Jack (Gilead #4)(15)

“Of course you didn’t. And I’d have expected you to be a little taller.”

“I’m barefoot, remember.”

“True. But you actually weren’t sure who I was, back there, when you first saw me.”

“Oh, I knew who you were.”

“But you thought about running.”

“It crossed my mind.”

“I see.”

They were quiet. Then she said, “Maybe I’m remembering you now, since I can’t really see you.”

“All right, I suppose. Which me are you remembering? Do I have that scar?”

“The scar is there. I’m sorry about it. Other than that, it’s just your—atmosphere.”

“Cheap aftershave. Not that I’ve shaved. It spilled down my sleeve. Weeks ago. And cigarette smoke. And so on. A little atmosphere has to be expected, I guess. Sorry.”

“You know I didn’t mean that.”

“Then what? My spirit?”

“You said we’re like spirits.”

“I should have said ghosts. Ectoplasm.”

“They’re spirits.”

“Mine isn’t.”

“Mine is.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Does it matter?”

“You seem to think so.”

“True enough.” He said, “You’re very sure of yourself. At ease in your skin. While I—”

She stopped. “You actually said that.”

“What? Well, yes, I suppose I did. I’m—not really sorry. That would probably give the wrong impression. It’s a thing people say, isn’t it? Or they say the opposite. Depending on cases. I’ve offended you. I’m terribly sorry. It’s true, though, isn’t it?”

“No. Much of the time it isn’t true. When I find myself trapped in a white cemetery, it definitely isn’t true.”

He said, “You may not believe this, but I have had something of the same experience. A number of times.”

She laughed. “I’m sorry, but I actually do believe you.”

“Yes. Here’s an example. I got a draft notice. I was so surprised they’d found me that I thought it must be an omen. Time to pull myself together, learn discipline and so on. So I sobered up, made a kind of habit of breakfast, that sort of thing. It was all I thought about for a week at least. I showed up at the post office, five minutes early. When my turn came, the fellow just glanced up from his notebook and said something I thought was—unnecessarily dismissive.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Next.’ He made a gesture with his pencil, also dismissive. I decided I should consider the whole episode an omen, a sign, you know, that my past would be my future. Though he might just have known me from somewhere.”

“Well, that’s very sad.”

“Yes. Humiliating. I don’t know why I told you about it. In general I lie. I tell people I lied my way out of the army, and they always believe me. A bad heart, I say. Flat feet. Religious objections.” Then he said, “But I wanted you to know I was capable of honorable intentions. That’s why I told you.”

“I knew that already.”

“You did?” He laughed. “What a waste! I should have saved it for a better time.”

She said, “There won’t be a better time.”

Quiet. Or was it silence. Usually he knew.

There was a bench, and they sat down. She pulled her legs up beside her, so she could partly cover them with the skirts of her coat. This meant that her shoulder was against his. If he put his arm on the back of the bench behind her, both of them would be more comfortable. He thought of suggesting it. They weren’t friends. They were acquaintances, which was a different thing in their case than in others. She had thought of running when she saw him. If they were friends, he could say they would both be warmer if he put his arm, so to speak, around her. He could make a little joke about it, call her girlfriend, and she would say, Don’t you wish, that sort of thing, and settle against him. He didn’t move, and his arm and shoulder and then his neck became stiff with the effort of not moving, maybe with the thought of not moving. After a while, he felt her head tip toward his shoulder. She startled awake. “Still dark,” she said. “Still night.” A little while again and he felt her cheek on his shoulder, her hair against his cheek. His shoulder ached. He had a thought of a kind he had often: If he lived a more orderly life, he could at least keep track of his debts, keep them at bay a little. He was a bad risk, which meant that his creditors wasted no time in applying ex treme measures. He was usually putting a little aside to stave off the more terrible threats, when people were thoughtful enough to give him even a dire warning, which meant there was usually some pocket money to be shaken loose by whoever decided Jack owed him something, or owed it to a friend of his. He suspected sometimes this might all be a joke everyone else was in on. It was hard to imagine any kind of future, living where he did, as he did. If he just gave up drinking entirely, that would save him some money and any amount of trouble and embarrassment. He would stay out of bars altogether. Then he would get a job of some kind. Then he would happen by Della’s, and she would be sitting on the stoop all alone, listening to the wind and watching the fireflies, and he would think he had that book in his pocket, Oak and Ivy, and then his reverend father would be standing there with the book in his hands, brand-new, with ribbons in it like a Bible, saying, “The love of a good woman! Yes!” Jack’s cheek had fallen against her hair, well, really, her hat, but when he woke, he did not move. He thought she might be awake, but she didn’t move either. Well, he thought, this is pleasant enough. Why should he trouble himself with thoughts of reformation when mere chance could bring him to this moment, without effort or forethought on his part, without the miseries of anticipation. Yes, that blasted little hat. It was made of something stiff, scratchy, and it seemed to have beads on it. It had tipped away from her hair on one side. It would have been the simplest thing in the world just to slip it off, but she might be awake, and he was only more nervous about seeming familiar when she had been so trusting. Not intentionally, of course, but in fact, which is what matters. Aside from that, it hadn’t begun to rain and no one had come by to bother them. He thought they must have been sitting there an hour at least. He was in the habit of noticing good hours, otherwise swept up in days about which there was not really much good to be said. A quarter hour, if it came to that.