Saints (26 page)

“Corey,” John said. “Thank God.” The man got up from his chair and came to the boy, arms outstretched. “I was so afraid for you.”

It was a gamble. Robert depended on Corey’s pride, on his loathing for the man who had left him a few weeks ago, without a word or any means of living. And Corey did not let him down. When his father reached him, Corey shrank back, clung to Robert’s leg, and turned his face away from the man who had sired him. John looked at him with the face of failure.

“I have the papers,” Robert said. “He’s
my
son now.” Robert looked at the others gravely. “His story is a sad one. His father, who never bothered to marry his mother, abandoned him only a few weeks ago. Not a word did he say, not a penny did he leave. The boy was hungry, and his mother was desperate. But I promised to raise Corey as my own child, with education, with every advantage he could possibly have. I promised that I would never abandon him. And I never will. What would you think of me, sir, if I abandoned him now, after such a promise?”

John Kirkham looked him in the eye. Robert tried to imagine what was going on in his father’s mind. Tried to imagine the calculations. How much damage had this revelation done? How should he respond to this discovery of his second abandonment of a family? And, as Robert expected, he chose the best of all possible responses. He turned away from Robert, flung himself to a chair, buried his face in his arms, and wept loudly, piteously crying, “O God, I should have known you wouldn’t let me hide my sins from thee!”

John knew his audience well. By accusing himself, he forestalled their accusations; by calling upon God, he reminded them to be forgiving. But Robert was determined not to let him get away with it.

“He saw in the newspapers that I was rich. He came to me first, came to my factory gate. Did he tell you that?” He saw from their faces that he had not. Only Dinah had known it, and only because Robert had told her. “And what did he confess to you? Adultery, yes? For that you could forgive him, apparently, God knows how; it happened far away. But he told you he repented of his sins, didn’t he? Told you he was a changed man, that he would never abandon a family now, right? What kind of change is it, when he abandons the family that needs him, to come back to a family that long since learned to live without him?”

John arose from the table, his face a mask of righteous indignation. “I was weighed down by the sin of my adultery! I could bear no longer living in sin!”

“You could bear no longer living in poverty.”

“You have reason to hate me and be cruel to me. I understand, Robert, and for Jesus’ sake I forgive you for it.”

“By God you’ll forgive me for nothing. You no more believe in Jesus than you believe in fatherhood. Here we stand, John Kirkham. Your sons. Look at us—we wear your face, we bear your name. But behind the name and the flesh there’s no part of you in us. Because
we
value honor above any other thing, Corey and I. And you’ll never trick
us
into forgiving you, however you play the penitent.”

“All I know,” Anna said in a husky voice, “all I know is that I prayed for God to bring him back, and back he came.”

“And too bad if he let another child starve to do it.”

“But don’t you see?” Anna said. “God provided a way for the child to be cared for.”

“I beg your pardon.
I
provided the way.”

“Who are you to judge your father!” Anna shouted.

“There are many low things a man can do, and still remain a man. But lower than manhood are these: To rut with a woman when he already has a wife, and to abandon the children of his body.”

“There are worse sins,” Charlie said quietly.

“How would you know?” Robert asked. “You’ve never had a wife, you’ve never had a child. If you had, you’d feel as I do.”

At that Charlie fell silent, but Robert regretted every word of it. He knew then that he had made a mistake. Yes, he had silenced Charlie by telling him he was not yet fully a man—but he had also assumed that Charlie would oppose him, and that meant Charlie might, after all, forgive the old bastard. And yet Charlie wasn’t the only one there. If he could at least get Dinah to side with him, if he could at least awaken her to the truth, then John Kirkham wouldn’t have his victory. If Dinah wasn’t for the man, he’d never truly have his place in the family—such was her power there, and Robert knew it. So he spoke to her, only to Dinah, desperate to keep her unbeguiled.

“Remember this, when he tells you he repents. Didn’t he seem sorry before? Didn’t he confess his sins before? And yet it was all a lie, because he didn’t tell you this. And wouldn’t have told you this, if I hadn’t forced him.”

Dinah was looking at John Kirkham, studying her father’s face. And John studied her in turn, trying to think of some way to save his comfortable place in this house. For a moment Robert thought he couldn’t do it, that with Dinah his cause was lost.

But he had underestimated John. Suddenly he groaned, a powerful cry of agony that came from the heart. “God will not be mocked!” he cried. “Oh, God, I can’t bear it! Destroy me! Annihilate me! I cannot bear to live in thy presence!” And he flung himself backward, crashing to the floor, smacking his head loudly on the boards.

