Benediction (Plainsong #3)(65)

Who?

At the café.

I thought you weren’t there no more.

I’m not. But I drop in.

They didn’t tell your mom.

I drop in once in a while.

What are you doing now?

I’ve been out in California where most of us end up. Where else?

I guess it’s nice and warm all year long out there, Dad said.

It’s warm. Yeah. But we’re out there in numbers. That’s what I’m talking about.

You mean others like you.

Yeah. Other weirdos and cocksuckers.

Don’t talk like that about yourself, Dad said.

It’s the truth, isn’t it. Isn’t that what you think?

I did once.

What do you think now?

Not that.

What then?

I don’t know. I don’t understand it. I’m too ignorant. I don’t know nothing about it. I told you, I come off a farm in Kansas. That’s all I knew where I come from. It took all I had to get this far, a little plains town, with a store on Main Street.

You did all right, Dad. You’ve come a long way.

Not far enough.

No. That’s true. Not yet you haven’t.

Dad looked at him, his eyes watering again.

What’s wrong? Frank said.

Nothing.

I thought you were going to cry.

That’s the first kind thing you’ve said to me in forty years, Dad said. About me doing all right, coming a long way.

Well, I must have forgotten myself. I let my guard down. Don’t count on it happening again.

I know. I learned that much. I’m not ignorant about everything.

He woke once more. Frank had moved his chair to a place closer beside the bed. The other two chairs were gone now. The air was fresh and pleasant coming in the window, the light still shining from the barn outside.

You’re still here, Dad said.

Yeah. I’m here. I haven’t left yet.

My old mother and old dad didn’t come back.

No. They’re gone now.

Those others didn’t come back either.

Who?

Tanya. And Rudy and Bob.

No, they aren’t with me.

Dad looked at him for a while. Frank had turned sideways so he could see out the window. The shade had been drawn up now. Son, are you doing all right? Dad said.

Me?

Yes.

I’m all right, more or less. I could use a better job. I never could get going right. I get dissatisfied and take off.

You always could do a lot of different things.

Maybe. But I don’t know what. I don’t have any college degree like Lorraine does.

You could of.

You think so?

We would of helped you like we helped her.

I couldn’t do it back then.

Why was that?

I wasn’t thinking about studying. I didn’t have the time. Or the desire for it.

You wanted out of here, Dad said. Didn’t you. That’s what you wanted.

That was part of it.

Away from me, you mean.

Not just that. Away from this little limited postage-stamp view of things. You and this place both.

But you still could of gone to school. That would of helped.

I didn’t think so then. I just wanted out on my own.

Well. You done that.

Yeah. He laughed. I’ve done that, all right. I’ve been out on my own. A lot of good it did me.

But you done all right, didn’t you?

What are you talking about, Dad? I’ve been a waiter. A night clerk. A janitor. A hired hand. A garbage man. A taxi driver. You don’t want to know what all I’ve done for money.

But that’s just somebody getting started. You’re still getting on your feet.

Dad, I’m fifty years old. What am I going to do now? How can I start now?

Dad moved in the bed and then lay still.

Hand me one of those pills there, he said.

Here?

Yeah.

You want some water?

Yeah. He took the glass and drank and handed it back and lay still again.

You can always come back here, he said. After I’m gone you can come back.

And do what, Dad?

Help run the store.

Lorraine’s running the store.

You can help her.

It wouldn’t work. It’s not going to happen.

Then you can have some of the value of it, Dad said. You and Mom and Lorraine can divide it up. Take your third of it. Do something. Start over.

No. I don’t want any money from you. I won’t take your money. I swore I wouldn’t.

Dad stared at him a long time. Frank looked past Dad at the wall and turned again to stare out the window. He lit another cigarette.

You never forgave me, did you, Dad said.

You never forgave yourself.

I couldn’t. How could I? Now it’s too late.

You’re still alive, Frank said. Maybe you’ll have a deathbed conversion.

Dad studied Frank’s face. You’re being cynical. You’re just talking.

Of course.

You don’t mean what you said.

No, I don’t mean it. I’ve been too goddamn angry. I’ve been too filled up to my throat with bitterness. Oh Jesus. I could smash your dying face right now.

Why don’t you? I wish you would. Go ahead. I want you to.