“You can forgive yourself.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Interesting.”
She glanced at her watch.
He said, “We’ll change the subject.”
Then he said, as if taking upon himself the effort of sustaining conversation, “That woman in St. Louis I mentioned — she sang in the choir at her church, of course. And sometimes, if the lady who played piano for them couldn’t come to practice, I’d fill in for her. I’d come anyway, just to listen. That old lady could really play, but she was kind. She taught me as much as I could learn. I played for their service a few times. I used to come into the church on weeknights to use the piano, and so long as the music wasn’t too worldly, they didn’t mind. I could have made a decent living playing in bars, but they were — well, they were bars. So I hung around at her church. It was all right. I mean, I was happy then.” He looked at her, smiled at her. “Why are you laughing? You don’t believe me.”
“Sure, I believe you. I’ve been wondering where you learned to play those hymns so well.”
“There it is. Proof of my veracity. And you’re laughing anyway.”
“It’s because I met, you know, the man I didn’t marry, at a choir rehearsal. He was passing in the street, he said, and he heard the music, and it took him back to the sweetest moments of his childhood. He hoped we would not mind if he stood very quietly and listened for a while.”
“Why, what a cad. ‘Sweetest moments of his childhood.’ I could have warned you. That one phrase would have given him away.”
“Yes, no doubt. But at the time I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. So I couldn’t avail myself of your wisdom.”
“True.” Jack cleared his throat. He cleared it again. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was hovering around choir rehearsals looking for vulnerable women. I met my — the woman I mentioned — as I was walking by her apartment building one day. It was raining and she was coming home from school — she was also an English teacher. She dropped some papers and I helped her gather them up. And so on. I’d found an umbrella on a park bench a couple of days before, and here was a lady needing rescue. We became friends almost without calculation or connivance on my part. It was all very respectable. It was.”
She said, “‘Looking for vulnerable women.’”
“Oh well, that isn’t quite what I meant.”
“That is what he was doing, though. You’re exactly right. It’s only that I had never put it to myself in just those words.”
“Sorry.” He smiled and touched his hand to his face. She thought, Why has he turned pale? Then he said, “You know, by vulnerable I suppose I really meant — religious. Yes. Pious girls have tender hearts. They believe sad stories. So I have heard. All to their credit, of course. And they usually lead sheltered lives. Little real knowledge of the world. They are brought up to think someone ought to love them for that sort of thing, their virtue and so on. And they are ready to believe anyone who tells them about, you know, his angel mother, and how the thought of her piety has been a beacon shining through the darkest storms of life. So I have been told. And often, on a cold night, there will be cake and coffee, absolutely free of charge. That can bring out the hypocrite in a fellow, if he has a thin coat or a hole in his shoe. As I understand.” Then he said, “If I had a daughter, I wouldn’t let her go anywhere near a choir rehearsal.”
She said nothing.
Jack stood up. “Yes,” he said, “well. There’s still a little bit of daylight. I’d better go make myself useful, hadn’t I. Earn my bread in the sweat of my brow, as they say.” He stopped by the door and stood there, watching her. After a long moment he said, “I know I should leave this town. But I can’t leave yet.”
“Sit down, Jack. No one wants you to leave. Papa doesn’t, and I don’t.”
He said, “Well, that’s good of you. Good of you to say.”
“Not really. I appreciate the company.” She laughed. “All my life I’ve wanted your attention. I’ve wanted to talk with you. It’s the curse of the little sister, I suppose. I knew it would be hard. That was always clear enough.”
He shrugged. “I’m glad to know I’m living up to expectations.”
She said, “Papa’s right, of course. Neither one of us would be here if we weren’t in some kind of — difficulty. So there’s not much point in pretending otherwise, at least when he’s asleep. I’d have been afraid of the word ‘vulnerable,’ but it didn’t kill me to hear you say it. So now I know that.”
“You’re welcome,” he said.
Then she said, “She’s the one you write to, the woman you mentioned?”
He smiled. “Why, yes, I write to her. I did just this morning. Dropped a tear where I had signed my name. It was tap water, really, but the thought is what counts. That was letter two hundred eight.”
“All right,” she said. “Sorry I asked.”
“I’m afraid,” he said, very softly, “that sometime you really might be sorry. I mean, if you got to know me well enough, you might not want me around. You might even ask me to
