Benediction

  Aren’t they too hot for summer? Willa said.

  If it’s what she likes, Alene said, that’s what matters. Do you like these, honey?

  If you don’t care.

  No. Now it’s not if we care or don’t care. It’s what you want. You have to say.

  I like them, Alice said.

  That’s better. Let’s have a look.

  They took the shorts and shirt and another set of the same style, together with matching socks, and she tried them on in the back dressing room and came out carrying them to the register and the high school girl folded them neatly on the counter and put them in a store bag and rang them up. Alene paid for them while Alice watched and didn’t say anything or even smile and then the high school girl handed the bag to Alice and they went out into the sun on Main Street. The light glinted sharply off all the windshields of the cars parked along in front of the stores.

  Thank you, Alice said. Thank you for these clothes.

  You’re very welcome, Willa said.

  A few cars were moving along in the afternoon, a few people walking in the crosswalk and on the wide sidewalks before the stores.

  Well, Willa said. What shall we do now?

  Let’s go across the street, Alene said.

  What’s over there?

  I’ll show you. Alice, would you care to go to the hardware store with us?

  If you want to.

  Do you want to put your things in the car first?

  She set the bag in the backseat of the car and then together they crossed the street at midblock and entered the hardware store through the big open doors.

  What are we doing? Willa said.

  I was in here a few days ago, Alene said. Come back here. I want to show Alice something.

  They followed her back to the far corner of the store through the aisles of paint cans and the display of paint chips and paintbrushes, past the cartons of washers and screws, little boxes of bolts and nuts, the bins of nails, and came to the bicycles. Five of them. One with training wheels and one full-size and three for young people. All hanging from hooks suspended from the ceiling, looking as if they would pull loose and crash and hurt somebody. They stood back looking up at them.

  You don’t have one, do you? Alene said.

  No, Alice said.

  Would you like us to get you one?

  I don’t know. She kept looking at the bicycles. I don’t know what Grandma would say.

  What do you think she would say?

  She’d say it’s too much.

  What do you think yourself?

  Maybe it is too much.

  Do you want to call her and ask her?

  Yes.

  So the two women and the girl went back to the front of the store. But when they got there no one was at the counter.

  I’ll find someone, Alene said. She disappeared into a nearby aisle and came back with Rudy.

  You’re asking to use the phone? he said.

  It’s not for me, Willa said. It’s for this young lady.

  I hope it’s not long-distance, Rudy said. He winked. The store can’t pay for no long-distance calls.

  It’s my grandmother, Alice said. I need to talk to her.

  Then that’ll be okay. Just go right ahead. She lives in town here, doesn’t she.

  He handed the phone to Alice and she looked at the three adults watching her and then made the call. She stood up straight and spoke into the phone very quietly, almost whispering. Grandma, it’s me, she said softly. They want to buy me a bicycle. The ladies do. I told them I’d have to ask you. I don’t know. No, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even know they had any bicycles. Yes. Here. She wants to talk to you. She handed the phone to Willa.

  Willa carried the phone out of their hearing, into an aisle of electrical supplies, and stood and talked. Yes, this is Willa, she said. Yes, we do. Well, it was Alene’s idea. Your granddaughter selected a few clothes and then Alene brought us over here to the hardware. Well, Alice said we would have to speak to you first, to see what you thought. It is a lot, yes. But we would like to do this if you think it’s all right. Oh, I don’t think she will get the wrong idea. She’s such a nice girl. You’ve done so well with her. I just think she’s very dear. Well, Alene seems to want this very much. Yes. Well, all right. Thank you. We’ll be there soon. You’re welcome. Oh, Alice said so too, of course.

  She came back to the front counter and handed the phone to Rudy. The other clerk, Bob, was there now too.

  She said it would be all right, Willa said, if that’s what we want to do.

  They looked at Alice. She wouldn’t look at them.

  Let’s go choose one, Alene said.

  They followed Rudy back to the corner of the store and stood below the suspended bicycles and watched as Bob stepped up on a stool and handed down the bicycles from the chained hooks, the three that would be the right size for her, and Rudy stood them on their stands on the old scarred wood floor.

  Here you go. Now take a good look. You can’t go wrong with none of them. Any one of these here will do good for you. Which one do you like?

  Don’t rush her, Bob said. Let her take her time. Nobody likes to be rushed.

  I’m letting her. That’s what I’m saying. Take your time, honey.

  Alene put her arm around Alice and they stepped forward and the girl touched the rubber handgrip of the handlebars of the one purple bike and Rudy said, You go right ahead and try the seat there. And that seat’s adjustable.

  She sat on the seat and gripped the handles and gazed forward as if she might be riding, going someplace, and didn’t show a thing on her face.

  You prefer this one? Rudy said. You don’t want to change your mind and try this red one?

  I think she’s made up her mind, Alene said. Haven’t you, honey.

  Yes.

