feel of the wind by two, multiplying the smell of the grass by two. 'I remember when we put that old wagon on the courthouse roof,' he said. 'Seems to me the stars were brighter in those days. Twice as bright.'
'And we were twice as clever.'
'Oh, more than that,' he said. 'Much more than that.'
Jack came out and sat down with us. He asked if he could look at the article, and I gave it to him. He said, 'I thought he made the point in here somewhere that Americans'
treatment of the Negro indicated a lack of religious seriousness.' Boughton said, 'It is very easy to judge.'
Jack smiled and handed the magazine back to me. 'True,' he said.
That was the first I'd seen of him since Sunday, since the service. He went out through the chancel and the side door, to avoid shaking hands with me, I believe. I've been feeling some discomfort on that account as well as others. I was even a little embarrassed to meet his eyes, to tell the truth. I believe returning the magazine was mainly a pretext for looking in on
Boughton and Glory, to see if they were upset with me. I wasn't done with that article. I meant all along to bring it back with me. I conceal my motives from myself pretty effectively sometimes. I had even imagined, lying awake Sunday night, 147
that Jack might go away again because I had brought up the old catastrophe right there in church, or so he seemed to believe. I thought of apologizing, but that would only confirm in
his mind that my meaning and my intention were what he took them to be, which I do not wholly believe, and which would deprive him of the possibility of making a less damaging interpretation of them. At any rate, it would raise the issue between us, perhaps unnecessarily. Finally, I was hesitant to go to the house at all, fearing that my mere presence might be an irritant or a provocation, as I feared my staying away might be also. Then Glory came by to say hello. She seemed in fine spirits. And I was mightily relieved. If there is one thing I don't
want to do in the time that remains to either one of us, it is offend Boughton. I fell to thinking what a pleasure it must be to
him to have Jack there, and it occurred to me that it might be a remarkable generosity on Jack's part to come home to the
poor old man, and perhaps to Glory also, considering; her troubles. I was downright ashamed to remember how impatient I
was for him to leave, thinking only of my own life, I admit. The thought had even occurred to me that he might be there
to start moving his father out of the house, so to speak, since he and the other children will inherit it. The place really did need to be put right, and there was much more to do than Glory could have done alone. Sitting there on the porch with Jack, I was struck by how much he had aged. Of course he's old enough to have aged, he's in his forties somewhere. Angeline would be fifty-one, so he's forty-three. There is gray in his hair, and he looks tired around the eyes. Well, he looked tense, as he always does, and he also looked sad, it seemed to me.
Your mother came up the road to tell us our supper was ready. It was a cold supper, she said, so there was no hurry. She agreed to sit with us for a few minutes. She always has to be coaxed to stay in company even a little while, and then it's all I 148
can do to get a word from her. I believe she worries about the way she talks. I love the way she talks, or the way she talked when I first knew her. 'It don't matter,' she would say, in that low, soft voice of hers. That was what she said when she meant she forgave someone, but it had a sound of deeper, sadder resignation, as if she were forgiving the whole of the created order,
forgiving the Lord Himself. It grieves me that I may never hear just those words spoken by her again. I believe Boughton made her self-conscious with that little trick of his of correcting people. Not that he ever corrected her.
'It don't matter.' It was as if she were renouncing the world itselfjust in order to make nothing of some offense to
her. Such a prodigal renunciation, that empty-handed prodigality I remember from the old days. I have nothing to give
you, take and eat. Ashy biscuit, summer rain, her hair falling wet around her face. If I were to multiply the splendors of the world by two—the splendors as I feel them—I would arrive at an idea of heaven very unlike anything you see in the old paintings.
So Jack Boughton is forty-three. I have no idea what sort of life he has had since he left here. There has never been any mention of marriage or children or of any particular kind of work. I always felt it was best not to inquire.
I was sitting there listening to old Boughton ramble along (he uses the expression himself) about a trip he and his wife made once to Minneapolis, when Jack broke in and said to me, 'So, Reverend, I would like to hear your views on the doctrine of predestination.'
Now, that is probably my least favorite topic of conversation
• in the entire world. I have spent a great part of my life hearing that doctrine talked up and down, and no one's understanding 149
ever advanced one .iota.,J'ye seen grown men, God-fearing men, come to blows over that doctrine. The first thought that
came to my mind was, Of course he would bring up predestination! So I said, 'That's a complicated issue.' .
'Let me simplify it,' he said. 'Do you think some people are intentionally and irretrievably consigned to perdition?'
'Well,' I said, 'that may actually be the kind of simplification that raises more questions than it avoids.'
He laughed. 'People must ask you about this all the time,' he said.
'They do.'
'Then I suppose you must have some way of responding.'
