Benediction (Plainsong #3)(6)

Is he Mexican, did anyone ever say? Willa asked. He’s so dark.

No, Mary said. I don’t think so.

On his mother’s side, I mean.

No.

Or Italian maybe.

Not if he’s in the Community Church. A Mexican wouldn’t be a preacher in a Protestant church. He’d be a Catholic.

He’s kind of good-looking, Alene said.

Her mother turned toward her, her eyes seeming overlarge behind the thick lenses.

He is, Alene said.

He’s married. He has a wife and a teenage son.

He can still be good-looking.

They sent him here from a church in Denver, Willa said. He was an associate minister there.

We heard he was, Mary said.

I doubt if he’s accustomed to small towns.

He better start getting accustomed to them, Dad said.

The women turned and looked at him. They’d thought he was asleep. His head was turned toward the window and he wasn’t looking at them when he talked.

Nothing goes on without people noticing, he said.

They waited. But he said no more.

After a while Willa started talking again. He had some kind of trouble in Denver, I heard. I believe that’s why he was sent here.

What kind of trouble? said Mary.

I heard he was disciplined by the church for supporting some other preacher who came out homosexual in Denver. I believe it was something of that nature.

Wherever did you hear that, Mother?

A woman friend. Somebody from out of town told me about it.

Well, they’re people, Alene said.

Well, of course. I know they’re people. I’m not saying that. I’m only saying as an example of the kind of man he is. What we might expect.

The room was quiet then. They could hear Lorraine and the young girl on the front porch, the soft talking and the regular small complaint and recover of the porch swing. The hot sunlight streamed in through the window beyond Dad.

I think I’ll go outside, Alene said. Excuse me, please.

There’s more coffee, Mary said.

No thank you. It’s good to see you, Dad. He looked over at her and nodded.

She rose and straightened the skirt of her dress and went out to the porch. Willa and Mary watched her leave.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Willa whispered. You see how she is. She’s been this way ever since she came home.

She’s not happy, Mary said.

Nobody’s happy. But she doesn’t have to be unpleasant in somebody else’s house.

We’re glad to see her, Mary said, and stood and went back through the dining room to the kitchen. She looked out the window to the west. The backyard was in shade from the trees, and beyond, the corral and barn were in hot bright sunlight. She brought the pot of coffee and poured some into Willa’s cup.

Just half, Willa said. I need to go pretty soon.

Mary looked at Dad. He was asleep now, his old bald head fallen onto his chest, his big hands folded in his lap.

Out on the porch they made room for Alene on the swing and the three of them, the two women and the young girl, moved slowly in the heat. Lorraine introduced the girl to Alene.

I’ve been waiting to meet you, Alene said.

Do you know my grandmother?

I’ve known her a long time. She and my mother have been friends for years.

Grandma has a lot of friends.

Yes. She does.

But she doesn’t do anything with them.

You don’t when you get older. But maybe you and I could do something together.

That’s what she said. The girl looked at Lorraine.

We’ll all do something, Lorraine said.

What grade are you in, honey?

I’ll be in the third grade this year.

That’s the grade I taught.

I don’t know my teacher here. I don’t know who she’ll be.

Do you want to find out?

I guess so.

I’ll take you up to school if you like. Maybe we can meet her. Or at least find out who she is.

Do you teach here?

No. I taught in another town close to the mountains. I’ve stopped teaching now.

We used to live close to the mountains. When my mother was alive.

Willa came out on the porch and they introduced her to Alice, and then the two Johnson women went out to their car and drove home to the sandhills and Alice went back to her grandmother’s house.





4


FORTY YEARS AGO, when it was over, Dad Lewis was only surprised that it had taken so long to find him out. He hadn’t been all that clever about it.

After he’d made the discoveries, Dad wouldn’t put it off and on Saturday after they’d closed for the day and the last meager purchase had been made and the change tendered across the scarred wood counter and the last customer had gone out the front door onto the cold darkening sidewalk on Main Street, Dad said, Are we locked up?

Clayton was standing before the front door looking out at the empty winter street. It looks like it wants to snow, he said.

Does it, Dad said. Has everybody gone?

Yeah, they’re all out. I’m ready to go too. I’m wore out today. We were busy.

Come back here to the office first, Dad said.

Something more to do?

No. Just come back to the office.

He turned and walked past the long narrow ranks of plumbing supplies and the assortment of plastic elbows and metal clamps, past the spools of chains and nylon ropes and thin cording hanging at the end of the aisle and went into the office at the rear of the building back at the alley and sat down behind the desk.