She came downstairs at dawn and Jack was in the kitchen already, in his suit and tie, with his suitcase by the door. He said, “I hope I haven’t been too much trouble. There’s a lot I regret.” He said it the minute she came into the room, as if it were the one thing he was determined to have said, the one thing he wanted her to know.
She said, “Ah, Jack,” and he laughed.
“Well, I haven’t been the perfect houseguest. You have to grant me that.”
“All I regret is that you’re leaving.”
He nodded. “Thank God,” he said. “I could have given you a lot more to regret. And myself. You’ve really helped me.”
“Now you know where to come when you need help.”
“Yes. Ye who are weary, come home.”
“Very sound advice.”
He said, “I’m not sure you should stay here, Glory. Promise me you won’t let anyone talk you into it. Don’t do it for my sake. I shouldn’t have talked to you about it the way I did.”
“Don’t worry. If you ever need to come home, I’ll be here. Call first, just to be sure. No, you won’t have to do that. I’ll be here.”
He nodded. “Thank you,” he said.
He helped her bathe their father and dress him and feed him, and then it was eight o’clock and the phone rang. Teddy had driven the whole night to make up for an emergency call and a late start. He was in Fremont, where he had stopped for coffee. Jack said, “I’m going to have to ask you for some traveling money. Not enough to get me in trouble. Just enough to get me out of town.” She had set aside Teddy’s envelope and put into it the ten-dollar bill Jack gave her when he had just arrived, and the money hidden in the Edinburgh books.
Jack hefted the envelope and handed it back to her. “Too much. You know how much liquor this would buy me? Perdition for sure. Unless I got lucky and somebody rolled me for it.”
“Oh dear God in heaven, Jack. How much can I give you, then? Sixty? It’s all your money. You won’t owe me a dime.”
“Forty will do. No need to worry. There are always more dishes to be washed, more potatoes to be peeled. Except in Gilead.”
“I’ll keep the rest for you. Call me. Or write to me.”
“Will do.” He picked up his suitcase, and then he set it down again and went into the parlor, where his father was sitting in the Morris chair. He stood there, hat in hand. The old man looked at him, stern with the effort of attention, or with wordless anger.
Jack shrugged. “I have to go now. I wanted to say goodbye.” He went to his father and held out his hand.
The old man drew his own hand into his lap and turned away. “Tired of it!” he said.
Jack nodded. “Me, too. Bone tired.” He looked at his father a minute longer, then bent and kissed his brow. He came back into the kitchen and picked up his suitcase. “So long, kiddo.” He wiped a tear from her cheek with the ball of his thumb.
“You have to take care of yourself,” she said. “You have to.”
He tipped his hat and smiled. “Will do.”
She went to the porch to watch him walk away down the road. He was too thin and his clothes were weary, weary. There was nothing of youth about him, only the transient vigor of a man acting on a decision he refused to reconsider or regret. No, there might have been some remnant of the old aplomb. Who would bother to be kind to him? A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief, and as one from whom men hide their face. Ah, Jack.
SO TEDDY ARRIVED AND SETTLED IN AND BECAME THE ONE to read in the porch, to bathe his father and feed him and turn him, and to help prepare for the others, going off to buy groceries. He didn’t ask much about their brother and she didn’t offer much about him, except to say that he had been helpful and kind. Jack was Jack. There was little enough to say that would not seem like betrayal, even though Teddy knew him well enough to have a fairly good idea of the terms he had made with the world. In time she would say more, when the sense of his presence had dimmed a little.
Once, Teddy knelt by his father’s chair to help him with his supper, and the old man reached out his hand to stroke his hair, his face. He said, “You told me goodbye, but I knew you couldn’t leave,” and there was a glint of vindication in his eyes.
THE SECOND DAY AFTER JACK HAD LEFT, GLORY WAS OUT IN THE garden clearing away the cucumber vines and gathering green tomatoes. There had been a sudden change of weather, a light frost. She noticed a car passing slowly on the farther side of the street. She watched it, thinking it must be someone from the church, some friend or acquaintance wondering if the rumors were true, that her father was indeed failing and the family were coming home. But the driver of the car was a black woman, and that was a curious thing. There were no colored people in Gilead. Glory bent to her work again, and the car
