Jack (Gilead #4)(6)

She shrugged. “I don’t really want to do that.”

“Fair’s fair, isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t, not all the time. Besides, I promised myself I wouldn’t.”

“You promised yourself? That practically doesn’t count. I break promises to myself all the time, and we’re still on speaking terms, myself and I. When there’s nobody around to hear us, anyway.”

“Do you think I’m going to tell anyone else what you did? I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking with you, now that I think about it.”

“Well,” he said, “so you thought you’d see me again, and you wanted to make sure you didn’t give in to your better nature and let me make amends. You had to steel yourself against the possibility. Now here you are, glad to see me, whether you like it or not. We’ll be here for hours. I’ll be charming—”

“You’re really not very charming. You should know that by now. You might as well stop trying.”

He drew a breath. “All I’m trying to do is to keep some kind of conversation going. That’s what you said you wanted. I acknowledge my limitations. No need to be harsh.”

She shook her head. “Oh, I’m sorry. I am. Forget I said that. It’s just that I’ve been so mad at you for such a long time.”

He said what he thought. “I’m honored.”

She looked at him, and he let her. The dark quiet of her face still soothed him, like a touch. She said, “I don’t remember that scar.”

He nodded. “It wasn’t there.” And then he said, “Thank you.”

She looked away. “Let’s not talk for a while. We can just be quiet.”

“As you wish.”

They were quiet, and then she whispered, “Did you hear that? Did you hear voices? Is somebody coming?”

“I didn’t hear anything. But we could walk up the hill, out of the light, just to be safe.”

“I guess we ought to do that. We could see farther up the road from there.”

They were whispering. High-heeled shoes, of course. The ground was soft and uneven. They were trying to hurry. He thought of taking her arm, then decided he would not. They walked up beyond the farthest effect of the light and stood there, and watched a man in work clothes and a cap stroll past, singing to himself. Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette. “Maybe I could talk to him,” she said, and he heard her shift a little, the begin ning of an intention. When the man was gone, she said, “Why are you here?”

“I don’t know. Why not?”

“Just about anybody in the world could give you a hundred good reasons why not.”

“You want a better answer. All right. It’s my birthday.”

“I suppose I could believe that. It wouldn’t explain anything.”

“Not exactly my birthday. One I choose to commemorate, when I remember it. I have to be in the right frame of mind. Sober, for one thing.”

“I guess that’s sad, if it’s true.”

“Yes. Actually, I want to feel the sadness of it. I don’t, always. So I come here. And then sometimes I just come here. For the quiet.”

She nodded. Pensive, he thought. Even a little downcast. Turning his strange sadness over in her mind. So he said, “I had every intention of paying you back,” and regretted it.

She looked at him. “Are you really trying to talk to me about money? Do you think I’ve given one thought to that money?”

“I just wanted to say that I know you could interpret what happened as a kind of theft, if you didn’t know I meant to get it back to you. So I wanted to say that. I’ve wanted to for a long time. And this is my chance. I don’t expect another one.”

“Ah, Jack!” she said. Jack.

A minute passed. She said, “Laugh if you want to. I’m working on a poem. That’s why I came here.”

He didn’t laugh, but he did want to.

She said, “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Farthest thing from my mind.”

“What is?”

“That there is no real shortage of poems inspired by graveyards. Of course,” he said, “human mortality—that’s another matter. Hardly touched on.”

“It’s another kind of poem. A prose poem, really. Not about death, either.”

“I hope I’ll have a look at it, when it’s finished.”

She shook her head. “There’s not a chance in this world.”

“I know. I was being polite.”

“I don’t know why I told you about it. I knew you’d laugh.”

“I didn’t.” She glanced at him. “All right. I came close. It’s a problem I have, even in moments of great solemnity. Which are rare, fortunately.”

She said, “Maybe. Maybe they are.”

“It comes upon us like an armed man. My father always said that when one of his flock fell off a barn roof or down a well or something. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. Some poor codger hauled onto the cosmic stage, no chance to rehearse his lines. It’s good I never considered the clerical life. Not for a minute, actually. Too much on my mind as it is.” She was quiet, and then she glanced at him, as if she were considering asking him one of those questions that are moved by compassion, questions women ask. So he said, “A poet. I don’t mean to sound surprised. It’s just never a thing you expect. Of anybody. Not even an English teacher.”