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She did remember once, when Ames was at dinner years earlier, his mentioning to her father that a local man, unchurched, noted for bursts of rage and for a particular hostility toward children, his own included, had come to the parsonage at midnight to consider his soul. Ames had said, “It’s like a bad tooth—it acts up when everybody else is sleeping, and it’s not the kind of problem you want to deal with by yourself,” and they had laughed together, quietly. Who could know what they knew, what restive hearts had opened to them, how many midnights had brought the sleepless to their doors. She should ask Jack what a soul is, since he seemed to feel the presence of a soul. Cankered, perhaps, but that was what gave him his awareness of it. Either of those prayerful old men, Ames or her father, could probably tell her, too. But it was late to put such a question to them. Jack would laugh at her and tease her, which would be much preferable to their sober, gentle surprise.

H
ER FATHER WANTED TO GO TO BED EARLY, BUT THEN HE
was restless and asked to get up again. She helped him to his chair. “Where is Jack?” he said.

“I think he’s working on the car.”

After a minute he said, “I thought you might read to me. I’d like you to read from Luke.”

She brought the Bible and opened it and began the greeting to Theophilus.

“Yes,” her father said. “That’s fine. He gives a world of attention to that car. I wish he’d play the piano. Then at least I’d know where he is.”

Glory said, “I’ll go find him. He’ll be happy to play for you, Papa.”

“Yes. I’m Saul in his madness. I want some music around here.”

She went out to the barn and Jack was there, sitting in the driver’s seat of the DeSoto. In the earthy, perpetual evening of the place he was reading a book by flashlight. She hesitated, but he saw her in the sideview mirror and put the book and the flashlight in the glove compartment and closed it. She saw him take the little leather folder, which had been standing open on the dashboard, and slip it into his breast pocket.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. Papa’s awfully restless and he thought it would help if you played for him a little.”

“Always glad to oblige,” he said, standing up out of the car and closing the door. He smiled at her the way he did when she had become privy to something he had no intention of explaining. He said, “My home away from home.”

“Fine. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but he seems to be really uncomfortable this evening. He asked me to read to him, and that lasted about two minutes. I’d have played for him, but he wanted you to do it.”

He said, “You never bother me, Glory. It’s remarkable how much you don’t bother me. Almost unprecedented.”

“I’m so happy to know that.”

He glanced at her, and when he saw she really was pleased, he smiled.

“W
ELL
, R
EVEREND
,”
HE SAID
, “G
LORY TELLS ME YOU
’
D LIKE TO
hear a song or two. Any special requests?”

“Yes. ‘Blessed Assurance’ and also ‘Whispering Hope.’ But I think I would be more comfortable lying on my bed, if you don’t mind.”

“We can take care of that.” Jack helped him up, took him to his room, and settled him among his covers.

“First ‘Blessed Assurance,’” the old man said. “If you know that one.”

“I believe I do.” Jack sat down at the piano, tinkered at the keys for a moment, found the tune, and played it through. His father did not sing.

“Now ‘Whispering Hope.’”

“Yes, sir.”

When the song ended, his father said, “‘Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice.’ That can actually happen. I have had that experience. Hope is a very valuable thing, since there is not always so much to rejoice about in this life.”

Jack went to stand in his father’s doorway, to spare him the effort of raising his voice. The old man said, “Come here, Jack. Bring the chair over here. There’s something I need to say to you. You’re probably going to have to forgive me for this.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Well, I know that. I can count on that. And you’re a grown man now.”

Jack laughed. “True.”

“So I want to put a question to you. All right?”

“Go ahead.”

“I feel I didn’t do right by you. I wasn’t a good father to you.”

“What? Really?”

“No, it’s a feeling I have always had, almost since you were a baby. As though there was something you needed from me and I never figured out what it was.”

Jack cleared his throat. “I really don’t know what to say. I’ve always thought you were a very good father. Much better than I deserved.”

“No, but think about it now. You were always running off somewhere. Always hiding somewhere. Maybe you don’t even remember why you did those things. But I thought you might be able to give me some idea.”

