Pigeon Feathers (29 page)

“Luckily for your dad,” “all his faith,” “wonderful gentlemen”:
these phrases were borne in on me, and my tongue seemed pressed flat on the floor of its grave. The pajama stripes under my eyes stirred and streamed, real blood. I wanted to speak, to say how I still needed him and to beg him not to leave me, but there were no words, no form of words available in our tradition. A pillar of smoke poured upward from the sighing man in the other bed.

Into this pit hesitantly walked a plain, painfully clean girl with a pad and pencil. She had yellow hair, thick lips, and, behind pink-rimmed glasses, large eyes that looked as if they had been corrected from being crossed. They flicked across our faces and focused straight ahead in that tunnel-vision gaze of those who know perfectly well they are figures of fun; the Jehovah’s Witnesses who come to the door wear that guarded expression. She approached the bed where my father lay barefoot and, suppressing a stammer, explained that she was from Lutheran Home Missions and that they kept accounts of all hospitalized Lutherans and notified the appropriate pastors to make visitations. Perhaps she had measured my father for a rebuff. Perhaps her eyes, more practiced in this respect than mine, spotted the external signs of loss of faith that I couldn’t see. At any rate my father was a Lutheran by adoption; he had been born and raised a Presbyterian and still looked like one.

“That’s
aw
fully nice of you,” he told the girl. “I don’t see how you people do it on the little money we give you.”

Puzzled, she dimpled and moved ahead with her routine. “Your church is—?”

He told her, pronouncing every syllable meticulously and consulting my mother and me as to whether the word “Evangelical” figured in the official title.

“That would make your pastor Reverend—”

“Yeah. He’ll be in, don’t worry about it. Wild horses couldn’t keep him away. Nothing he likes better than to get out of the sticks and drive into Alton. I didn’t mean to confuse you a minute ago; what I meant was, just last week in church council we were talking about you people. We couldn’t figure out how you do anything on the little money we give you. After we’ve got done feeding the furnace and converting the benighted Hindu there isn’t anything left over for you people that are trying to help the poor devils in our own back yard.”

The grinning girl was lost in this onslaught of praise and clung to the shreds of her routine. “In the meantime,” she recited, “here is a pamphlet you might like to read.”

My father took it from her with a swooping gesture so expansive I got down from the windowsill to restrain him physically, if necessary. That he must lie still was my one lever, my one certainty about his situation. “That’s awfully nice of you,” he told the girl. “I don’t know where the hell you get the money to print these things.”

“We hope your stay in the hospital is pleasant and would like to wish you a speedy recovery to full health.”

“Thank you; I know you’re sincere when you say it. As I was telling my son David here, if I can do what the doctors tell me I’ll be all right. First time in my life I’ve ever tried to do what anybody ever told me to do. The kid was just telling me, ‘No matter what happens to you, Pop, it’ll be a new experience.’ ”

“Now, if you will excuse me, I have other calls to pay.”

“Of course. You go right ahead, sick Lutherans are a dime a dozen. You’re a wonderful woman to be doing what you’re doing.”

And she left the room transformed into just that. As a star shines in our Heaven though it has vanished from the universe,
so my father continued to shed faith upon others. For the remainder of my visit with him his simple presence so reassured me, filled me with such a buoyant humor, that my mother surprised me, when we had left the hospital, by remarking that we had tired him.

“I hadn’t noticed,” I said.

“And it worries me,” she went on, “the way he talks about the movies all the time. You know he never liked them.” When I had offered to stay another night so I could visit him again, he had said, “No, instead of that why don’t you take your mother tomorrow to the movies?” Rather than do that, I said, I would drive home. It took him a moment, it seemed, to realize that by my home I meant a far place, where I had a wife and children, dental appointments and work obligations. Though at the time I was impatient to have his consent to leave, it has since occurred to me that during that instant when his face was blank he was swallowing the realization that he could die and my life would go on. Having swallowed, he told me how good I had been to come all this way to see him. He told me I was a good son and a good father; he clasped my hand. I felt I would ascend straight north from his touch.

I drove my mother back to her farm and got my bag and said goodbye on the lawn. The little sandstone house was pink in the declining sunlight; the lawn was a tinkling clutter of shy rivulets. Standing beside the
BEWARE OF THE DOG
sign with its companion of a crocus, she smiled and said, “This is like when you were born. Your father drove through a snowstorm all the way from Wheeling in our old Model A.” He had been working with the telephone company then; the story of his all-night ride was the oldest narrative in which I was a character.

