“I’m sorry.”
“He told me some things about myself I’d forgotten. He showed me a letter he had written to Della. He said he wouldn’t give it to her if I let her alone. I couldn’t do that. But she stuck with me. That was hard.”
“But you were all right then, when you were with Della.”
“‘Can the Scotsman change his skin or the leopard his spots? Then may ye also do good that are accustomed to do evil.’ He was just trying to look out for his daughter. I respect that. He’s a lot like our reverend father, in fact. Always trying to look after everybody.” He laid out the cards. “Anyway, I feel more like myself now. Wanting, hoping — it’s like the old fellow said, those things take a lot out of you. But this — this I can do.”
“You are going to send the letter.”
He nodded. “There’s no point in sending it. On the other hand, why waste a stamp?” He glanced at her. “Gloria Dolorosa. It’s good of you to take it all so hard, chum. It really is.”
She made up the dumpling batter and dropped it onto the stewed chicken. She, also, had eaten some terrible dumplings. It occurred to her to wonder if they were ever good in the ordinary sense, if at best they were not just familiar, inoffensive. They really were too inoffensive. It might have been the word “dumpling” she liked rather than the thing itself.
She said, “I have an idea, Jack. I could go to Memphis. I could talk to her. If you fix the car, we could drive down together. We’ll call Teddy, and he’ll come here to look after Papa for a few days. He would do that if you asked him to. And then I’d just go to her house. Or to her church. No one would notice me, and maybe I could get a chance to talk to her.”
“That’s kind. But let’s just say they don’t notice you.” He laughed. “I’m pretty sure they would. But if they didn’t. What would you say to her? That no one will give me a job, and I’m drinking again, and I recently failed to fire up the DeSoto and sail off to perdition? That I am metaphysically responsible for the floweriest little grave in all Gilead?”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“What would you say, though, Glory? You see my point.”
“I’d say you were waiting in the car.”
“With a dozen roses. And the engine running.”
“And a box of chocolates.”
Jack looked away and smiled. Then he said, very softly, “Don’t, Glory. I have to deal with reality. Or at least accept the fact that reality is dealing with me.” He touched his face. “I’m a rougher-looking bastard now than I was when I came here. And even then I was surprised that you’d let me in the door. I don’t think I’d want her to see me now.”
“You’ll be better in a day or two. Then you can decide.”
He laughed. “This is a terrible plan. I can’t tell you how bad it is.”
“Well, you can think about it.”
“Yes,” he said. “It is nice to think about. I’d like to show them what good people I come from. If I could get the radio working, we’d hear some music on the way to Memphis. I might as well take a look at that engine, anyway. You were getting some use out of the old crate. I’ll try to get it running again.” Then he said, “Is my shirt still out there?”
“No, I brought it in this morning. I tried laundry soap and that didn’t do much. I doubt bleach would, either. I thought I might ask Lila. But that sleeve isn’t stained very badly.” She said, “Your suit is hanging in the porch. I burned your socks.”
He looked at her. “Tears again.” He laughed. “Regret is wasted on me, Glory. I do the damnedest things, and there’s no help for it. I kept that shirt for a long time. I don’t often manage to keep things.”
She said, “I haven’t given up yet. If I can’t get those stains out, I’ll sew the sleeve into your other shirt. That wouldn’t be hard.”
“Don’t,” he said. “Let me get used to things the way they are. That’s the biggest favor you can do me, Glory.” He smiled. “But thanks. You’re a good kid.”
“Yes. In the morning I’m going to take your letter to the post office.”
“All right.” He said, “You did get those bottles out of my dresser?”
“While you were asleep.”
“Good. It would be a mistake to trust me. I’m sorry about that.”
While she looked after her father, Jack set the table. She brought the old man out to the kitchen and seated him. He said, “Yes,” and bowed his head and said no more for a little while, then, “If you wouldn’t mind, Glory.”
“All right. Dear Lord, bless these gifts to our use and us to Thy service, and keep us ever mindful of the needs of others. Amen.”
“Yes, I’ve always objected to that prayer. If it were only a little easier to know what they are. The needs of others. A good deal more is required than just being mindful. That has certainly been my experience.”
Jack served the chicken and dumplings with something of the wry decorum of former days, but quietly, calmly, the old suspense gone now. The dumplings were tacky on the outside and doughy on the inside, but that might just be how they are, she thought. How they have always been. Her father said, “Excellent,” and ate half of one.
Jack said, “There’s really nothing like a good dumpling.”
“Except a bad one,” she said.
He laughed. “True, they are pretty similar.” Then he looked at her. “Ah, tears.”
Their father said, sharply, “You shouldn’t tease your sister. You boys think it’s some sort of game, but I don’t like it. A gentleman is always considerate of women. I have said this many times. That means your sisters, too, even the little ones. This is very important. I hope you will reflect on it.” He did not appear to be asleep, though his eyes were closed.
Jack said, “Yes, sir,” to calm his irritation, and then he sat there gazing at him, taking in what the old man had said.
“I was remarking to your mother about it just the other night. We should not allow this teasing.”
Glory was aware suddenly that the weariness of the night and day had overwhelmed her, and her hope of comforting had not had anything to do with the way things really happen in the world. Her father was crouched in his chair, with his chin almost in his plate, drowsing and speaking from what she could only hope was a dream, and her brother was withdrawing into utter resignation, as if the old incandescence had consumed him before it flickered out. But he brought her a tea towel for her tears, and then he helped his father to his room.
THE HEAT OF THE MORNING WOKE HER, SO SHE KNEW SHE had slept late. There were no sounds in the house, there was no smell of coffee. Jack and her father must still be sleeping. Good for them. She felt stiff, as if some physical exertion had wearied her, and it was only the thought that she might miss the morning mail that induced her to get up, wash, brush, dress, make herself presentable to whatever passerby or clerk might otherwise notice her and wonder what new drama had unfolded in the poor old preacher’s house. She had put the letter on her dresser the night before, in case Jack might have had second thoughts and chosen resignation over futile hope. She went down the stairs as quietly as she could and let herself out the door.
And here is the world, she thought, just as we left it. A hot white sky and a soft wind, a murmur among the trees, the treble rasp of a few cicadas. There were acorns in the road, some of them broken by passing cars. Chrysanthemums were coming into bloom. Yellowing squash vines swamped the vegetable gardens and tomato plants hung from their stakes, depleted with bearing. Another summer in Gilead. Gilead, dreaming out its curse of sameness, somnolence. How could anyone want to live here? That was the question they asked one another, out of their father’s hearing, when they came back from college, or from the world. Why would anyone stay here?