“Where were they?”
“In a remote area, my dear. Far from the haunts of men.”
“Honestly! I’m your sister! Your only friend in the world!” “Sorry. No dice. Just look at these beauties. We eat mushrooms tonight, Glory!”
“What is that?” their father called. “What are we talking about?”
Glory said, “Go show Papa. He loves morels.”
“I think I’d better clean up a little.”
“You don’t have to clean up. Just go show him.”
So Jack carried the bundle into his father’s room and spread it open on the old man’s lap. “Ah,” his father said. “Ah yes. You’ve been out foraging.” He drew a deep breath and laughed. “‘See, the smell of my son is as the smell of a field which Jehovah hath blessed.’ Morels. Dan and Teddy used to bring me these. And blackberries, and walnuts. And they’d bring in walleye and catfish. And pheasants. They were always off in the fields, down by the river. With the girls it was always flowers. So long ago.”
Jack stood back and watched the old man study the mushrooms, sniff them, turn them in the light. He rubbed his bare arms as if he felt the way he looked, thin, exposed. He said softly, “Bless me, even me also.”
“No,” his father said, “that’s Esau. You’re confusing Esau and Jacob.”
Jack laughed. “Yes, I am the smooth man. How could I forget? I’m the one who has to steal the blessing.”
His father shook his head. “You have never had to steal one thing in your entire life. There was never any need for it. I have been searching my memory on that point.”
Glory said, “Papa, while I was in the hardware store the other day—”
But Jack said, “No, don’t. Don’t.” And smiled at her, and she knew she had come near shaming him. He had not robbed the dime store. How painful for this weary man to need exoneration from the mischief of bad children. “So good to be home,” he said to her afterward. “No place like it, the old song says.”
“Can I get something for you? Coffee?”
“Sure. Coffee. Why not?” He said, “You are a good soul, Glory. That fellow who did not marry you was a very foolish man.”
She shrugged. “Not altogether. He was a married man.”
“Oh.”
“So he said.”
“Oh.”
“Of course I didn’t know it at the time. Particularly.”
He laughed. “Particularly.”
“You know what I mean. I could have figured it out if I’d wanted to.”
He nodded. “Ah, that’s hard. I’m sorry.” After a moment, “And no child was born of this union, I take it.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“So you were spared that, at least.”
She drew a deep breath.
He said, “I’m sorry! Why did I say that? Why don’t I just stop talking? Why don’t you tell me to stop?”
“Well, Jack, you didn’t know her. So I suppose it isn’t surprising that you’d think about her that way. As something we might have wished to be spared.”
“Yes, the little girl.”
“Your little girl.”
“My little girl.” He stood up. “I’m not much good at — I stayed away all that time — it was the best I could do—”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean we’re glad she was born. We enjoyed her life. I believe she enjoyed it, too. I know she did.”
He put his hand to his face. “Thank you. That’s good to know, I suppose. I’m probably saying the wrong thing — I’ve never known how to deal with this. Shame. You’d think I’d be used to it.”
“But I’m trying to tell you, there was so much more than shame in all that, or wrongdoing or whatever. Anyone could have been proud of her. That’s what I tried to say in those letters I sent you.”
“Oh. Then I guess I should have read them.” He laughed. “Dear God,” she said. “Dear God in heaven, I give up. I throw up my hands.”
“Please don’t say that, Glory. I’m alone here—”
“Well,” she said, “you know I don’t mean it.”
After a moment he said, “Why don’t you mean it?”
“Well, I’m your sister, for one thing. And for another thing—” He laughed.
“—I’m your sister. That’s reason enough.”
He nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s very kind.”
JACK HAD ADDED TO THE GARDEN, SUNFLOWERS AND SNAPdragons and money plants, several hills of cantaloupe, a pumpkin patch, three rows of corn. He rescued the bleeding-heart bushes from a tangle of weeds and tended the gourds with the tact of a man who believed, as all Boughtons did, that they throve on neglect. When her brothers and sisters were children they had made rattles of the gourds when they dried, and bottles and drinking cups, playing Indian. They had carved pumpkins and toasted the seeds. They had pretended the silver disks of money plants were dollars. They had pinched the jaws of snapdragons to make them talk, or pinched their lips closed to pop them. They had eaten the seeds of sunflowers when they were ripe and dry. They had opened the flowers of bleeding hearts to reveal the tiny lady in her bath. Corn on the cob they had all loved, though they hated to shuck it, and they had all loved
