Jack (Gilead #4)(60)

He went up to his room, and there she was, asleep on his bed, in her coat and her shoes, her handbag and hat beside her, her lovely head on his pillow. Just when he thought he knew something about the rest of his life, there she was.



* * *



The first problem was to be quiet enough. He moved the chair, picked it up, and set it down so that it blocked the door, and he tipped it back a little with the thought of resting, even nodding off until she woke up. He took off his jacket and put it over himself, arms folded, which was always oddly comforting, like pulling up a blanket. This was the most remarkable experience he had ever had in his life, when he considered the emotions it set off in him, joy and bewilderment and only a little dread, since, whatever else might be true, she had come to him. He could actually think of no way in which he could be at fault. The sense of guilt might be no more than habit. When she woke up, this would change, of course. There would be all the problems of helping her leave, of getting her down the stairs and out the door without exposing her to remarks and laughter. No hope of that. His palms dampened. A surge of imagined ferocity passed through him, putting an end to the thought of rest. Besides, there she was, quietly asleep, blessing his shabby bedclothes with her peacefulness, her soft breathing. Blessing the whole barren room with her amazing trust. There was dread, yes, but grace, too.

His dresser had a hat in one drawer and half a loaf of Wonder Bread in another, which was a little tainted by the cologne or pomade, whatever sad essence it was that imbued the drawers and cupboards of rented rooms. So he would have to figure out how to offer her an edible breakfast. This was a worry, one of those problems he could consider endlessly and never solve. He was protecting himself from the shock of this miracle—he allowed himself the word—with a dose of futility, a qualm or two, to remind himself who he was. He couldn’t leave Della here to wake up alone, to suffer some rude intrusion, to deal with the police. Dear Jesus, not the police. He couldn’t go out in the street with her. That would only multiply attention to them, especially since they would be up to something so flagrant as buying breakfast together. He should not feel shame about having to borrow money from her if they went out to the store, an extraneous misery since they obviously would do no such thing. She would be safer without him, and he could not leave her undefended. So many things made no sense to him at all, which is one reason he had kept to himself so many years. He regretted this as often as he realized he had learned next to nothing about the world.

He was inches into the shallows of despair when she stirred, opened her eyes, and looked at him. She whispered, “What time is it?”

“No idea.”

She sat up. “This is really embarrassing. I just came by to let you know I’m back in town, then I spent too long waiting for you, till it was too dark to walk home. I decided you weren’t coming, and I put my head down for a minute—”

“I was just out walking around. I didn’t feel like sleeping.”

“Well, you have to lie down now. You’ve been trying to sleep in that chair! Here, lie down.” She stood up and gathered her hat and her purse. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, it was very wonderful to find you here.” But he did lie down without hesitation where she had been, where something remained of her warmth. Her perfume. He admitted this to himself, and he blushed. Where this lay along the continuum between honor and caddishness he simply did not know. He did believe it was harmless. “I can’t tell you how wonderful,” he said.

“I’d like to wait a little longer before I leave. Until daylight.”

He said, “I wish you could stay for the rest of my life,” and she laughed. “I do! That’s about the truest thing I’ve ever said.”

“Well, now you should get some sleep. You’ve got all those white ladies to dance with tomorrow.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I thought maybe you were out passing the evening with one of them tonight.”

“Did you. And I thought you were probably in Memphis making plans with one of those handsome young preachers your father has lined up for you.”

“I met a couple of them. They were fine. If they were the last men on earth, I might settle for one of them.”

“I can’t say the same for my white ladies.”

“Poor things!”

“The indifference is entirely mutual.”

“I suppose I believe that.”

It was true. Despite the cupcakes, he knew he was only the least unlike Fred Astaire of the four or five men who showed up to trot them around the floor, a distinction that would not survive the sunlight of a slightly larger world, a city sidewalk. But she was teasing him with the notion that she could be jealous, which was objectively remarkable.

She said, “If you’re awake, anyway, we could have breakfast. It must be almost morning. My mother always fills my bag with food for the train. I could have fed the whole coach.” She picked up a carpetbag that had been sitting on the floor beside the dresser and opened it. A lovely fragrance reached him. She set its contents on the table. “Pecan bread, boiled eggs, apples. A bottle of orangeade, which I loved when I was ten, ham sandwiches, potato chips.”

He lifted up the lamp so she could move the bed table away from the wall, then he propped it against the pillow. It shone on the food she was laying out, and on her dark hands, their rosy palms like a delicate secret. A bracelet he had not seen before. Her face was a little veiled by the shade of the lamp, and the walls were in shadow. She said, “The cat is in Memphis. I spent an hour hunting for it that night. Lorraine wouldn’t have it in the house. It’s taken a liking to my aunt Delia. At least she says it has. It’s a terrible cat. She calls it Jack.”