Jack (Gilead #4)(56)

Jack sat down again, assuming Hutchins had forgotten to ask him to. He said, “I’ve never said a word to anyone about this. Her name is Della.” He laughed. “I’ve probably said it two or three times, to her, no one else. Della. She’s been to college. She teaches high school. We like to talk.” He shrugged. “It’s amazing to me that any of it could have happened.” He said, “That punishing grace we talked about. She’s gone back to Memphis to try to put things right with her family. Her father’s a minister there. A.M.E.”

“Oh.” The minister picked up his pencil again. “So we’re talking about a colored lady here.”

“Yes. That’s part of the problem. I mean, part of what makes it so hard just to sit down with her and talk about something for a few minutes.”

“Well, that might be for the best, don’t you think? It might be best for her. She’ll be wanting to make a life for herself.”

“I know. It would have been kind of me to stay away from her completely. I tried a few times.”

The minister said, “It would have been kind of her to encourage that. For your sake.”

“She tried, a few times.”

Hutchins seemed less cordial, now that he knew Della was black. He said, “A woman with her opportunities also has important obligations.”

“She is aware of that. So am I.”

“Well, then,” he said, as if the conclusion to be drawn were too obvious to be put into words. As in fact it was.

“I really have no intention of trying to see her again. Her father is pastor of a big church. He’ll be easy to find. I’ll go there on a Sunday, tell him that, and leave. Because it does seem to me it might be a good thing for Della if he had a better opinion of me.”

That appraising look again. “Possible,” he said, in a tone that meant, Not possible. He said, “You should be prepared for the fact that he won’t want a better opinion of you. I mean that, at best, he has no use for it. If you were the most impeccable white gentleman on earth, to him you would most likely just be trouble.”

It surprised Jack to realize that, in some part of his mind, he aspired to being an impeccable white gentleman. On the one hand, there was jail time and destitution and a slightly battered face, and on the other, there were neckties and polished shoes and a number of lines of Milton. This might be a wholly groundless pretense, but he couldn’t stop pretending. It was this or dissolution. He had abruptly confronted the fact that there was nothing to recommend him to anyone, which was a more profound concession than the situation actually asked of him. The minister sat quietly, fiddling with his pencil, seeing, apparently, that Jack needed a minute to recover himself.

Della’s letter was in his pocket! “Look at this. She sent me this letter.” Jack took it out and started to remove it from its envelope, then put it back in, so that Hutchins would see it really was addressed to him. Then he remembered he hadn’t introduced himself by his actual name. But the minister didn’t seem to notice. He took the letter from him, removed the slip of paper with pleasing care, and read it over.

He raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite a letter!” he said, and handed it back to him. “‘Dear friend, gracious companion.’ She thinks a lot of you. I see that.”

“Good behavior,” Jack said. A little cynicism could damp down earnest conversation as needed. And why should he have let this stranger see her precious words? He had to try to get some distance. What might he do next?

“No, no,” Hutchins said. “To be gracious is a gift. Lots of people can’t manage it. You can be very proud of that. What she says there.”

“Really? That sounds like a problem, theologically speaking.”

“Well, then, let’s just say I’d be proud that someone said those things to me.”

Jack said, “It’s gracious of you to sit here while I talk. A stranger. A bum, actually. Though at the moment I’m employed.” Did Baptists approve of dancing? No point getting into that.

“It’s been interesting. I’m not sure I’ve been entirely gracious in what I’ve been saying to you. I just wanted you to know that going to Memphis might be a disappointment for you. You could get hurt. Your feelings, I mean.”

Jack laughed. “I’m really not fragile.”

Hutchins shook his head. “Trust me, son. If I’m any judge of these things, you’d better take care. You’d better not be looking for ways to test yourself. Maybe you don’t quite realize what you’re living through already.”

This summary of his situation struck Jack like a bolt of frozen grief. Those days to get through, those months, those years. Hutchins opened a desk drawer and handed him a handkerchief. Jack thought, I guess I’m crying. Nothing to be done about it.

After a few minutes, Hutchins said, “One last thing. Would this lady we’re speaking about be a Miss Miles?”

“How did you know?”

“Well, her father is Bishop James Miles. He’s much admired in certain circles. A very imposing man. I heard she was in town, at Sumner. I know her pastor.”

Jack said, “Sweet Jesus! A bishop! She never told me that.” And he laughed. “Sorry.”

“So you’d be dealing with a very prominent family, very devoted to the betterment of the race—”