John Gardner - October Light

As she was making her bed, puffing up the pillow, thinking, I must hide those applecores, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs — someone young and light, probably Lewis. She heard whoever it was go into the bathroom and close the door and use the toilet. When he came out she called, “Is that you, Lewis?”

The footsteps stopped, then came somewhat tentatively toward her. “It’s Rafe Hernandez, ma’am,” a voice said, formal and apparently embarrassed. “You must be Mrs. Abbott?”

Sally looked at the bedroom door as if it had tricked her, then tried to see through the crack. Remembering herself, she said: “How do you do?”

“Very well, thank you,” Hernandez said, more formal than before. He had a touch of foreign accent. “Is there anything I can get you?”

She gave a little laugh. “I thought you were my nephew Lewis.”

“Ah yes, ha ha. These things will hoppin!”

Her heart beat rapidly. It was difficult to know how to deal with an introduction in these circumstances. No doubt it was hard for Mr. Hernandez too. He merely stood there. She bent down to see if she could see him through the keyhole, but he was standing out of line. She straightened up again, flustered, patting her hair back in place. “Hernandez,” she said. “That’s a Latin name.” She laughed politely, showing interest. “Are you visiting friends here?”

“I’m visiting with Rev. Lane Walker, yes. We knew each other many years ago.” He paused, then said — desperate, perhaps, though he hid it well—“He’s spoken of you often.”

“How kind of you to say so!” She laughed again.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She could see him, in her mind’s eye, bowing to the door. As a matter of fact she was doing that herself. “My pleasure, I’m sure,” she said. “Is this your first visit to Vermont?”

“My very first. I must say, it is as beautiful as everybody says!”

“Well yes, we like it.”

He was silent a moment, no doubt still smiling, bowing at the door.

She picked at her collar with stiff, crooked fingers, hunting for something more to say. It had always been Horace who had the knack for conversation with strangers; she’d smile, delighted, getting by on her looks, and would hurry away to make tea. Theirs had been a wonderfully sociable house, while Horace was alive. He had a way about him. Everyone said so. He had always just finished some interesting book, or heard something curious at his dentist’s office, or had acquaintances in common with the stranger. “Pittsburgh!” he would say, “I have a cousin in Pittsburgh! Furniture business.” She said: “Where do you call home, Mr. Hernandez?”

“Well, Mexico City, many years ago. At present I have a parish in Tucson.”

She felt an instant’s panic. She knew no one in either place. “Then you’re a priest?” she said.

He laughed rather oddly. “Yes, a man of the cloth.”

“Well well,” she said. “How interesting!” She leaned closer to the door. “I hope you haven’t met with any racial prejudice.”

“Oh no,” he said, and laughed. “Not at all, not at all.”

She smiled and nodded, gratified to hear it, but nevertheless wondered what her wretched brother James might have said. “We’re backward, here in Vermont,” she confided. “It’s because we have no industry, my husband used to say. People don’t move in, so we never get to know them. I suppose it’s only natural for people to be afraid of the unfamiliar — the ‘intruder,’ as they think.”

“That’s natural, yes.”

“I’ve always said we tend to think if we’re white, of great, apelike black boys raping poor innocent white girls, you know? We never stop to think how frightening it must be for a black girl to walk down an unfamiliar street filled with white people.”

“That’s so, yes. That can be very frightening for them. On the other hand, of course …”

She nodded to the door, encouraged. “Well, someday all that will be behind us, thank heavens.”

“Yes, that’s so, no doubt. I hope not too soon.”

She tipped her head, suspecting the man might be teasing her. “Not too soon?” she said.

“Individual differences, cultural differences”—she could imagine him thoughtfully gesturing as he spoke—“those are wonderful things. I would hate to see them go.”

“Yes, that’s certainly true.” She was nodding emphatically. (How difficult it was to have a serious conversation through a closed door! There was a lesson in that!) Sally said, “They’re wonderfully colorful, the minorities. What would we do without our Italians and Jews, or the coloreds with their beautiful, queer speech?” She laughed. She caught a glimpse of her smile in the mirror above the desk.

“Exactly,” Mr. Hernandez said happily, “or these wonderful tight-mouthed New Englanders.” He flattened his voice and pitched it somewhat higher, mimicking Robert Frost: “Wheah had ey heahd the wind befoah / Change like this to a deepah roah?” He laughed, delighted at his own performance. “It’s a language I’d hate to see die,” he said.

Though she continued to smile, Sally was a little distressed. She had not thought of herself before as one of the colorful minorities. Her people had been here before the Iveses, the Dew-eys, even the Aliens.

The Mexican continued, unaware, it seemed, of her slightly ruffled feelings, “But it all has to go in the end, you’re right. Lazy, fat Mexicans, coloreds with their rhythm and beautiful, queer speech, Jews with their skullcaps and keen intelligence, tight-mouthed, tight-fisted New England farmers—”

“Some things will probably survive, of course,” she said cautiously.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s true.” He sounded eager to please, yet Sally was increasingly unsure of herself, inclined to be suspicious. As if glad Sally had reminded him of the fact, he said: “As more and more blacks and New Englanders marry and have children, we’re sure to see an increase in stubbornness among black people, and a marked relaxation of morals in New England.”

Her hands began to shake. She could no longer doubt it. He was attacking her! What had she done? But it wasn’t only that. He was a priest. What in the world was wrong with him? They were supposed to be gentle and understanding.

She said, “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you, Father.”

His laugh, she thought, was distinctly hostile. “My fault,” he said. “You must forgive me. It’s the language barrier.”

Her heart was pounding and her cheeks felt hot. She had half a mind to unbolt the door and look at him, find out for sure what the trouble was. But before she could decide whether or not to do it, heavy footsteps were coming up the stairs, climbing very slowly, as if with the greatest difficulty, and she knew it was her friend Ruth Thomas.

“Is that you, Ruth?” she called.

“Hello, Sally!” Ruth called back, cheery. And then at once: “Father Rafe, we’ve missed you. You mustn’t stand chatting with this stubborn old woman. We need male voices!” She seemed to have made it to the top of the stairs.

“Yes of course,” he said, and his voice, it seemed to Sally, was cheerful again, without a trace of hostility. “I’ve been having a wonderfully interesting conversation, one of the most interesting I’ve had in some time.” He made it a kind of apology to Sally.

“It’s good of you, Father,” Sally said, “to come and talk with a stubborn old woman.” For Ruth’s benefit, or mainly for Ruth’s, she put an angry little emphasis on stubborn.

“Nonsense,” he said lightly. “Stubborn? All human beings are stubborn. It’s the reason we’re survivors.”

“Sally, why don’t you come join us?” Ruth called.