“I can’t explain it. I don’t know. I was a bad kid. I’m sorry about all that.”

The old man shook his head. “That isn’t my meaning at all. You see, I feel as though you haven’t had a good life.”

Jack laughed. “Oh! Well, I’m sorry about that, too.”

“You misunderstand me. I mean your life has never seemed to have any real joy in it. I’m afraid you’ve never had much in the way of happiness.”

“Oh. I see. Well, I’ve been happy from time to time. Things are a little difficult now—”

“Yes, because you wouldn’t be here otherwise. That’s all right. I just never knew another child who didn’t feel at home in the house where he was born. All the others, you know, they come back for the holidays. It was always like a big party in here, all the games they would play, all the noise they made, and your mother laughing at the endless pranks and the nonsense. And if you could find a way to leave, you’d be gone.”

“I can’t explain that. I’m sorry about it—”

“And then you really were gone, weren’t you. Twenty years, Jack!”

Jack drew a deep breath and said nothing.

“And why am I talking to you about this? But it was always a mystery to me. Be strict! People would say that to me. Lay down the law! Do it for his sake! But I always felt it was sadness I was dealing with, a sort of heavyheartedness. In a child! And how could I be angry at that? I should have known how to help you with it.”

“You helped me. I mean, there are worse lives than mine. Mine could be worse.” He laughed and put his hand to his face.

“Oh yes. I’m sure of that, Jack. I see how kind you are now. Very polite. I notice that.”

“These last years I’ve been all right. Almost ten years.”

“Well, that is wonderful. Now, do you forgive me for speaking to you this way?”

“Yes, sir. Of course I do. I will. If you give me a little time.”

The old man said, “You take your time. But I want you to give me your hand now.” And he took Jack’s hand and moved it gently toward himself, so he could study the face Jack would have hidden from him. “Yes,” he said, “here you are.” He laid the hand
against his chest. “You feel that heart in there? My life became your life, like lighting one candle from another. Isn’t that a mystery? I’ve thought about it many times. And yet you always did the opposite of what I hoped for, the exact opposite. So I tried not to hope for anything at all, except that we wouldn’t lose you. So of course we did. That was the one hope I couldn’t put aside.”

Jack withdrew his hand from his father’s and put it to his face again. “This is very difficult,” he said. “What can I do—I mean, is there something I can do now?”

“That’s true,” his father said. “Not a thing to be done. I’m sorry I brought it up. I thought it was troubling my sleep. I guess it was. Why did that make me think it was important? I don’t know. All that old grief coming back on me. I’m tired now, though. It seems like I’m always tired.” And he settled into his pillows and turned onto his right side, away from Jack, toward the wall.

G
LORY CAME OUT TO THE KITCHEN AND WAITED, AND
after a few minutes Jack came out, too. “Would you mind just staying here with me for a few minutes, Glory?” he said. “Till I’ve had some time to check for broken bones.” He laughed and rubbed his hands over his face. “Ahh. I’m feeling the impulse to do something unwise. You don’t have to sit here until the bars close. Unless you want to.”

She said, “I’m happy to sit here as long as you like.”

“When do the bars close in this town, on a weeknight? It used to be ten.”

“I’m not the one to ask, I’m afraid.”

“It’s not quite eight o’clock now. Two hours, maybe three. That’s a long time.”

“Believe me, I have no plans for the evening.”

He laughed. “Good.”

“Would you like coffee?”

“Coffee? Sure. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all.”

He said, “You should be impressed that I don’t know when the bars close. That means I haven’t even gone near enough to one of them to read the sign on the door.”

She laughed. “I am impressed. Now that you point it out.”

“Yes, I think I should draw up a list of my accomplishments. That would be number one. Then: I am not incarcerated. And: I nearly finished college—”

“I thought you finished. We were all going to come to your graduation.”

“And then the Reverend got a phone call from St. Louis.”

“He said he should have expected that you wouldn’t want to go through the ceremony.”

“Well, there were some other considerations—some problems, shall we say. Omissions, mainly. Does that surprise you?”

“Not at all,” she said.

