Benediction (3 page)

He looked away from her.

I mean it. I won’t have it. You’re going to break my heart yet, you damned old man.
I believe you will. But you can’t say something like that. Now what would you like
for supper? I don’t remember what we even have in this house for sure.

I don’t know. It doesn’t matter to me.

I want to fix you something nice.

She bent forward and kissed him on the head and wrapped her arm around his shoulders
and raised up his old age-spotted hand affectionately and held it to her cheek for
a long time.

I’m going out to the kitchen, she said. It seems like I was gone for three weeks instead
of three days.

After supper, after she had washed the dishes and had put Dad to bed, she called Lorraine
in Denver. I think it’s time to come home now, dear. If you can.

Is Daddy worse?

Yes. I wasn’t going to tell you yet.

Tell me what?

The doctor said he only has about a month more.

Mom, when did you find this out?

Last Friday.

Why didn’t you call me?

Oh honey, I’m trying to get used to it myself. I can’t talk about it yet. She started
to cry.

Mom.

I was in the hospital too, she said. You might as well know that too.

What’s this now?

They took me to the hospital a few days ago.

Why? What was wrong?

I was just too worn down, they said. I fainted on the floor, right here in the living
room.

Jesus, Mom, are you okay?

Yes, I am. But I’d appreciate it if you could arrange to help out here a little. I
had Berta May come over, but that’s not right. You’re our daughter.

I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll have to tell them at the office. But I’ll be
there.

That’ll be good. Now I didn’t ask you—are you all right yourself, dear?

Yes.

And Richard?

He’s all right. Richard doesn’t change.

Well.

I know. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

The next day Lorraine drove into Holt on Highway 34 after the sun had already gone
down and the blue street lamps had come on at the corners. It was all familiar to
her. She turned north off the highway and drove along past the quiet night-lighted
houses set back behind the front yards, some of the yards bare of trees or bushes
next to vacant lots filled with weeds—tall sunflowers and redroot and pigweed—and
then there was Berta May’s house which had been there when she was a child, and then
their own white house. She got out and went up to the porch, a pretty woman in her
mid-fifties with dark hair. The air was cool and smelled fresh of the country in the
evening out on the high plains.

In the house Dad was already in bed and she went with her mother back to the bedroom.

Is he asleep already? It’s only eight thirty.

I don’t know if he’s actually sleeping. He goes to bed early. He always did. You know
how he does.

They stood in the doorway. He was lying in the bed with the window open and the sheet
drawn over him. He opened his eyes. Is that my daughter? he said.

It’s me, Daddy.

Come over here so I can see you.

She crossed the room and sat down on the bed and kissed him. Mary went out so he could
have Lorraine to himself. Dad stared up at her for a long time. Lorraine’s eyes were
wet and she took one of his Kleenexes and wiped at her eyes and cheeks.

Oh, Daddy.

Yeah. Ain’t it the goddamn hell.

She took his hand and held it. Are you in a lot of pain?

No. Not now.

You don’t have any pain?

I’m taking things for it. Otherwise I would. I was before. Well, you look good, he
said.

Thank you.

How was your drive?

Okay. A lot of traffic but it was all going the other way, to the mountains.

How’s work?

It’s okay.

They let you off to come here.

They’d better, she said.

Yeah. He smiled. That’s right.

Can you sleep now, Daddy?

I can still sleep, that’s one thing. As long as Mom’s here. I didn’t sleep much when
she was gone. They had her to the hospital. Did she tell you?

She told me.

She walked home. Did she tell you that too?

No.

She did. It was hotter than billy hell out there. I’m glad you’ve come. She’s all
tired out. I’m afraid she might get down too far. I never wanted her to have to take
care of me like this.

I know, Daddy.

Well. All right, then. You’re here now.

You go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.

She kissed him again and went out to the kitchen. He looks so bad, Mom.

I know it, honey.

He’s gotten so thin. His color’s so bad.

He won’t eat. He isn’t hungry he says. He just fusses with it.

Sunday morning at the Community Church on Birch Street on the back page of the bulletin
there was an announcement about Mary Lewis. It said she had been admitted to the Holt
Memorial Hospital and had been released, and it said Dad Lewis was no better. The
congregation was asked to continue their prayers for him. There was another brief
notice that said Lorraine had come back home.

On Monday, Reverend Lyle and the two Johnson women came to the house to call on the
Lewises in the afternoon, all of them within the same hour. Rob Lyle was a man in
his late forties, new to town, a tall thin man with black hair and dark eyes. The
Johnson women were longtime residents of Holt County. Willa Johnson was a widow with
long white hair worn in a knot at the back of her head in that old way and she had
thick glasses; and Alene, her unmarried daughter, was over sixty and had taken early
retirement after teaching children for almost forty years in a little town on the
Front Range, and was back home for the summer now and maybe longer. They lived east
of Holt, a mile south off the highway on a county road in the sandhills.

