Benediction

  Yes. Of course. He always drank coffee. Frank loved his coffee.

  32

  ON THAT NEXT SUNDAY there were only a few of the congregation waiting for him in the sanctuary to begin the service. His wife was there and their son, sitting beside her, looking bored and angry already, and the old man, the old usher, standing in the back with a handful of bulletins to be distributed, and the Johnson women sitting where they always sat, and a dozen or more others, mostly women, and the pianist at the piano down at the front of the sanctuary, playing the invitation to worship over and over until the preacher should arrive and they could begin.

  Then he came in, entering from the side door and crossing the carpeted dais to the pulpit. He was dressed in black pants and the long-sleeved white shirt, open at the neck as before, but with the sleeves buttoned this time, and this time he stood behind the pulpit according to custom.

  He stood there for a time not speaking, looking out at them. They waited. It was very quiet. The pianist had stopped playing, finally making an awkward end to the music in the middle of a passage.

  Then he began to speak, in a quiet voice. Go home, he said. You might as well. I have nothing more to say. You don’t need me or whatever I might think of to say to you. You know yourselves what you should do. Now or at any other time. Go home. You might as well. I don’t take any of it back, I don’t retract it. But you don’t need to hear it from me.

  He stopped. They waited for more, not moving. His face was swollen a little from the previous night. He looked at them over the pulpit. There was a long silence. The congregation waited, but he said no more, except to say: Thank you for coming back this morning. I want to say that. Perhaps there’s a kind of hope in that. I choose to see it as such. But you can go home now. Be at peace. I have nothing more to say.

  He looked at them for a moment longer. Then he turned from the pulpit and crossed the dais to the side door and was gone. The congregation glanced around at one another. Finally an old lame woman stood up and came out of her pew and started toward the back. They watched her. She stopped midway. That’s it, she said. Don’t you see? It’s no point to sit in here waiting for nothing. The rest of you can sit here all you want. I never expected to see such a thing in church in my life. I never hope to see it again. She hobbled slowly back up the aisle past the usher standing at the back and went out.

  Then it was just quiet again. Then Lyle’s wife rose from her pew and walked down to the front of the church and turned at the communion rail to face the congregation. She looked tired but still attractive in a nicely tailored summer dress. I came down here to say something, she said. I felt I should make some kind of amends here this morning. After what my husband said last week and what he did just now. She stopped. Except I don’t know what to say. Why it should be me to say some conciliatory apologetic thing, I don’t know. I haven’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t me. She stopped again, turning slowly to look at them. I only know I’ve had enough. I’m saying this publicly, I’m worn out. This is very similar to what happened in Denver. People thought he was wrong then too. Now he’s wrong again and people have turned against him once more and it’s no surprise that they have. So I’m going to leave. That’s what I see I will have to do. I must save myself at least, and my son.

  No. You should support him, Willa Johnson said. She and Alene were sitting not far from her.

  What did you say? Are you talking to me?

  You should stay here and help him. This is your place. I thought that was what you came forward to tell us. I was thinking, good for you, I was thinking that you were brave, more than I knew.

  No. Don’t you see? That’s not it. What can you know? How can you understand what it’s been like for me?

  I don’t care what it’s been like for you. You’re his wife. Your place is with him.

  Have you ever been married?

  Yes, of course. I was married for a long time. This is my daughter here with me.

  All right, Lyle’s wife said. I will admit that he has principles. I am aware of that. I used to admire him for his principles and his generous intentions. But what good are they, finally? You can’t eat them. You can’t depend on them. There’s no security in principles.

  You should be proud of him, Willa said. So few of us have the beliefs he has. And fewer still act on them.

  Then the boy John Wesley stood up in the middle of the sanctuary, where he’d been sitting in embarrassment staring at the floor, his face in his hands. Now he was angry. Shut up! he shouted. Shut up! You don’t know anything, you stupid old woman! Be quiet! Leave my mother alone.

  Then, as on the previous Sunday, the usher came hurrying down the aisle. Stop it! We won’t have this again! We had it once, but we won’t again. This is the church.

  You shut up too! the boy cried. All of you! Everyone stop talking! Leave us alone! And he turned out of the pew and ran back up the aisle and out the big doors.

  They watched him, in shock and amazement, and then they turned once more to look at Lyle’s wife. She appeared to be crying now—her hands over her face. She started to move slowly, gropingly up the aisle, her head lowered, following her son, then near the back of the church she dropped her hands and began to hurry and she rushed out. The usher came all the way down to the front. He looked all around. What should I do with these? He held up the church bulletins.

  Never mind, Willa said. We don’t need them anymore, Wayne.

  We got so many, he said.

  Yes, she said. Thank you for taking care of them. Maybe you’d better shut up the church now.

  She and Alene went out and the woman at the piano closed the lid over the piano keys and walked away and the rest of the small congregation filed out of the church, not talking any more than they had the previous Sunday, moving quietly. The usher began to close up the high stained-glass windows with his hooked pole.