Anna screamed and rushed to him, crying out his name. Charlie also came to lift his father and carry him to the divan. But Dinah sat at the table, staring at nothing until she looked at Robert and at Corey. Then she smiled wanly. She was not fooled, was she? No—she saw through the old bastard.

But the others didn’t. Or chose not to. For whether John really knocked himself unconscious or not, he certainly revived with his wits about him. “Cleanse me,” he whispered. “Take me into the water and let me be clean.” Then he opened his eyes. “Charlie, my sins are darker than I can bear! Will you baptize me? Will you make me clean before the Lord?”

“Yes,” Charlie said. “I will.”

“Wash manure,” Robert said, “and it’s still shit.”

Dinah walked over to her father, took him by the hand, helped him up. “Come, Father. Robert’s leaving now.”

Robert looked at her in amazement. She smiled at him. “You just don’t understand, do you, Robert? It is the weakest soul who needs help the most.”

“Dinah,
you
know what he is!”

“I also know what he
can
be.”

“He’ll never change.”

“There’s always hope.” She touched him gently on the arm, then touched young Corey on the cheek. “My brother. Remember this—there’s always hope, even when there isn’t any faith. And sometimes, without hope or faith, there must be charity.”

Corey looked up at her dumbly. Robert was no less speechless. He turned and left the house, beaten. Beaten by Anna’s love for her husband, Charlie’s hatred for Robert, and Dinah’s damnable patience. She could wait for anything. There was no helping it, then. As always, they wouldn’t trust in Robert until it was too late, until John Kirkham had betrayed them again. And, as always, Robert found himself cut off from the rest of his family, not because he had done them harm, but because he had tried to do them good. That is the way of the world, isn’t it—if you want to be hated, be kind.

Charlie was not abnormal: he thought about women about as often as any young man was likely to. So it wasn’t that Robert’s taunting words put the idea in his head. Rather Charlie realized that he wasn’t really a man, wasn’t really one of the full-fledged brethren until he had a wife. He would not be adult until then. And he was certainly ready to be adult.

So now instead of merely appreciating a well-formed bosom or a lovely gliding step, instead of comparing the relative virtues of a heart-shaped face or dark, flashing eyes, he began to consider what he must have in a wife. Charlie was sure of one thing—his wife would have to know how to comport herself in elevated society. He would have money, of course, and
his
wife would not be an awkward homebody like Robert’s Mary. She must have grace, refinement, and above all an accent more redolent of Middlesex than of Lancashire. Of course she would be beautiful, have an unbounded admiration for Charlie’s accomplishments and abilities, and be content with a reasonable wardrobe.

And one other requirement. She must be a Saint. That narrowed the field considerably. He studied the unmarried sisters and despaired. None of them would make a proper wife for the sort of man he was destined to become. Least of all Sally Clinton. He decided that right at first. It was well known that she was the most beautiful girl in the Manchester Branch, but it was the wrong kind of beauty. Her face was pretty and soft, but not refined and delicate; she was small, but her body was too sturdy and strong. She was made to endure love and hard labor; Charlie needed a woman whom poems could be written about.

Once he had decided that Sally was definitely not fit to be the object of his affections, he was free to be friends with her. She was good company after church meetings. She had a quick mind and they could argue cleverly for the entertainment of the other young people in the Branch. Inevitably, whenever both Charlie and Sally were in the room, they were together, with everyone else gathered around them, laughing. Not always laughing, though. They could slide easily from cleverness to quiet, serious conversation about the gospel, their ideas building on each other until they were sure that the Spirit of God must be inspiring them. Good times, with the excitement of being new Mormons and young all at once.

And best of all was the fact that Charlie and Sally were just friends. Charlie even mentioned it to her when they were, for once, alone in a corner of the meetinghouse. “We have something very rare between us,” he said.

“We do?” asked Sally.

“We’re a man and a woman who are friends without the slightest romantic interest in each other.”

“Yes,” she said, “isn’t it wonderful?” Such was Charlie’s innocence that he didn’t even suspect irony.

They were not
completely
alone at that moment, of course. They were never
completely
alone. Always off in the middle distance was Sally’s forbidding elder sister, Harriette. At first glance it was impossible to believe they were related. Harriette was as cold and withdrawn as Sally was warm and outgoing. And yet when they were together it was hard to discover why Sally was pretty and Harriette most emphatically was not. Their bodies were not unalike; their faces were similar. Harriette had no unpleasant features; she kept her hair as carefully as Sally did. And yet Harriette was plain. When she and Sally were together, no man could look for more than a moment at Harriette before his gaze would slip away to Sally. If sometimes Charlie thought of Sally as the epitome of woman, albeit lower class, he also thought of Harriette as the quintessential chaperone. After a while, though, quiet Harriette simply disappeared. She was there, but she was not there. Sally, however, was unquestionably there.

