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“It’s still much better than it was when you came.”

He opened the screen door for her. He said, “I’m going to try to get some of these stains off my hands. I can’t help much with the old fellow until I do. I think he’s scared of me, the way I look now.”

“No, he just hates the thought that you hurt yourself.”

He nodded. “You can hate thoughts. That’s interesting. I hate most of my thoughts.” He opened the cupboard under the sink and found a scrub brush.

Glory said, “You might rub your hands with shortening. That would probably dissolve the grease. Scrubbing will make them look inflamed.” She took the can from the cupboard, scooped out a spoonful, and put it in his palm. She said, “Remember when you talked to me about your soul, about saving it?”

He shrugged. “I think you may be mistaking me for someone else.”

“And I said I liked it the way it is.”

“Now I know you’re mistaking me for someone else.” He did not look up from the massaging of his hands.

“I’ve thought about what I should have said to you then, and I haven’t changed my mind at all. That’s why it embarrassed me, because it would have been so presumptuous of me—I’m not even sure what it means.” Then she said, “What is a soul?”

He looked up, smiled, studied her face. “Why ask me?”

“It just seems to me that you would know.”

He shrugged. “On the basis of my vast learning and experience, I would say—it is what you can’t get rid of. Insult, deprivation, outright violence—‘If I make my bed in Sheol, behold, thou
art there,’ and so on. “‘If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea.’”

“Interesting choice of text.”

“It came to mind. Don’t make too much of it.”

“Well, your soul seems fine to me. I don’t know what that means, either. Anyway, it’s true.”

He said, “Thanks, chum. But you don’t know me. Well, you know I’m a drunk.”

“And a thief.”

He laughed. “Yes, a drunk and a thief. I’m also a terrible coward. Which is one of the reasons I lie so much.”

She nodded. “I’ve noticed that.”

“No kidding. What else have you noticed?”

“I’m not going to mention vulnerable women.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Very generous in the circumstances.”

She nodded. “I think so.”

He said, “I am unaccountably vain, despite all, and I have a streak of malice that does not limit itself to futile efforts at self-defense.”

“I’ve noticed that, too.”

He nodded. “I guess there’s nothing subtle about it.”

She brought a washcloth and began gently to soap away the dingy shortening from his hands. He took the cloth from her.

“So,” he said, “we have made a list of my venial sins.”

“Presbyterians don’t believe in venial sins.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m not described by the word ‘Presbyterian.’”

“Oh, hush!”

He laughed. “All right. My lesser sins. Not that Presbyterians believe in them, either. Do you want a list of the grave ones? The mortal ones?”

“Not really.”

“That’s good.” He said, “Reverend Miles, Della’s father and my biographer, told me I was nothing but trouble. I felt the truth of that. I really am nothing.” He looked at her. “Nothing, with a
body. I create a kind of displacement around myself as I pass through the world, which can fairly be called trouble. This is a mystery, I believe.” He said, “It’s why I keep to myself. When I can. Ah. And now the tears.”

“Don’t you think everybody feels that way sometimes, though? I certainly have. While you had Della you didn’t feel that way. If you weren’t alone so much, I mean, Papa’s right about that. If you’d just let us help you.”

He said, “When Mama died I’d been out of jail for a couple days. So I could have come home. Strictly speaking. But it takes awhile to shake that off, you know. Wash it off. To feel you could blend in with the Presbyterians. And the old fellow doesn’t miss anything. I wouldn’t have wanted him to see me. I was terrified at the thought. So I used his check to buy some clothes. I knew what he’d think of me when he saw I’d cashed it.” He smiled at her. “I was grateful for the check, I really was. I hadn’t been at that hotel where he sent it for quite a while. I was surprised the letter found me. But the desk clerk was impressed by the black border, so he brought it to me. He hadn’t even opened it. I spent part of the money in a bar. What was left of it.”

Glory said, “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Not that it matters. I don’t care if you’ve been in jail.”

He said, “No? It made quite an impression on me. I believe it’s as congenial a place to be nothing as I could ever hope to find.” He laughed. “In jail, they call it good behavior. Not a thing I’ve often been accused of.” He said, “Jail reinforced my eccentricities. I’m pretty sure of that.”