  When Lyle left the church he went home to the parsonage and walked directly through the house and out the back door to the garage and climbed in the car and drove out on the narrow blacktop to the south, driving fast but slowing after a few miles and turning east on one of the county roads. He drove without motive or destination and after a while he came to the sandhills and stopped to look at three horses standing in a pasture. He got out and walked down through the ditch weeds and stood at the barbed-wire fence. The horses watched him, two red mares and a colt. One of the mares came forward and he held out his hand and she nuzzled it and backed away. Then the mare and the two others turned and walked off. He went back to his car and drove on along the section roads, all running north and south or east and west, straight and surveyed and exact, and after an aimless hour of driving he came to the Johnsons’ place.

  They were already home from church, not having wanted to see anyone or talk to anyone, and at home they’d taken their Sunday dresses off and changed into soft worn housedresses and had sat at the kitchen table and had eaten tomato sandwiches, the tomatoes from their own garden, and had drunk iced tea. They’d spoken only a little about what had happened at church. Then they heard the car on the gravel coming up to the house. Alene got up and looked out the kitchen window. It’s him, she said. Reverend Lyle.

  Oh good Lord, Willa said. What would he want?

  Let’s find out, Alene said.

  He’ll want to talk, Willa said.

  Maybe he will. That’s all right if he does.

  They went to the porch and stood waiting as they had when Lorraine and Alice had come to visit in the previous week. Lyle climbed out and looked over the roof of his car at the women and at the barn and corrals and pens and the windmill and the outbuildings and sheds. He turned back to the women again and walked around the rear of the car and stopped. Would you mind if I rest a moment?

  No. For goodness’ sake, Willa said. Come in. Won’t you?

  I’d like to.

  Yes, Alene said, do please come in.

  He came up the little sidewalk in the yard and followed the women into the kitchen
.

  This is pleasant in here, Lyle said. It’s very cool and peaceful.

  It always stays cool in this part of the house, Willa said. Because of the shade trees and the porch.

  And you keep the windows open, Lyle said.

  We almost never close these windows in summer. There’s almost always a breeze. Will you sit down?

  I’d like to wash my hands first, if you wouldn’t mind.

  The bathroom’s there, Willa said.

  He went inside and shut the door and when he came out Alene was clearing the table.

  Do you prefer to sit here or in the living room? Willa said.

  This is fine here, Lyle said. Don’t you think?

  Have you had anything to eat?

  No.

  We have cheese and tomato for sandwiches, Alene said. Or I could make you a bacon lettuce tomato sandwich.

  Thank you. I’d like that.

  Please sit down. We don’t stand on any formalities here.

  He sat down at the table and Willa seated herself across from him. Alene brought the iced tea and began frying bacon in a black iron skillet.

  I saw the name on the mailbox, Lyle said. That’s how I found you. I thought it must be you.

  Yes. We’ve been here a long time. My husband grew up on this ranch and then we lived here after we were married and then Alene came. After she went away to college and started teaching, it was just the two of us again until he died.

  When did he die?

  It’s been thirty years now, Willa said. I’ve been without my husband for thirty years. He had a heart attack out in the calf pen at night checking for new calves. I was the one who found him. I went out in my nightgown and overcoat with a flashlight and there he was on the ground with his eyes staring up.

  I’m sorry. That must have been hard.

  Yes, it was, she said softly. I’ve often wondered, is it better to have these years with someone you love and then have to remember and compare ever afterward and feel the lack of him. She glanced at Alene. Or never to have had that other person so you don’t have to keep remembering what it used to be.

  I’d have to say it’s better to have loved that person, Lyle said.

  Alene brought the sandwich to the table on one of the delicate old plates with the blue grapes painted on it and poured a bag of potato chips into a bowl and refilled Lyle’s iced tea glass.

  Can I get you anything else?

  No. But thank you very much.

  She sat down next to him across from her mother. He began to eat. They watched him, he ate in big bites, they wouldn’t have guessed that he would. There had not been a man eating in their kitchen for a long time.

  He ate half of his sandwich and began on the other. His face looked sore and swollen. I saw you at church, he said. Did anything happen after I left?

  Yes, Willa said. You may not want to hear about it, though.

  What was it?

  Your wife got up and came down front, Alene said, and spoke to us.

  What did she say?

  She said she admired your principles, but she said you can’t eat principles.

  He smiled. She’s right there.

  Can we tell you what else she said? Willa said.

  Of course.

  I’m afraid she said she would have to leave now. Leave Holt, she meant.

  I’m not surprised at that. She’s talked about it before.

  She mentioned Denver and what happened there. Your son was very angry.

  Did he say anything?

  He shouted at us and ran out. I don’t blame him.

  What will you do? Alene said.

  He wiped his mouth on the napkin and looked out the window above the sink. I don’t know, he said. I think I’m done.

  You don’t mean that, Willa said.

  Yes. I’m finished as a minister. I haven’t done much good.

  But people will get over this.

  Probably they will. But I won’t. People don’t want to be disturbed. They want assurance. They don’t come to church on Sunday morning to think about new ideas or even the old important ones. They want to hear what they’ve been told before, with only some small variation on what they’ve been hearing all their lives, and then they want to go home and eat pot roast and say it was a good service and feel satisfied.

