Jack put his hand to his brow. “Of course you are. I didn’t — I’m sorry—”
“No matter. Never mind. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
The color left Jack’s face. After a moment he pushed back his chair. “Well,” he said. “There’s work to be done.” He went out to the garden and stood in the path he had made along the iris beds and lighted a cigarette. Glory watched him from the porch. She said, “I should probably help him.”
The old man said, “Yes, dear, that would be good of you.” So she settled her father in the Morris chair with the newspaper, and then she went out to the garden. She touched Jack’s arm and he looked at her.
“What is it?” he said.
“I just wanted to say that there was nothing wrong with what you did. He hates being feeble. And he’s had to put up with it for a long time.”
He drew on his cigarette. “Thank you,” he said.
“No, really. I thought it was gallant. A beau geste. A demonstration of your fabled charm.”
“Too bad. I’ve found that people weary of my fabled charm.”
“Well, I guess I haven’t had much chance to weary of it.”
He laughed. “The day is young.” Then he said, “I didn’t intend anything when I said college girl. I don’t know what was offensive about it.”
“It wasn’t offensive. He just wants to make sure you think well of me. He’s afraid we don’t get along.”
He looked at her, studied her. “He said that?”
“Yes, he mentioned it.”
“Last night.”
“Yes—”
“And what did you say?”
“Well, I said that you and I never did really know each other very well.”
“That’s all?”
“He was too sleepy to talk much.”
“So he’s worried about it.”
“He worries about everything. It’ll be fine. You’ve always known how to please him.”
He shook his head. “No. I could always count on him to be pleased with me. From time to time. Often enough. I never understood it myself.” He shrugged and laughed. “What the hell,” he said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever understood much of anything.” He threw down his cigarette and glanced at her, and there was a kind of irritation in his look, as if she had drawn him into a confidence he already regretted. “I’m not making excuses,” he said.
“I know that. I want to get a bandage for your hand. I’ll be right back.”
The old man had moved to the porch. She called to him and waved as she passed. She brought the gauze and the tape, and there where they knew he could watch them, she tended to Jack’s wound. “That should be all right.”
“Very kind. Thank you,” he said. And with his bandaged hand, gravely and tentatively, he mussed her hair.
SHE HAD LET HIM BELIEVE THAT THEIR FATHER WAS UP IN the night worrying. That was wrong, but it wasn’t really intentional. She had wanted to tell him how beautiful it was to have taken up his father in his arms that way. She had thought it at the time, and had felt bitterly how helpless she was to be so gentle, so sufficient. To own up to this unwelcome feeling of admiration, aloud, to Jack himself, had given her a sense of freedom and strength, those rewards of self-overcoming her father had always promised. She had felt this briefly. Then she saw that wary look of his, caution with no certainty of the nature of the threat, and with no notion at all of possible refuge. He realized he did not please his father, did not know how to please his father. He would probably have liked to believe he had done something wrong so that he could at least orient himself a little, but she had told him a terrible thing, that he had done nothing to offend, that his father had found fault with him anyway, only because he was old and sad now, not the father he thought he had come home to.
They worked quietly in the sunshine, heaving up irises and separating them. Jack was very earnest about the work, and very preoccupied, reflective. Glory replanted the best of the corms, setting a few aside for Lila. “You’re a friend of hers?” Jack asked.
“We get along. She’s a nice woman. You haven’t stopped by the Ameses’ yet, have you.”
“Too busy,” he said, and laughed. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“She keeps a big garden herself, and she’s offered to help me with this one, but I don’t want to take her away from her husband. Time’s wingèd chariot and so on.”
“How is old Ames?”
“Papa’s worried about him. He really does worry about everything. But he says, ‘Ames just isn’t quite right!’ He says, ‘I’ve known him all my life, and I can tell there’s something the matter!’” She looked toward the porch and whispered, “He’s supposed to be deaf, but he seems to hear whatever I’d rather he didn’t. I’d better be careful.”
Jack said, “I’d have thought Ames would come by. No wonder the old fellow misses him. I didn’t know forty-eight hours could pass without a quarrel, or at least a checker game.”
“I suppose he’s giving Papa time to enjoy having you here.”
“Ah yes. Who better than Reverend Ames to understand that special joy I bring with me wherever I go—”
“No, seriously. You don’t realize what this has meant.”
“What it meant until I actually showed up.” He said, “The hangover was a mistake, that’s for sure.” He took the cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lighted one.
“Children!” the old man shouted. “I think that’s enough for one day!”
She said, “Ames has mellowed a little. At least he’s not as abstracted as he used to be. So much of that was loneliness, I think. And it would please Papa if you paid a call on him.”
Jack looked at her. “I know. Of course. I intend to.” They were walking back to the house. He flicked his cigarette away and pushed the hair off his brow, and he held the door for her. Then he stood there just inside the door, like a stranger unsure of his welcome.
THEIR FATHER HAD PUT THE CHECKERBOARD ON THE kitchen table. He said, “Jack, I like a good game of checkers. But Glory lets me win.”
“No, I don’t.”
“She does. And I know it’s kindly meant.”
“I don’t let you win.”
“She doesn’t really enjoy the game, so half the time she more or less concedes by the third move. It’s frustrating. I can’t hone my skills!”
Glory said, “I win about as often as you do.”
Her father said, “That is my point! Half the time she is just letting me win!” And he laughed roguishly and winked at Jack, who smiled. He opened the box. “Black is my preference. Glory, you sit down here and watch. You might want to pick up some pointers. This fellow may have acquired strategies unheard of in Gilead!”
“No, sir, “ Jack said. “Not where checkers are concerned.” He came to the table and took a seat. He placed the red checkers on their squares.
Glory said, “I’ll make popcorn.”
“Yes, like the old times—” Her father made a move.
She thought, Yes, a little like the old times. Graying children, ancient father. If they could have looked forward from those old times, when even a game of checkers around that table was so rambunctious it would have driven her father off to parse his Hebrew in the stricken quiet of Ames’s house — if they could now look in the door of the kitchen at the three of them there, would they believe what they saw? No matter — her father was hunched over his side of the board, mock-intent, and Jack was reclined, legs crossed at the ankles, as if it were possible to relax in a straight-backed chair. The corn popped.
After a while her father said, “Best two out of three! I know when I am outflanked.”