ask? I can’t deal with— I know what it is you’re afraid of. It breaks my heart.”

He shrugged. “You really shouldn’t worry so much. I have an impressive history of failure. For what that’s worth. And people can be surprisingly decent about it. Cops. Nuns. The Salvation Army. Vulnerable women.”

She said, “Don’t you dare joke with me.”

He smiled. “I was pretty well telling you the truth just then.”

“Then don’t tell me the truth. You’ve worried us almost to death. You’ve scared us almost to death. But this really is your masterpiece.”

Then he looked at her, his face pale and grave and regretful, and she knew there was no more to be said, that she should not have said what she did say, because the grief he always carried with him was as much as he could bear. He said, “I took care of him. I made oatmeal and fed it to him. I cleaned him up and changed his sheets and turned him over, and I think he went back to sleep. Last night was too hard for him. My fault.”

“No. You were trying to comfort him. And this was coming. We all knew it would happen.”

He nodded. “I suppose so. Thanks. Thank you, Glory. I’m going to go take care of that thing in the loft. It won’t take long.”

Glory went to look in on her father. He lay on his right side, his face composed, intent on sleep. His hair had been brushed into a soft white cloud, like harmless aspiration, like a mist given off by the endless work of dreaming.

SHE WENT TO SPEAK WITH AMES, TO TELL HIM THE FAMily was being asked to come home. He hugged her and gave her his handkerchief and said, “I see, I see, yes. I’ll be by to look in on him when he’s had his sleep. I have a few things to take care of at the church first. And how is Jack?” So she told him, though she had not meant to, that Jack was leaving. She said it was so hard for her that he should leave just then, and she said it with all the passion of her worry and grief, but she did not let herself violate the secrecy she had been sworn to, more or less. She did not mention his dread of doing something unsightly. Ah, Jack.

“Yes,” Ames said, “his father would want him there with his family. It would be a pity for him to leave now.”

“It would,” she said.

There are very few comforts to be had from half-confiding, and Glory thanked him and went away before she could find herself giving in to habit and sadness and divulging her fears about Jack, the thing most offensive to him that they had done all through their childhood and his. That her father had done once again no doubt on his last visit to Ames’s kitchen. She had left Ames with the impression, she knew to her deep chagrin, that Jack was just behaving badly, a scoundrel disappointing the standards of civility. Ah well. Nothing to do but go home and start preparing for the brothers and sisters.

She came into the kitchen and found Jack there, wearing his suit and tie, brushing at a smudge on the brim of his hat. He said, by way of explanation, “I have one last glimmer of hope, a merest spark of optimism. I want to make sure it is extinguished before I leave this town.” He laughed. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I mean, I doubt that there’s any life in it, but I thought, you know, I’d inquire, just to be sure. I’m going to go speak with Reverend Ames again. I thought I’d give it one last try.” He shrugged.

Glory said, “Yes, fine. I just saw him. I told him about Papa. He said he would be at the church this morning, and then he would come by here. So you could wait and talk to him then.”

“No, I think I’ll stroll up to the church,” he said. “That’s more or less as I imagined it. It will be that kind of conversation. There will be a certain element of confession in it. I can do that.” He smiled. “Don’t look so worried. I won’t let him hurt my feelings this time. I mean, at least he won’t catch me off guard. For what that’s worth.”