  But you shouldn’t make up your mind yet, Willa said. I hope you won’t.

  I think I already have, he said.

  People make things unhappy, Alene said.

  I would guess you know something about that.

  A little, she said. All life is moving through some kind of unhappiness, isn’t it.

  I don’t know. I didn’t used to think so.

  But there’s some good too, Willa said. I insist on that.

  There are brief moments, Alene said. This is one of them.

  They looked at Lyle sitting quietly, his swollen face shining in the sun coming in the window.

  I’ll have to meet with the assembly director and the ministerial relations board. They’ll want there to be some kind of a meeting about this, to make it all official.

  33

  THEY DIDN’T EVEN KNOW she was gone until half the morning had passed. Dad woke late and turned his head on the pillow and saw she was not in the bed, though that was not unusual, she often was up and dressed and out in the kitchen working by the time he woke. He called for her. Then he tried to push out of bed but was too weak and called again. Finally he couldn’t wait any longer. He wet the diaper he was wearing and he lay there wet and sopping under his pajamas, feeling angry and uncomfortable.

  After a while Lorraine came in. Where’s Mom?

  I don’t know. I been calling for her.

  She’s nowhere in the house, Lorraine said. I can’t find her.

  Is she over next door?

  Maybe. Can I help you, Daddy?

  I made a mess of things.

  Did you?

  I’m all wet down here on myself. Some of it might of come out. I got to get out of bed but I can’t without somebody helping me.

  Will you let me change you and put some dry clothes on?

  I want Mom here.

  I know. But Mom isn’t here right now, Daddy.

  Where is she?

  I’ll have to find out. Let’s get you cleaned up first.

  She helped him from the bed and he hobbled into the bathroom in his sagging pajamas and stood like a child at the hospital commode while she peeled off his pants and the diaper. She handed him a washcloth to clean himself and afterward she washed his skinny behind. He was shaking. Goose bumps appeared on his flanks and legs.

  Do you want to sit down here for a while? she said. See if you can go some more?

  Yeah. I better.

  She went out, giving him his privacy, and looked out the front window to the street and came back and helped him put on a new diaper and clean sweatpants and a cardigan sweater. He came out of the bathroom shuffling, sliding his feet in his slippers, using his cane, and moved to his chair by the window.

  The car isn’t here, Lorraine said. I just looked. She must have gone to the store.

  She’s been gone too long for that. You want to ask Berta May if she knows where she is? You’ll have to go over there. She don’t answer the phone every time.

  Next door Lorraine stood on the front porch and when Berta May came to the door they went inside the house and Berta May said she hadn’t seen her mother this morning. Then Alice came in and they asked her and she told them she was riding her bike when Mrs. Lewis came up in the car and said, Now you be careful out here. Are you watching for cars? And I said I was watching.

  Then what?

  Then she drove away.

  Do you remember what she was wearing? Lorraine said.

  She had a dress on.

  You’re sure.

  Yes. A blue one.

  Back at home Lorraine began to look around more carefully and she found the note now that had blown off or fallen off under the little stand whe
re the phone was located.

  It was written in brief neat script, with no salutation and no closing, just the one line. I went to find Frank.

  She had gotten up early from the bed when it was just turning light outside. Dad looked gray in the dim light, breathing slow and hard, his mouth belling out when he exhaled, making a rattling kind of noise. She removed her nightgown and pulled the dress off the hanger in the dark closet where she’d hung it the night before, and put it on and carried her shoes out to the kitchen, turning the light on there, and sat down on a kitchen chair to tie her shoes. She put bread in the toaster and started coffee, then went back into the bathroom to wash her face and apply a little lipstick to her mouth, watching herself in the mirror, her deeply wrinkled face, and brushed her thick short white hair. When she went back to the kitchen, the coffee was ready and she filled a thermos and spread butter on the toast, put it in a plastic bag, and took the thermos and her purse and went silently out the front door into the beautiful cool Sunday morning.

  In the street she stopped to talk to Alice on her bicycle and then headed west on U.S. 34, toward Brush, and passed Fort Morgan on the interstate and went on toward Denver. Along the way she drank the coffee and ate the toast.

  She was all right until she got to Denver. But then there was a lot of road construction and they had the men at work even on a Sunday morning. She got lost in the detours and roadblocks and ended up in the north side of the city. It was half an hour before she had any idea where she was at all.

  She pulled into a corner gas station. There were no other cars at the pumps or parked at the cinder-block office but she could see an old man sitting behind the counter. She got out and locked the car and looked all around and went inside. The man looked up. He wasn’t as old as she had thought. It was just that he had gray hair, which was combed back on both sides of his head, with a wave pulled up above his face in the way the boys used to do when she was young. He’d been reading a newspaper spread out on the counter.

  Good morning, she said.

  Yeah. Morning.

  I’m just going to tell you right out. I’m lost. All that construction turned me in the wrong direction. I’m trying to get downtown.