• • •

Darkness did not fall until New Jersey. The hour of countryside I saw from the Pennsylvania Turnpike looked enchanted—the branches of the trees underpainted with budding russet, the meadows nubbled like new carpets, the bronze sun slanting on Valley Forge and Levittown alike. I do not know what it is that is so welcome to me in the Pennsylvania landscape, but it is the same quality—perhaps of reposing in the certainty that the truth is good—that exists in Pennsylvania faces. It seemed to me for this sunset hour that the world is our bride, given to us to love, and the terror and joy of the marriage is that we bring to it a nature not our bride’s.

There was no sailor to help me drive the nine hours back. New Jersey began in twilight and ended in darkness, and Manhattan made its gossamer splash at show-time hour, eight o’clock. The rest of the trip was more and more steeply uphill. The Merritt Parkway seemed meaninglessly coquettish, the light-controlled stretch below Hartford maddeningly obstinate, and the hour above that frighteningly empty. Distance grew thicker and thicker; the intricate and effortful mechanics of the engine, the stellar infinity of explosive sparks needed to drive it, passed into my body, and wearied me. Repeatedly I stopped for coffee and the hallucinatory comfort of human faces, and after every stop my waiting car, companion and haven and willing steed, responded to my pressure. It began to seem a miracle that the car could gather speed from my numb foot; the very music on the radio seemed a drag on our effort, and I turned it off, obliterating earthly time. We climbed through a space fretted by scattered brilliance and bathed in a monotonous wind. I had been driving forever; houses, furniture, churches, women were all things I had innocently
dreamed. And through those aeons my car, beginning as a mechanical assembly of molecules, evolved into something soft and organic and consciously brave. I lost first heart, then head, and finally any sense of my body. In the last hour of the trip I ceased to care or feel or in any real sense see, but the car, though its soul the driver had died, maintained steady forward motion, and completed the journey safely. Above my back yard the stars were frozen in place, and the shapes of my neighbors’ houses wore the wonder that children induce by whirling.

Any day now we will trade it in; we are just waiting for the phone to ring. I know how it will be. My father traded in many cars. It happens so cleanly, before you expect it. He would drive off in the old car up the dirt road exactly as usual, and when he returned the car would be new to us, and the old was gone, gone, utterly dissolved back into the mineral world from which it was conjured, dismissed without a blessing, a kiss, a testament, or any ceremony of farewell. We in America need ceremonies, is I suppose, sailor, the point of what I have written.

Books by John Updike
 

POEMS

The Carpentered Hen
(1958) •
Telephone Poles
(1963) •
Midpoint
(1969)
• Tossing and Turning
(1977) •
Facing Nature
(1985) •
Collected Poems 1953–1993
(1993)
• Americana
(2001)
• Endpoint
(2009)

NOVELS

The Poorhouse Fair
(1959)
• Rabbit, Run
(1960)
• The Centaur
(1963) •
Of the Farm
(1965)
• Couples
(1968)
• Rabbit Redux
(1971)
• A Month of Sundays
(1975)
• Marry Me
(1976)
• The Coup
(1978)
• Rabbit Is Rich
(1981)
• The Witches of Eastwick
(1984)
• Roger’s Version
(1986)
• S
. (1988)
• Rabbit at Rest
(1990)
• Memories of the Ford Administration
(1992)
• Brazil
(1994)
• In the Beauty of the Lilies
(1996) •
Toward the End of Time
(1997)
• Gertrude and Claudius
(2000)
• Seek My Face
(2002)
• Villages
(2004)
• Terrorist
(2006)
• The Widows of Eastwick
(2008)

SHORT STORIES

The Same Door
(1959)
• Pigeon Feathers
(1962)
• Olinger Stories
(a selection, 1964)
• The Music School
(1966)
• Bech: A Book
(1970)
• Museums and Women
(1972)
• Problems
(1979)
• Too Far to Go
(a selection, 1979)
• Bech Is Back
(1982)
• Trust Me
(1987)
• The Afterlife
(1994)
• Bech at Bay
(1998)
• Licks of Love
(2000)
• The Complete Henry Bech
(2001)
• The Early Stories: 1953–1975
(2003)
• My Father’s Tears
(2009)
• The Maples Stories
(2009)

ESSAYS AND CRITICISM

Assorted Prose
(1965)
• Picked-Up Pieces
(1975)
• Hugging the Shore
(1983)
• Just Looking
(1989)
• Odd Jobs
(1991)
• Golf Dreams
(1996) •
More Matter
(1999)
• Still Looking
(2005)
• Due Considerations
(2007) •
Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu
(2010)
• Higher Gossip
(2011)

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

The Magic Flute
(1962)
• The Ring
(1964)
• A Child’s Calendar
(1965)
• Bottom’s Dream
(1969)
• A Helpful Alphabet of Friendly Objects
(1996)