But the untangled idyll ended when Caroline Crane was baptized. Charlie didn’t see her until the actual baptism ceremony. From the first moment Charlie knew she was what he had been waiting for. Delicate and lovely, graceful of step and gesture, her voice soft, her eyes deep and sentimental. In the swirling waters of Medlock, it seemed a miracle she was not swept away like a leaf.

Charlie determined to do everything correctly. At his request Anna met her and then after a church meeting she introduced Charlie to her. Charlie spoke quietly and at once turned the conversation to matters of some sophistication. He quoted lines from Wordsworth; Caroline finished the quotation. He used his most elevated vocabulary; she answered in kind. He asked if he could walk her home, and she accepted.

This is my destiny, he thought as he guided her out of the building. He was careful not to touch her except, tremblingly, upon the elbow; then he offered his arm and her fingers pressed gently upon the back of his hand. It was ecstasy.

It was also the high point of the walk home. He did not notice it at first, but after a while he realized that Caroline Crane had nothing to say that was worth hearing. She gave correct, polite answers. She knew all the right poets. But she did not seem to
care
about the poetry the way Charlie did. She did not understand when he joked with her. And when the conversation lagged, she kept questioning him to start it again. But her questions were not piercing, like Sally’s would have been. There was nothing to prove that she had listened to what he said before.

So he said his good-byes at the door and walked home. Nothing is what it seems, he told himself. What frightened him was the suspicion that he was the one who did not measure up to his appearance. Perhaps Sister Caroline was not shallow, she was simply uninterested in him. He was, after all, the son of a woman who had scrubbed floors in a rich man’s house. He was a man of trade, wasn’t he? And he despised himself for not fulfilling his own dream.

The day was not destined to get any easier. When he got home to his cottage, there outside his door waited Sally Clinton, of all people, and her older sister, Harriette.

“Why, Sister Sally,” Charlie said.

“Good evening, Brother Charlie,” said the girl. There was no pertness now, however, and even in the dusky light of early evening he could see that she was upset.

“I’m glad to see you,” Charlie said.

Sally made a face of skepticism. “Are you?”

“I said I was,” Charlie said irritably. He had faced his own unworthiness today. He couldn’t deal with Sally’s anger, too. “Why didn’t you go inside?”

“We didn’t want anyone to see us inside your cottage, for fear it would interfere with any alliances you might be pursuing elsewhere.” So it was jealousy brought her here. And of course they had waited on his doorstep in the very hope that they would be seen, and word would spread, and any budding romance with Caroline Crane would be harmed. If you only knew, thought Charlie bitterly.

“Well, will you come in now?”

“I’d rather walk,” Sally said. “I’d rather talk to you as we walk. Or do you only walk with ladies?”

“I only walk with ladies,” he said, but offered his arm as he said it. There was no reason to accept Caroline’s judgment of him. He could at least pretend to be a gentleman. Yet the touch of her hand on his arm annoyed him. She was not like Caroline; she put her arm through his, held closer to him, so that they looked more like a common laborer and his girl.

She must have felt him retreat from her, for she suddenly withdrew her arm and with elaborate care placed her hand delicately over his wrist in a parody of Caroline. Had she watched that closely when he left with Caroline?

“You’re so graceful at that,” Charlie said. “You must have practiced.”

He immediately regretted saying it. Because of his dismal mood it didn’t sound like a joke. She stopped walking and snatched her hand back from him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I made a mistake. I thought you cared for me, at least as a sister in the gospel. Now I see that you don’t even consider me worth treating with respect.”

Because she accused him of not caring for her, he found himself protesting that he did. He did not know how to deal with Sally when she was angry—they had never quarreled. After a few placating words she was holding his arm again, though she seemed to be no less angry. In a moment they were on Pott Street, arm in arm, and Harriette had fallen about ten paces behind. Clearly the sisters had planned this so Charlie and Sally could have a genuinely private conversation without any scandal because of a lack of chaperone. Sally led them a ways up Pott Street toward the canal, but a football game was still in progress on the field there, and in a huff she turned around, passed her sister furiously, and continued the walk another way. All this time, growing angrier and angrier, she had hardly said a word, and Charlie had dared not breach such a formidable silence. And yet she clung tightly to his arm.

At last he could bear no more. “What’s this about?”

“You know perfectly well what it’s about.”

“As a matter of fact, Miss Clinton, I do not.”