  She climbed off the bicycle and Rudy wheeled it up to the counter through the aisles, all of them following again in single file, as in a ceremony, without talking, and then Alene paid and they all went out to the sidewalk in the brilliant hot light of midday and crossed the street and put the bike in the trunk of the car and Bob tied a piece of twine to the trunk lid to hold it down. The two store clerks shook hands with the Johnson women, in a formal way, and shook Alice’s hand too, and then went back to the hardware store and the Johnson women and Alice drove back to the west side of Holt to Berta May’s house and lifted the bicycle out onto the street.

  Berta May had been waiting for them and had come outside now and was watching from the porch.

  Is that it? she said.

  Yes, Grandma.

  Who’s going to teach you how to ride?

  I don’t know.

  I’m going to help, Alene said.

  Why, do you know how to ride a bike?

  They say you don’t forget. I used to ride out in the country on the roads.

  Then I bet you do remember, Berta May said.

  We’re just going to try anyway.

  She and her mother held the bike and Alice sat down on the seat.

  You know these are the brakes.

  Alice squeezed the handles.

  And this is how the gears shift, by twisting.

  I know.

  Okay. I imagine you do. Probably more about it than I do. Let’s give it a try.

  Alice pushed off, pumping the pedals, and the two women stepped along beside her, walking fast, starting to trot, fumbling their hands out to touch her, and she went pedaling on, they couldn’t keep up and then she wavered and leaned sideways and tipped over but caught herself. She stood the bike upright. They tried again, Willa leaning and trotting alongside, Alene a little faster, their faces red and flushed by the hot day and the excitement, hurrying along in their soft summer dresses and summer shoes. The girl went a little farther and wobbled again but caught herself before she fell. Behind them, Lorraine had come out from the Lewis house and Berta May was still watching from her porch.

  Do you need a hand? Lorraine called. Maybe I
can help you.

  Would you, please? Alene called back.

  The two Johnson women fell back and Lorraine walked alongside as Alice began to pedal and then Lorraine ran beside her, steadying the bike. All right, go on now. Go on. You’re on your own. Don’t stop. You’re doing fine.

  Alice went ahead, wavering in the gravel road, pedaling, the tracks of her tires making long teetering lines in the dirt, and went up a hundred feet and made a wide turn and came back, then Lorraine began to trot along beside again. Put on the brakes, she said, and Alice stopped too fast, tipping forward, but Lorraine caught her.

  Not so hard next time. Not so sudden.

  The Johnson women came hurrying up, flushed and sweating, panting.

  That’s really good, Alene said. How did it feel? Let’s see you go again.

  I’m going to.

  They gave her a little push and she went back the other direction to the north and before she reached the railroad tracks she made a sweeping turn and came back. She pedaled up to the women and stopped by putting her feet down in the road.

  Wonderful, Alene said.

  Alice looked at each of them. Thank you, she said, her eyes were shining, the hair around her face was sweaty and dark.

  How about going again? Lorraine said.

  Did you see me, Grandma? she called.

  Yes. I did, Berta May called back. Good for you.

  She rode off toward the highway. A car was coming but she saw it and veered to the side and the car passed by, and then farther away they watched her turn and start back to them. When she was in front of Berta May’s house she stopped and stood the bicycle at the curb and grabbed the store bag from the backseat of the Johnsons’ car and ran past her grandmother on the porch and into the house.

  Presently she came back out. What are you doing? Berta May said.

  I’m riding. She had put on the new black shorts and black shirt with the red sleeves and the black socks and she rode back and forth in the gravel street in the late afternoon while the women all gathered in the shade and watched her.

  In the evening, after the Johnson women went home, Lorraine brought a table from the house and set the supper dishes on it out on the porch, and Berta May and Alice came across the yard carrying bread and garden beans and radishes, and they sat all out in the cooling air and sat Dad Lewis up at the table with a blanket over him.

  After supper Alice got on her bike to ride in the street.

  Dad watched her from the porch. I hope she don’t get run over out there. You better pay good attention to her.

  The light had gone out of the sky by now and the street lamps had come on and she rode, going back and forth, from pool of light to pool of light.

  25

  AFTERWARD IT WASN’T CLEAR what Lyle expected the sermon to accomplish. But he wasn’t even half-finished when some of the congregation, men mostly, hurrying their wives and children with them, but some women too, began to rise up from their pews and glare at him and walk out of the church.

  The sermon came after the call to worship and the first hymn and after Wandajean Hall sang “Softly and Tenderly Jesus Is Calling” as a solo anthem in her thin sweet wavering soprano, and it came after the reading of the Bible text but before the offering and the doxology and the Lord’s Prayer and the benediction, because they never got that far in the normal order of worship. By that time the people who were so angry and outraged that they felt they had to leave had already marched out the big doors at the back of the sanctuary, leaving Lyle’s wife Beverly and their son John Wesley and the two Johnson women and the old usher and the remainder of the small congregation still sitting in the church, still looking around at one another in embarrassment and disbelief, many of them just as angry and outraged as the others had been but unwilling to make any display or public objection in church on Sunday morning, still waiting along with the pianist who was still seated down front at the piano.