“Mama died more than ten years ago. So you were all right after you got out of jail.”

“Yes, I was. And now I know it was an aberration. Nothing I can sustain on my own. I’ve found out I still can’t trust myself. So I’m right back where I started.” He smiled. “You forgive so much, you’ll have to forgive that, too. Well, I guess you won’t have to.”

“You know I will.”

After a moment he said, “You probably wonder what kind of woman Della is, shacking up with the likes of me.”

“She reads French. She embroiders. She sings in a choir.”

“There are things I haven’t told you about her.”

She shrugged. “Some things are sacred.”

He laughed. “Yes, that’s it. That’s it exactly.” He wiped his hands on the dishtowel and looked them over. “Not too bad,” he said. He held them up to her inspection. “He should be able to stand the sight of my hands, at least. I wish there were something I could do about my face.”

“You could get a little sleep.”

“Not a bad idea. If you don’t mind. There are a few things I meant to get done today.”

“Sleep for an hour or two first.”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll do that. Thanks.” He stopped halfway up the stairs. “I told you a minute ago that I was in jail. I should have said prison. I was in prison.” Then he watched her to appraise her reaction.

She said, “I don’t care if you were in prison,” but the words cost her a little effort, and he heard it and smiled at her for a moment, studying her to be sure that she meant them.

He said, “You’re a good kid.”

I
T WAS SUPPERTIME WHEN
J
ACK CAME DOWNSTAIRS AGAIN
. He said, “I slept a lot longer than I planned to. Sorry.” He did look more like himself, she thought. An odd phrase, since he was always himself, perhaps never more so than he had been in the last two days. He was wearing his father’s old clothes and the blue striped necktie, and he was conspicuously kempt and shaved. Old Spice. He buttoned the top button of the jacket, unbuttoned it again, then took the jacket off. “This is better, I think,” he said, and looked at her for confirmation.

“In this heat,” she said.

“Yes, but the tie’s all right.”

“It looks fine.”

He had some intention, clearly. That was probably a good thing, all in all. There was a kind of tense composure about him that seemed like morale. He said, “What’s for dinner?”

“Creamed chicken on toast. Leftovers. No dumplings this time. I made a peach cobbler, though.”

“Well,” he said, “I thought we might eat in the dining room. If that’s all right. With candles. The light seems so bright in here. To those of us who fear the light and love the darkness.” He laughed.

She thought, He doesn’t want Papa to be pained by the sight of him. Of course. She said, “Whatever you like. I’ll open the windows and put the fan in there. It gets stuffy in this weather.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

She went into her father’s bedroom and found the old man lying there pensively awake. When she spoke to him, he said, “I love hearing all the voices. Your mother says this house is like an old fiddle, what it does with sound, and I think that’s true. It is a wonderful house.” He was still worn from that long night, she thought, still half asleep.

“Would you like to get up now, Papa? I’ve made supper. Jack got some rest this afternoon, and he’s up and setting the table.”

He looked at her. “Jack?”

“Yes. He’s feeling a lot better.”

“I didn’t know he was ill. Yes, I’d better get up.” His concern was such that he seemed to have forgotten the recalcitrance of his body and to be surprised to find himself struggling to sit upright.

“Here, I’ll help you,” she said.

He looked at her with alarm. “Something’s happened.”

“It’s over now. We’re all right.”

“I thought the children were here. Where are they?”

“They’re all at home, so far as I know, Papa.”

“But they’re so quiet!”

She said, “Just a minute. I’ll ask Jack to play something while we get you ready for supper.”

“So Jack’s here.”

“Yes, he’s here.”

She stepped into the dining room and asked Jack to play, and then she went back to help her father. “‘Softly and Tenderly,’” the old man said. “A very fine song. Is that Gracie?”

“No, it’s Jack.”

The old man said, “I don’t believe Jack plays the piano. It might be Gracie.”

She brought her father down the hallway. He stopped at a little distance from the piano, released her arm, and stood looking at Jack with puzzled interest. He whispered, “The fellow plays very well. But why is he here in our house?”

Glory said, “He’s come home to see you, Papa.”

“Well, that’s very nice, I suppose. No harm in it.”

