Jack said, “What are your feelings now, about the goodness of the Lord?” He said, “I really don’t think the Lord’s good name should depend on my behavior. I’m not equal to the responsibility.”
The old man shook his head. “Nobody is. I’m not equal to it, either, the way I’ve been talking to you here—”
“No matter. I knew most of it anyway.”
His father pondered for a while. “You knew it, and it didn’t make a bit of difference. I should have realized that. I suppose I did.”
Jack pushed back his chair and stood up. “Yes, well, if you’ll excuse me—”
Glory said, “No, Jack, you sit down. We’ve worried about you enough.”
His glance at her was weary, even bewildered. “I just thought I’d go up to my room.”
“No.” She touched his shoulder. She could see him make the decision to trust her, at least not to offend her. He sat down again.
His father said, “Kindness takes more strength than I have now. I didn’t realize how much effort I used to put into it. It’s like everything else that way, I guess.”
Jack said, “I can’t leave quite yet. But I’ll leave as soon as I can.”
“Oh yes, you came for your own reasons, and you’ll leave for your own reasons. And it just happened that I was here, I wasn’t dead yet.”
Glory said, “I’m sorry, Papa, but this has gone on long enough.”
The old man nodded. “Maybe I’m finding out I’m not such a good man as I thought I was. Now that I don’t have the strength — patience takes a lot out of you. Hope, too.”
Jack said, “I think hope is the worst thing in the world. I really do. It makes a fool of you while it lasts. And then when it’s gone, it’s like there’s nothing left of you at all. Except”—he shrugged and laughed—“except what you can’t be rid of.”
His father said, “I’m sorry you’ve had to know about that, Jack. And now we’ve got Glory crying.”
Jack shrugged and smiled at her. “Sorry.”
Glory said, “Don’t worry. There’s no harm in it.”
Her father sighed. “Yes, well, I wish I could take it all back, everything I’ve just said. But I suppose you did know it already. Still, it’s different when you say things like that out loud. It already seems like I didn’t mean it. Now I know I’m going to just lie on my bed and worry about it, and wish I’d held my peace. I did that for so long.”
Jack said, “You did. You were always very kind.”
The old man nodded. “I hope that still counts for something.”
“It’s the only thing that counts.”
“Thank you, Jack. And I know you want to be done with me now. I’ve worn us out, both of us. I’ll just let the two of you get back to your conversation.”
Glory helped him to his room and into his bed, and when she came back, Jack was slouched in his chair with his ankles crossed, laying out cards for solitaire.
He said, “Has a day ever passed when you haven’t thought of him?”
“Who?”
“Whom. The old gent. Whom did you think I meant? Mr. 452 Love Letters?”
She said, “You’re so jealous!”
He laughed. “True. It isn’t fair. I never got even one. Just the other day in the Post I noticed a poem by Mrs. Lindbergh that I wouldn’t mind getting in the mail. Much better than nothing. Though I’ve learned that nothing also has charms. It’s more nuanced than ‘return to sender,’ for example.”
She said, “I doubt I’ve gone a whole day without thinking of Papa. I’m sure there have been hours here and there.”
“I’ve thought about this place so many times. When I was a kid I used to wish I lived here. I used to wish I could just walk in the door like the rest of you did and, you know, sit down at the table and do my homework or something.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “I actually tried it out once or twice.” Then he said, “I know why people watched me. I’m not even sure that was what made me uneasy. I think it made me feel safer sometimes. I used to test it, stir up a little trouble to make sure the old fellow was still keeping an eye on me. Sometimes I’d be out in the barn, in the loft, listening to the piano, you all singing ‘My Darling Clementine,’ and I’d think, Maybe they’ve forgotten all about me, and it felt like death, in a way.” He said, “I was usually closer to home than he thought I was. Where he didn’t look for me.” He glanced at her. “Don’t cry, please. I’m just telling you how it was.” He laughed. “How it is.” Then he said, “There are a couple of bottles in the loft. If you want to get them down, I’ll hold the ladder.”
“I get tears. I can’t help it. They don’t mean anything.”
“They’re nice, actually. To be honest, I think I tell you my sad stories to see if they really are sad. And sure enough, the tears start, and I can relax about it. I mean, there’s nothing sad about getting what you deserve. So I’ve been told. I
