Benediction (Plainsong #3)(4)

I mean it. I won’t have it. You’re going to break my heart yet, you damned old man. I believe you will. But you can’t say something like that. Now what would you like for supper? I don’t remember what we even have in this house for sure.

I don’t know. It doesn’t matter to me.

I want to fix you something nice.

She bent forward and kissed him on the head and wrapped her arm around his shoulders and raised up his old age-spotted hand affectionately and held it to her cheek for a long time.

I’m going out to the kitchen, she said. It seems like I was gone for three weeks instead of three days.



After supper, after she had washed the dishes and had put Dad to bed, she called Lorraine in Denver. I think it’s time to come home now, dear. If you can.

Is Daddy worse?

Yes. I wasn’t going to tell you yet.

Tell me what?

The doctor said he only has about a month more.

Mom, when did you find this out?

Last Friday.

Why didn’t you call me?

Oh honey, I’m trying to get used to it myself. I can’t talk about it yet. She started to cry.

Mom.

I was in the hospital too, she said. You might as well know that too.

What’s this now?

They took me to the hospital a few days ago.

Why? What was wrong?

I was just too worn down, they said. I fainted on the floor, right here in the living room.

Jesus, Mom, are you okay?

Yes, I am. But I’d appreciate it if you could arrange to help out here a little. I had Berta May come over, but that’s not right. You’re our daughter.

I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll have to tell them at the office. But I’ll be there.

That’ll be good. Now I didn’t ask you—are you all right yourself, dear?

Yes.

And Richard?

He’s all right. Richard doesn’t change.

Well.

I know. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be there as soon as I can.



The next day Lorraine drove into Holt on Highway 34 after the sun had already gone down and the blue street lamps had come on at the corners. It was all familiar to her. She turned north off the highway and drove along past the quiet night-lighted houses set back behind the front yards, some of the yards bare of trees or bushes next to vacant lots filled with weeds—tall sunflowers and redroot and pigweed—and then there was Berta May’s house which had been there when she was a child, and then their own white house. She got out and went up to the porch, a pretty woman in her mid-fifties with dark hair. The air was cool and smelled fresh of the country in the evening out on the high plains.

In the house Dad was already in bed and she went with her mother back to the bedroom.

Is he asleep already? It’s only eight thirty.

I don’t know if he’s actually sleeping. He goes to bed early. He always did. You know how he does.

They stood in the doorway. He was lying in the bed with the window open and the sheet drawn over him. He opened his eyes. Is that my daughter? he said.

It’s me, Daddy.

Come over here so I can see you.

She crossed the room and sat down on the bed and kissed him. Mary went out so he could have Lorraine to himself. Dad stared up at her for a long time. Lorraine’s eyes were wet and she took one of his Kleenexes and wiped at her eyes and cheeks.

Oh, Daddy.

Yeah. Ain’t it the goddamn hell.

She took his hand and held it. Are you in a lot of pain?

No. Not now.

You don’t have any pain?

I’m taking things for it. Otherwise I would. I was before. Well, you look good, he said.

Thank you.

How was your drive?

Okay. A lot of traffic but it was all going the other way, to the mountains.

How’s work?

It’s okay.

They let you off to come here.

They’d better, she said.

Yeah. He smiled. That’s right.

Can you sleep now, Daddy?

I can still sleep, that’s one thing. As long as Mom’s here. I didn’t sleep much when she was gone. They had her to the hospital. Did she tell you?

She told me.

She walked home. Did she tell you that too?

No.

She did. It was hotter than billy hell out there. I’m glad you’ve come. She’s all tired out. I’m afraid she might get down too far. I never wanted her to have to take care of me like this.

I know, Daddy.

Well. All right, then. You’re here now.

You go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.

She kissed him again and went out to the kitchen. He looks so bad, Mom.

I know it, honey.

He’s gotten so thin. His color’s so bad.

He won’t eat. He isn’t hungry he says. He just fusses with it.

Sunday morning at the Community Church on Birch Street on the back page of the bulletin there was an announcement about Mary Lewis. It said she had been admitted to the Holt Memorial Hospital and had been released, and it said Dad Lewis was no better. The congregation was asked to continue their prayers for him. There was another brief notice that said Lorraine had come back home.

On Monday, Reverend Lyle and the two Johnson women came to the house to call on the Lewises in the afternoon, all of them within the same hour. Rob Lyle was a man in his late forties, new to town, a tall thin man with black hair and dark eyes. The Johnson women were longtime residents of Holt County. Willa Johnson was a widow with long white hair worn in a knot at the back of her head in that old way and she had thick glasses; and Alene, her unmarried daughter, was over sixty and had taken early retirement after teaching children for almost forty years in a little town on the Front Range, and was back home for the summer now and maybe longer. They lived east of Holt, a mile south off the highway on a county road in the sandhills.