Jack played the hymn to the end, then he followed them into the dining room. He had put the jacket back on. He helped his father with his chair, Glory with hers, then seated himself by his father. The old man looked at him as if he had taken a liberty, not offensive but surprising just the same, in sitting down with them. He said, “Glory, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes. All right.” She closed her eyes. “Dear God in heaven, please help us. Dear God, please help everyone we love. Amen.”

Jack looked at her and smiled. “Thank you,” he said.

The old man nodded. “That pretty well sums it up.”

Her brother leaned out of the candlelight while she served. He pushed back his hair and settled his tie down the front of his shirt, and then folded his hands in his lap, as if remembering to keep them out of sight. His father glanced at him from time to time, sidelong. Glory cut up her father’s toast, and then they ate in silence, except when Glory asked if they would like more of anything. She hadn’t read a newspaper in days or turned on the television
set or the radio, so she could not think of a way to bring up Eisenhower or Dulles or baseball or Egypt, the things that focused her father’s attention, lured him out of his dreams. At least he and Jack were eating.

Finally, Jack cleared his throat. Still, his voice was a throaty whisper. “Sir,” he said, “there are some things I’ve wanted to say to you. If this is a good time. I thought it might be as good as any.”

His father smiled at him kindly. “No need to be so formal. I have been retired for a number of years. Just call me Robert.”

Jack looked at her.

She said, “Papa, can I get you some coffee?”

“Not for me, thanks. Our friend might want some.”

After a moment Jack said, “If I could talk to you about something. I wanted to tell you that after considerable reflection, after giving the matter some careful thought—” He looked at Glory and smiled.

His father nodded. “Are you considering the ministry?”

Jack took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. “No, sir.”

“There’s quite a return to the ministry these days. Many young men are drawn to it now. It’s wonderful. You might want to think about it.”

Jack said, “Yes, sir.” He toyed with his water glass, reflecting. Then, “I’ve made an effort, for a number of reasons. To believe in something. I’ve read the Bible I don’t know how many times. And I’ve thought about it. Of course I have been in situations where it’s the only book they let you have, where there isn’t much else to think about. That you’d want to think about.” He looked at Glory. “I have tried, though. Maybe that just makes me—obdurate. Isn’t that the word? I don’t know why I am what I am. I’d have been like you if I could.”

His father looked at him, solemnly uncomprehending.

Jack said, “I meant to tell you that I had—after careful thought, I had become persuaded of the truth of Scripture. Teddy said it would be all right to say that. I wanted you to stop worrying
about me. But all I can really say is that I’ve tried to understand. And I did try to live a better life. I don’t know what I’ll do now. But I did try.”

The old man looked at him intently. Then he said, “That’s fine, dear. Have we talked before? I don’t believe so. I may be wrong.”

Jack leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He looked at Glory and smiled. He said softly, “Tears!”

Glory said, “Jack wants to talk to you, Papa. He’s trying to tell you something.”

“Yes, you said Jack is here. That would be very surprising. He’s never here.”

After a long breath, “I’m Jack.”

The old man turned stiffly in his chair to scrutinize his son. He said, “I see a resemblance.” He reached out painfully and took hold of the candlestick, to move it closer to Jack, who put his hand to his face and laughed. His father said, “There is a resemblance. I don’t know.” He said, “If you could take your hand away—”

Jack dropped his hand into his lap and suffered his father’s scrutiny, smiling, not raising his eyes.

The old man said, “Well, what did I expect. His life would be hard, I knew that,” and he fell to brooding. “I was afraid of it, and I prayed, and it happened anyway. So here is Jack,” he said. “After all that waiting.”

Jack smiled at her across the table and shook his head. Another bad idea. Nothing to be done about it now.

Glory said, “It’s been hard for him to come here. You should be kinder to him.”

A moment passed, and her father stirred from his reverie. “Kinder to him! I thanked God for him every day of his life, no matter how much grief, how much sorrow—and at the end of it all there is only more grief, more sorrow, and his life will go on that way, no help for it now. You see something beautiful in a
child, and you almost live for it, you feel as though you would die for it, but it isn’t yours to keep or to protect. And if the child becomes a man who has no respect for himself, it’s just destroyed till you can hardly remember what it was—” He said, “It’s like watching a child die in your arms.” He looked at Jack. “Which I have done.”