Benediction (Plainsong #3)(51)

When you were in your fifties.

I guess so.

Well. That’s where I am. I’m in my fifties.

Dad looked at him sitting there, smoking. I know you now. I’m glad you come.

Are you? Why would you be?

I want to talk to you.

Go ahead. Talk.

Dad looked around at the others. I don’t like to talk in front of these other people here.

They won’t mind.

Who are they?

Don’t you know me? The woman in the chair behind Frank moved so he could see her. A blond woman about thirty, ripe-looking with a big chest, wearing a low-cut blouse and shorts. Her legs looked white and plump. Don’t you know my voice too?

I never thought I’d see you again, Dad said.

Here I am. I came to visit you.

Do you want something?

Maybe I do.

What is it? I thought you told me you never wanted to see me again. That it was enough. You wrote that letter.

I know. That’s what I’m talking about. I want to catch you up. Tell you all that’s happened.

That’s fine. Go ahead. But just a minute. Who’s these others here?

You know us too, Dad. Hell, you ought to recognize us.

Is that you, Rudy?

Nobody else.

And Bob?

Yeah. It’s me, Dad.

I don’t understand this. Aren’t we done with the store?

Yeah. About done.

He peered at them. Then he studied the other faces, one after the other. Well, do you want some coffee, all of you? He looked toward the open doorway.

No, Rudy said. We wouldn’t want to bother Mary.

I never got to meet her, Tanya said.

Didn’t you?

I used to see her in town on Main Street when we was still living here before we moved away. Before you made us get out of here. Before you told Clayton what you told him.

What was I supposed to do? Dad said. He stole from me.

You say. There might of been different ways though.

What ways?

You might of let him work it off. Pay down his debt that way.

I didn’t want that, Dad said. I couldn’t have him in the store. I never wanted to see him again.

Yeah. Clayton told me that’s what you said.

Dad looked at each of them again. You don’t want any coffee, Rudy?

No, sir. I’m okay. Doing fine.

You neither, Bob?

No, thanks.

I don’t know if you even drink coffee, Frank.

Don’t you remember?

No. Should I?

You would have, if you were paying attention.

What does that mean? Dad said.

I drank coffee all the time when I was still here. When I was going to high school. You don’t remember that, do you.

No. That’s just a little thing. Why would I think of something like that?

No reason. You’re right, it doesn’t amount to anything if I was drinking coffee and sitting at the same table with you every day, you and Mom, for however many years I was doing it before I left and went to Denver.

We come to see you in Denver, Dad said.

And stayed one hour. That was all.

We had to get home. It was wintertime. They said it was going to snow.

It didn’t snow, Frank said.

It was going to.

They were still with him when Dad woke once more in the darkened bedroom.

Does your mother know you’re here? he said.

Mom?

Did you see her? Did you tell her you were here, that you come in? She would want to see you. He didn’t answer. Dad looked out through the window toward the barn and empty corral, the tall weeds growing up.

Never mind Mom for now. We’ll get to Mom.

What are you talking about? Dad said.

You don’t understand, do you.

You ought to have more respect, Tanya said. He’s your father. You shouldn’t treat him like that.

I have respect for him. For some aspects of him.

You don’t show it. He’s going to be gone anytime now and then you’ll wish you’d of done him different.

Like you and Clayton, you mean, he said.

Clayton don’t have nothing to do with this.

He’s why you’re here, isn’t he?

Not like you’re talking about. I loved Clayton.

Okay. Good, said Frank. You loved him.

I loved that man and then he goes to Denver and shoots himself in the head. How would you like that?

It seems like as good a way as any, Frank said.

But how would you like to have to look at that thing there, to say that’s him. That thing used to be my husband and now I got two little kids that don’t have no daddy no more.

It’s tough shit, isn’t it, Frank said. It’s life. Maybe they were better off without him.

She looked at him. Oh, you got hard, she said. Didn’t you.

I had to.

They turned toward Dad lying propped up in bed watching them talk. Gray and yellow-looking, with parchment skin, sunken eyes, hair shoved up awry on the sides of his head.

That’s life, isn’t it, Dad. Isn’t that what you would say?

I don’t know.

You would if you were thinking right.

I’m thinking okay.

It’s life, Frank said. It’s the way it goes, it’s how shit happens. I used to want you to do something.

What are you talking about now? Dad said.