  It began simply enough. He gave the reading. He took up the Bible and stood out at a little distance from the pulpit. He didn’t often do that. But he had done it once or twice before so people were not immediately bothered or surprised by it. So he began to read to them without benefit of the barrier of the pulpit between him and them. Just his reading and the Bible. He didn’t wear a suit or suit coat this morning, not even a light summer suit. Instead he was wearing a white shirt open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of black slacks and a black belt with a silver tip, his dark hair fallen as usual across his forehead. He looked good. There were women who came to church for that reason though they would never have said so.

  The text was from Luke.

  But I tell you who hear me: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, and pray for those who mistreat you. If anyone hits you on one cheek, let him hit the other one too; if someone takes your coat, let him have your shirt as well. If you love only the people who love you, why should you receive a blessing? Even sinners love those who love them! And if you do good only to those who do good to you, why should you receive a blessing?

  He went on reading and came to the end of the text.

  Love your enemies and do good to them, lend and expect nothing back. You will then have a great reward, and you will be sons of the Most High God. For He is good to the ungrateful and the wicked. Be merciful just as your Father is merciful.

  Then he stopped and stood quietly and looked out at the congregation. The sanctuary was hot. The windows were open but it was a hot day and hot inside. Women fanned at their faces with the church bulletin. A car drove by in the street. There was birdsong from a nearby tree. He turned and set the Bible on the pulpit. Then he began to talk.

  This passage, he said, is usually referred to as the Sermon on the Mount. Augustine first called it that. It appears in the Gospels of both Matthew and Luke but the texts differ somewhat. Matthew’s is over a hundred verses long. Luke’s is only some thirty verses. Matthew says Jesus sat and spoke to the multitudes and his disciples from a hill, a mount. The writer of the Gospel of Luke tells us that Jesus stood on a level place and spoke there. Both Gospels begin with the Beatitudes. The Blesseds. In Matthew there are nine and in Luke four. But the most important of these Bible texts say essentially the same thing. These are the ones I’ve read just now. The crux of the matter for us. The soul of our lesson and the very essence of the teaching of Jesus.

  Love your enemies. Pray for those who harm you. Turn the other cheek. Give away money and don’t expect it back.

  But what is Jesus Christ talking about? He can’t mean this literally. That would be impossible. He must have been speaking of some utopian idea, a fantasy. He must be using a metaphor. Suggesting a sweet dream. Because all of us here today know better. We’re awake to reality and know the world wouldn’t permit such a thing. It never has and never will. We can be clear about that right now.

  Because here we are at war again. And we know the inescapable images of war and violence so well. We’ve seen them all too often.

  The naked young girl running in terror toward us, crying and screaming, away from fires behind her.

  The boy in the hospital room with his little brother and their frightened mother. He’s been blinded, his face is scarred. Am I ugly now, Mother? he says.

  We see the pictures of the headless body dumped out beside the road in a ditch.

  We’ve seen the soldier, the black stiff grotesque thing that once was a man, burned now and hanged, dragged through the streets behind a truck.

  We’ve watched in horror the human figures leaping out of the windows of the burning towers.

  And so we know the satisfaction of hate. We know the sweet joy of revenge. How it feels good to get even. Oh, that was a nice idea Jesus had. That was a pretty notion, but you can’t love people who do evil. It’s neither sensible nor practical. It’s not wise to the world to love people who do such terrible wrong. There is no way on earth we can love our enemies. They’ll only do wickedness and hatefulness a
gain. And worse, they’ll think they can get away with this wickedness and evil, because they’ll think we’re weak and afraid. What would the world come to?

  But I want to say to you here on this hot July morning in Holt, what if Jesus wasn’t kidding? What if he wasn’t talking about some never-never land? What if he really did mean what he said two thousand years ago? What if he was thoroughly wise to the world and knew firsthand cruelty and wickedness and evil and hate? Knew it all so well from firsthand personal experience? And what if in spite of all that he knew, he still said love your enemies? Turn your cheek. Pray for those who misuse you. What if he meant every word of what he said? What then would the world come to?

  And what if we tried it? What if we said to our enemies: We are the most powerful nation on earth. We can destroy you. We can kill your children. We can make ruins of your cities and villages and when we’re finished you won’t even know how to look for the places where they used to be. We have the power to take away your water and to scorch your earth, to rob you of the very fundamentals of life. We can change the actual day into actual night. We can do all of these things to you. And more.

  But what if we say, Listen: Instead of any of these, we are going to give willingly and generously to you. We are going to spend the great American national treasure and the will and the human lives that we would have spent on destruction, and instead we are going to turn them all toward creation. We’ll mend your roads and highways, expand your schools, modernize your wells and water supplies, save your ancient artifacts and art and culture, preserve your temples and mosques. In fact, we are going to love you. And again we say, no matter what has gone before, no matter what you’ve done: We are going to love you. We have set our hearts to it. We will treat you like brothers and sisters. We are going to turn our collective national cheek and present it to be stricken a second time, if need be, and offer it to you. Listen, we—

  But then he was abruptly halted. Someone out in the congregation was talking. Are you crazy? You must be insane! A man’s voice. Deep-throated. Angry. Loud. Coming from over on the west side of the sanctuary near the windows. What’s wrong with you? Are you out of your mind?