Lyle was in the living room when they came to the house, sitting on the couch talking
to Dad Lewis and Mary, and Lorraine had brought him a cup of black coffee and some
cookies on a little china plate. Then the Johnsons came to the door and Lorraine got
up and showed them in and Lyle stood up. They shook hands. Lorraine carried in a chair
for herself and one for Alene from the dining room.

Well, Dad, how are you doing today? said Willa. Are you doing any better?

If I am I can’t tell it. I’m better to have my daughter home, I can say that.

Yes, it said in the church bulletin she was here. Willa turned to Lorraine. You couldn’t
stay away now, could you.

Not after Mom was in the hospital.

It announced that too, how she was admitted to the hospital. It was the first we heard
of it. You might have called us, Mary.

I didn’t want to bother you, Mary said. You wouldn’t of either, if it was you.

Well, Dad could have.

I’m glad he didn’t.

Lorraine’s here now, Dad said. That’s enough.

All right, I’m going to be quiet, then. I can tell when to keep my mouth shut.

You don’t have to be quiet. It’s not that, said Mary.

That would be the first time if she did, Alene said.

Oh now my daughter’s attacking me too.

They all laughed a little.

On the couch Lyle watched them talk. After a time he said, I think I’ll have to go
now. Before I do I wonder if we might pray together. And he bowed his head, they looked
at him, at his dark head, and they all bowed their heads too and he prayed, O God,
Our Father, we ask you to take particular care of this family and this man here. We
ask in your infinite mercy that you bring him the comfort and peace that passeth all
human understanding and the assurance of thy son’s own death and resurrection. While
he prayed Lorraine looked at him sitting on the couch across the room with his head
lowered and his hands folded together and she looked at her father and he was watching
the preacher too. Then Lyle finished and said, May you hear our prayer, oh Lord. Amen.
He stood and shook hands all around and touched Dad Lewis on the shoulder and Lorraine
went with him out the front door onto the porch.

Thank you for coming, she said.

I don’t want to bother your father, but I’ll come again if that’s all right.

Yes. I think it would be.

I don’t know that he’s very religious.

No. Not in any orthodox way.

I understand that. In his own way perhaps.

Perhaps.

Well. I’ll be going. He held out his hand to shake hers and instead she surprised
him and hugged him. He was a good deal taller than she was.

Thank you for coming, she said again.

He went down the walk to his car parked at the street and she stood and watched him
drive away. Then she sat down on the porch swing in the shade of the house and took
out her cigarettes and smoked. The air was hot and dry and clear, but it was better
in the shade. Then Alice, the girl next door, came up in front of the wrought iron
fence. She turned and looked out at the empty street and then turned and looked at
Lorraine.

Hello, Alice.

How do you know my name?

My mother told me. Why don’t you come up here and talk to me.

I don’t know who you are.

I used to live in this house. When I was a girl like you are.

I don’t know if I should, Alice said.

You can ask your grandmother, if you want to. Your mother and I used to play together.

The girl stood looking at her, then she looked out at the street again and finally
she opened the gate and came up on the porch.

You can sit down if you want. Here, beside me.

The girl slid onto the swing and they began to move it slowly. Lorraine took out her
cigarettes again.

Do you always smoke?

Once in a while.

My mother’s boyfriend smoked all the time.

Lorraine blew smoke out to the side and they rocked the swing in the hot air so that
it felt a little cooler as if there were a breeze.

What did you play with my mother?

Well. She was younger than me. She was closer to my brother Frank’s age. We played
at night under the streetlight at the corner up there and we played out back in the
barn.

What was she like, my mother?

She was very nice. She was fun to be with.

Oh.

That’s right, she was, and I’m so sorry she died like she did, so young, Lorraine
said. I’m very sorry. She was a good person. I miss her.

Grandma says I’m lucky to have someone to take me in.

Yes, I guess so. I guess you are. And you can come over here and see us if you want
anytime.

He’s dying too, isn’t he.

My father?

He’s dying, isn’t he.

But you don’t have to be afraid of him. He’s just an old man who’s sick. He wouldn’t
hurt you. You can come over and see me. We can do something together.

Like what?

I don’t know. We’ll have to think of it.

Are you done smoking now?

I’m done with this one.

Alice got up and brought the ashtray from the porch rail and held it for her.

Thank you, Lorraine said and stubbed out the cigarette.

You’re welcome.

She put the ashtray back and sat down again and they swung in the hot afternoon.

In the house the women were still talking.

Is he Mexican, did anyone ever say? Willa asked. He’s so dark.

No, Mary said. I don’t think so.

On his mother’s side, I mean.

No.

Or Italian maybe.

Not if he’s in the Community Church. A Mexican wouldn’t be a preacher in a Protestant
church. He’d be a Catholic.

He’s kind of good-looking, Alene said.

Her mother turned toward her, her eyes seeming overlarge behind the thick lenses.

He is, Alene said.

He’s married. He has a wife and a teenage son.

He can still be good-looking.

They sent him here from a church in Denver, Willa said. He was an associate minister
there.

We heard he was, Mary said.

I doubt if he’s accustomed to small towns.