Her father said, “Then why did you slap old Wheeler’s face? She did, she slapped him. Because his house was no fit place for a child, that’s why. Broken things, rusted things on the ground everywhere. Just everywhere! We could have brought her home! If Jack had owned up to her at all. He knew what kind of place it was,” he said bitterly. “He’d been there.”
Jack leaned back in his chair and shielded his eyes with his hand.
Glory said, “That was so long ago. Can’t we put it aside, Papa?”
“Have you put it aside? We thought you never would get over it. It nearly scared your mother to death the way you mourned for that child.”
She said, “But Jack is here now. His life has been hard. It’s been sad. And he’s home now. He’s come home.”
“Yes,” the old man said, “and he’s telling us goodbye. You know he is. He says he’s read the Bible. Well, any fool could see that. He knows it better than I do. Why would he bother to say that to me? So I’ll think maybe he’s been working out his salvation. Well, maybe he has. I hope he has. But that isn’t why he spoke to me about it. He doesn’t think he should leave me here worrying about his soul. He has a few chores to finish up around the place. He’s going to toss the old gent an assurance or two, and then he’s out the door.”
Jack laughed. He said, very softly, “That’s not quite the way I thought of it.” He cleared his throat. “But I probably will be leaving. That’s true.”
Her father hung his head. “All of them call it home, but they never stay.”
After a moment Jack said, “You don’t want me hanging around here. Reminding you of things you’d rather forget.” His voice was still barely more than a whisper.
“I never forget them. Hard as I try. They’re my life.” He looked up at his son. “And so are you.”
Jack shrugged and smiled. “Sorry.”
His father reached over and patted his hand. “It worries me sometimes. I don’t know what’s become of my life.” Then he said, fingering Jack’s sleeve, in a tone of rueful admission, “I lost my church, you know.”
Jack said, “Well, I knew you were retired.”
The old man nodded. “That’s one way to look at it.” The candles had begun to flicker in an evening wind. The wind toyed with the crystal droplets on the light fixture. He said, “I lost my wife.”
Jack shifted away as if he expected another rebuke, but his father just shook his head. “Why did I ever expect to keep anything? That isn’t how life is. I’m”—he said—“I’m awfully worried about Ames. There he’s got that little boy. I don’t know.” After a moment he looked up. “I’ve left the house to Glory. All the rest of them are settled. There’s some money you’ll each get a share of, and some for the Ames boy. It’s not much. I know Glory will be glad to see you if you ever feel like coming home again.”
Jack smiled at her across the table. “That’s good to know.”
The old man closed his eyes. “I can’t enjoy the thought of heaven like I should, leaving so much unattended to here. I know it’s wrong to think your mother’s going to ask me about it.” He was silent for a while, and then he said, “I was hoping I would be able to tell her that Jack had come home.”
Jack sat pondering his father, and there was something in his face more absolute than gentleness or compassion, something purged of all the words that might describe it. Finally he said, whispered, “I hope you will give her my love.”
The old man nodded. “Yes. I will certainly do that.”
AFTER HE HAD PUT HIS FATHER TO BED JACK CAME OUT TO the kitchen. He said, “Feel like a few games of checkers? I really can’t imagine going to sleep right now.”
“Neither can I.”
He said, “I’m sorry about that, Glory. These things never go the way I expect them to. You’d think I’d have learned by now. Not to expect.”
“You meant well.”
“I believe I did.”
“You did.”
“Yes,” he said, and nodded, as if he had steadied himself against this minor certainty. “I checked with Teddy. And it was your idea to begin with.”
“We both thought it was worth a try.”
“I didn’t try, though. Did you notice that? To lie to him. I lost my nerve.”
“That’s probably just as well.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
They played three wordless games, Jack so distractedly that Glory won despite her best efforts. She thought, There ought to be a name for this. Boughton checkers. Gandhi checkers.
He said, “You probably want to get some sleep.”
“Well, Jack, I just found out that I will inherit this house. I never meant to stay in Gilead. I mean I positively intended to leave Gilead. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I’m—‘horrified’ is too strong a word, but it’s the one that comes to mind. So I doubt I could sleep if I wanted to.”
Jack leaned back in his chair and looked around him, almost objectively. “It’s a pretty decent house. Free and clear. You could do worse.”
She said, “This is a nightmare I’ve had a hundred times. The one where all the rest of you go off and
