Benediction (Plainsong #3)(68)

In the evening Dad woke once and looked around and asked for water. Only Mary and Lorraine were sitting with him now in the bedroom. He stared at Mary for a long time while she held his hand. He stared over at Lorraine, then he pulled his hand back under the blanket and fell into his restless sleep again.

Later that evening, Mary said, I have to go to bed. I can’t sit up any longer.

Do you want me to stay with Dad? You could have my room.

No. I want to be here with him.

You’re not afraid?

Why no. This is my husband. I’ve been with this man most of my life. Over half a century. I know him better than I know anybody else in the world.

But you’re not afraid to be here now.

No, honey. There’s nothing here to scare me. I might be afraid about the future, but not of this man in this room here.

Mom, I’ll be here to help in the future.

I know, dear. Now you should go to bed too.

After Lorraine went upstairs Mary lifted the blanket and slid in beside Dad. He was lying on his back now. She patted his hand under the blanket and rose up to kiss him.

I’m right here. I’m not going anyplace, she whispered. You do what you have to do. Did you hear us talking about you? I hope you didn’t mind.

She kissed him again on his cracked mouth and lay back beside him and lay still, peering up into the dark room where the barn light was forming dim shapes and shadows and strange figures, and suddenly she began to weep.

Later in the night she woke abruptly and switched on the bedside lamp and looked at him and felt his head, he was still breathing the same slow irregular breath. She got up and went to the bathroom and went out to the kitchen, looking out into the backyard and the corral and barn and stood staring at the darkness, and then drank a glass of water and came back and checked Dad again and got in beside him and took his hand again. When she woke in the morning he was still alive.

He lived through all of that day. He’d stop breathing for a while, then begin again with a gasp, coughing, trying feebly to clear his throat. They moistened the inside of his mouth with a swab and spread balm on his lips. He lay facing the door or the wall, or lay stretched on his back, his face gray and faded, strained-looking, and his eyes under the thin eyelids were fixed now, not moving.

They sat with him beside the bed talking softly and touching him now and then, holding his icy hands, and whispered to him, telling him their feelings for him. They cried every so often, then one would stay with him while the other went out.

In the afternoon Berta May came again and helped with the straightening in the house and brought in dinner to eat, a casserole of meat and pasta and a green salad. Can I do something else? she said.

You’ve done too much already, Mary said. You shouldn’t have done all of this.

Yes, I should of. You would for me.

Well, you know we thank you.

Now what else?

If you wouldn’t mind … people have been calling all morning long on the phone and some of them want to come visit. I can’t have that. I told Willa and Alene to come. They’re the only ones. I think they would be good. But I don’t want anyone else. Could you answer the door for us, and explain to people?



The Johnson women drove up to the house in the afternoon and Berta May let them in. They entered the front hall very quietly and she told them Dad was still alive, that Mary and Lorraine were in the bedroom with him, they’d been sitting there almost all the day. They’re just about worn out, she said.

Oh, wouldn’t they be? Willa said. Is there something we can do?

Everything’s done. You can go in if you want. They said to tell you to come in.

Berta May led them back down the hall and eased the bedroom door open and stuck her head in. Mary gestured for them to come in, and Lorraine got up and brought two more chairs from the dining room, then the four women sat near the bed together. Dad lay on his back, his mouth open and his eyes shut, with the blanket covering him.

We can talk, Mary said. It’s all right to speak, if we’re quiet.

How is he? Willa whispered. Is there any change?

He’s worse, I think. Her eyes filled with tears. Willa and Alene leaned toward her and took her hands.

I’m glad you’ve come, she said. I don’t want others to be here. That would bother Dad.

No, Willa said. We don’t want to bother any one of you.

I just don’t want some people.

No. Of course.

Dad coughed, his eyes opened, staring, he stopped breathing. They watched him, then he breathed in, a hard gasp, and shut his eyes and went on as before.

The poor man, Willa said softly. You know my husband always thought so much of him. Dad Lewis is somebody to know, he said. Dad Lewis is a man you can set your clock by. I don’t think he was talking about time.

Yes, Mary said. He was always reliable.

Yes, but my husband meant he was somebody that was straight up and down, like the hands of a clock, somebody you could depend on, somebody to trust completely.

That was nice of him to say, Mary said.

Yes. He meant it too.

Outside the bedroom it suddenly turned dark, a cloud was passing over, and it began to rain. It pounded straight down. A sudden dark fallen curtain. Then in a moment it stopped.

I hope Dad heard that, Mary said.

The air was cool and fresh now coming in the window.

Oh, doesn’t it smell good, she said.