“Don’t
Miss Clinton
me, Charlie Kirkham. What do you mean by walking that prim little Miss Snot-nose home today?”

Hearing Caroline referred to so crudely made him furious. “I won’t hear a lady referred to in such language!”

“So you
do
love her?” It was an accusation.

“Nothing of the kind!”

“Then why did you walk her home
without
a chaperone?”

“On Sunday many couples walk without chaperones, Miss Clinton.”

“It isn’t any of my business, anyway, is it?” And then her face grew sad. “But I thought I had cause to think it my affair. I thought we were friends.”

“So did I.” In his coldest voice he emphasized, “Friends.”

“I see,” she said. Her tone was even colder, and it made Charlie uncomfortable.

“
What
do you see?”

“That I mean nothing to you after all. I was clearly misunderstanding your feelings toward me.”

She was in love with him. She was not just being possessive or resentful of a more elevated woman. All this time she had really cared for Charlie, and dreamed, as he had dreamed, of love. She sounded so miserable that Charlie could not bear to leave her uncomforted; he felt a responsibility to comfort her—no woman should feel utterly unrewarded for having found Charlie worthy of love. “Sally, it’s not that you mean nothing to me.”

“Oh, please,” she said, avoiding his gaze, “tell me again how you love me as a sister in the gospel.”

That was precisely what he had been planning to say. Once again today a woman was too deep and quick for him. “How
should
I feel toward you, then?”

“If you can’t see that I’m a woman, I would rather you didn’t notice me at all.”

“Of course I see that you’re a woman—”

“Well, you don’t show that you see it!”

“Sally, I—”

“When did I give you permission to call me by my given name?”

“You didn’t.”

“Then kindly don’t take liberties with me.”

“Liberties! For God’s sake, Sister Sally, I—”

“And don’t take God’s name in vain!”

Charlie was about to answer in rage when he realized that she was crying. He stood facing her in silent consternation. Then he looked back at Harriette, fearful of her stern disapproval; but Harriette was discreetly looking the other way. It was nearly dark, and Pott Street was deserted right here, with fields on either side. Still, a passerby might come along; word might spread that Charlie Kirkham was seen out with Sally Clinton, and Sally was weeping. It wouldn’t do. Charlie took her by the arm and led her off into the field. It was an untended one, with high grasses and the foundation of an old building that had once stood there. A farmhouse, it looked like, from the days when Manchester was a small town amid fertile fields. Now it would serve as a perfect place for this miserable conversation, for it was sunk into the ground a ways, and if they went down into the foundation the weeds would hide them completely.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked through her tears.

“Where no one will see you crying.”

“You’re ashamed to be seen with me.”

“Not at all. I just didn’t want you to be embarrassed.”

“I’m already embarrassed. What do I care what anyone else thinks? You’re the one I wanted to think well of me, and now you think I’m just a witch, just angry and crying and—”

“I don’t think that,” Charlie said.

“What
do
you think?”

“I—I think you’re a lovely girl, and I like you very much.”

“A girl. But you think Caroline is a lady, don’t you?”

“No more than you, Sister Sally—”

“Oh, won’t you please call me Sally, do we have to be strangers?”

“Sally, then.”

“Do you really think of me as a lady? As a woman?”

“Of course I do,” Charlie said. He was not sure how, but the meaning of the conversation had changed subtly; the tears were forgotten as if they had never been shed, and she was looking up at him eagerly, almost passionately.

“Couldn’t you love me, Charlie?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer, just put her hands on his chest and pressed herself to him in a most startling way; he had never had a woman’s full body pressed against him, and he lost balance and stepped backward.

“Oh, you hate me!”

“I don’t,” he said, catching her by the arm before she could run from him. “I was just—I lost balance, that’s all—”

“Charlie, I thought you cared for me, and today you were ridiculous, waiting on her like a dog on his master. At first I was jealous because you had never fawned on
me
like that. And then I was glad. I’d hate to have a man like you demean yourself for me. I don’t think love should make a strong man be weak.”

“Was I weak?” Was that how Caroline, too, had seen him?

She saw his dismay. “No, Charlie,” she said. “Not you!”

Suddenly her arms were around his waist and her lips were on his, and it was no pristine little child’s kiss. Her lips were open and she clung to him passionately. Not for long, of course—with his lips closed it wasn’t much of a kiss. But she barely gave him time for a breath before she kissed him again, and this time he was readier. He knew he ought to push her away, ought to make things clear once and for all, yet he kissed her back and embraced her as tightly as she embraced him. It left his head spinning, and even when the kiss ended she still pressed her hips against his and held him tightly.