He shook his head. “I am a monster of consistency, little sister. Though increasingly I realize that the consistency was mostly alcohol. But now I am a changed man, most of the time. For example, I have just told you the truth about something. I owe it all to the influence of a good woman.”

She laughed.

He said, “What? Is that so hard to believe?”

“No, no. That’s a phrase I used to hear a lot, that’s all.” She said, “Should I tell you the truth about something?”

“Sure. But you don’t have to. This doesn’t have to be an exchange of hostages or anything.”

“I am giving you a hostage, though. I’m trusting you with this. You have to take it to your grave.”

“Will do. On my honor, as they say. If you really want to tell me.”

“I think so. I do want to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you’re my brother, I guess. Because I want to see how it sounds when I say it out loud.”

“How it sounds to me, or to you? There could be a difference.”

“I suppose so. Does that matter?”

“Well, you know, I’m not the ideal sounding board. Especially if there’s moral complexity involved. That was never my strong point. You might reveal some embarrassing deficiency in me. One more deficiency—” He laughed. “I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

“All right,” she said. “No secrets, no confidences.” Then, after a minute, she heard herself say, “I was never married.”

“Oh?” and he began to laugh, wearily and uncontrollably. “Is that the secret? I’m really sorry. It’s because I’m tired,” he said, wiping tears from his face.

“My fault,” she said. “You gave me fair warning.”

“I did, didn’t I.” The laughter persisted, somewhere between a sob and a cough. “I’m really sorry. The thing is, you know, I’m not married either.”

“But no one ever thought you were. I mean, you didn’t make people believe that you were.”

He laughed into his hands, miserably. “That’s true. I never did.” Then he said, “I hope you’re not mad at me, Glory. I don’t know why you wouldn’t be. Please don’t be mad.” He was struggling to catch his breath.

“Oh heck,” she said. “I’m going to get you some coffee.”

“Heck, yes! Bring on the coffee!” he said, and he laughed.

“I say ‘hell’ sometimes. If I’m mad. But I’m not mad. I’m just sort of flummoxed.”

He said, “I do that. I flummox people. It’s really about the best I can hope for, in fact.”

“Well, I’ve gotten pretty used to it. It’s actually a little bit interesting, in a way.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Seriously. I know I did the wrong thing, laughing like that.” He shook his head ruefully, and laughed. “You’re a good soul, Glory.”

“I am,” she said.

“I know that what happened to you was bad. I was an idiot to laugh.”

“It was very bad. One midnight I went out and dropped four hundred fifty-two letters down a storm drain.”

He laughed. “Four hundred fifty-two!”

“It was a long engagement. A policeman saw me and came over to ask me what I was doing. I told him I was throwing away four hundred fifty-two love letters and one cheap ring. He said, ‘Well, I sure hope things work out for you.’” They laughed. “I’m all right,” she said. “It was all horrible enough to be funny, I suppose. Now that it’s over.”

“Yes, there’s always that to look forward to.” Then he shrugged and said, “It’s enough to make me hope there’s a minute or two between death and perdition.”

“Oh come on, Jack. I don’t really think you get to believe in perdition unless you believe in all the rest of it.”

“No? But perdition is the one thing that always made sense to me. I mean, it has always seemed plausible. On the basis of my experience. And I don’t think this is a good time to try to talk me out of it. I’m tired. I’m sober—” He laughed, and she glanced at her watch. “Let me guess,” he said. “Eight-twenty-eight.”

“Eight-seventeen.”

“If you tire of my company, I’ll understand.”

“No, not at all. Could I make you some supper?”

“I just had supper.”

“No, you didn’t. I watched. Six bites of potato.”

“I haven’t had much appetite, I guess.”

“Well, I have news for you, Cary Grant. Your pants have begun to bag.”

“Ah. You have mastered the art of persuasion. A scrambled egg then?”

“And toast.”

“And toast.”

Jack sat at the table, twitching his foot. He cleared his throat.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Not a thing.” Then, after a minute,
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe I have just been told that I am not the only sinner in this family.” And then he laughed and put his hand to his face. “Now, that was probably a mistake. What a fool I am.”