Jack (Gilead #4)(63)

She nodded. “We did end it. You don’t think I’d be outside in my bathrobe and curlers talking to a man I thought I’d ever see again. It just wouldn’t stay ended.” Her fingers were threaded through his. She picked up his hand and kissed it, a little absentmindedly, and said, “I’ll tell you my thinking.”

“All right.”

“We all have souls, true?”

He laughed. “Please go on.”

“We do. We know this, but just because it’s a habit to believe it, not because it is really visible to us most of the time. But once in a lifetime, maybe, you look at a stranger and you see a soul, a glorious presence out of place in the world. And if you love God, every choice is made for you. There is no turning away. You’ve seen the mystery—you’ve seen what life is about. What it’s for. And a soul has no earthly qualities, no history among the things of this world, no guilt or injury or failure. No more than a flame would have. There is nothing to be said about it except that it is a holy human soul. And it is a miracle when you recognize it.”

Her eyes were lovely with seriousness, he knew, though she didn’t look at him. Still, he had to laugh. “Am I to understand that you are speaking here of one Jack Boughton?”

She nodded. “I learned this from you. From meeting you. It wasn’t as immediate as I’ve made it sound, but I began to realize—”

“So I am immune from all judgment, on account of my celestial nature?”

“Other people are, too, or they should be. But since it’s your soul I’ve seen, I know better than to think about you the way people do when they judge. The Lord says ‘Judge not,’ because when He looks at people, He just sees souls. That’s all. I suppose I’ve seen a few others. Kids at school. Yours is the brightest.”

“A mystic.”

“Think what you like.”

“I think the sun is coming up. And I am worried about the propriety of kissing you. I might singe your lips.”

She laughed. “You very well might.”

A fine, solid kiss, and another one. Then she said, “By six o’clock Friday. I don’t mean twelve twenty-five. But it’s all right if you’re late. You don’t have to bring flowers.”

“I do have to be sober.”

“I’d appreciate it.” She stood up and began wrapping things in waxed paper to leave on the table for him. Light was leaking into the room around the edges of the window blind. She said, “I really should go now.” He took her coat from her and helped her on with it and handed her her gloves. He watched her settle her hat in place expertly, by touch. “You don’t have to be sober,” she said.

He stepped away, to look at her face. “You don’t really think I’ll show up.”

“You don’t want to ruin my life. And I could ruin yours. You’ll think of reasons not to come. You’ll make reasons.”

“I don’t need to invent anything. If they decide we’re cohabiting, we could both go to jail. You could go to jail.”

“I know that. My father got a copy of the statute and made me read it to him. So he’d be sure I was paying attention.”

“I found it in the library.”

“I don’t think they’d really do that, do you?”

“I’m pretty sure they’d really do that.” He had dealt with law enforcement, though he still couldn’t bring himself to tell her. “I do want to be honorable. Where you’re concerned. The preacher said I should leave you alone. He’s right. But I will come to your house Friday if you want me to. Unchaperoned. In broad daylight. With flowers. Neighbors be damned.”

“I just want one ordinary evening. Before we start out on this lonely marriage of ours.”

“To celebrate our lonely nuptials.”

“Exactly.”

“Whom God hath joined—”

“I’m serious.”

He said, “Ah, Della, so am I.”

She had a small suitcase and the carpetbag, which he carried for her down the stairs. The clerk was already at his desk, early as it was. He said, “Next time, I call the cops, Boughton. You can’t start bringing colored gals in here.” She took the bags from him; he opened the door for her and followed her a little way into the street. She said, “Go inside now.”

“Friday,” he said. Then he stood on the stoop and watched her out of sight. There were not many people on the sidewalks yet, but the ones likely to be there were not of the best sort or in the best state of mind, since daylight would have waked them out of oblivion into unassuageable surliness, into a small hell of watery eyes and personal squalor. He knew all this as well as he knew anything. It was perfectly possible that he had stepped out of an alley sometime to bother a passing woman for a dime or a little conversation, possible, too, that he had cursed at her back for shunning him. Della walked near the curb, away from the mouths of alleys and doorways, where taunting voices and reaching hands would be at some small distance from her. Drunkards could be especially serious about enforcing local standards—“What’re you doing here! You got your own side of town!” She would be walking toward her side of town as quickly as she could, to escape the threat of insult or harm, to find safety, the blessed comfort of familiarity. He had not brought up with her an article he had seen in the newspaper announcing that the city had decided to demolish her side of town, churches and all, to replace it with something or other at some point in time, these decisions pending. She would know, no doubt, that she was hurrying toward a doomed refuge. And in this treacherous world he was the straw she grasped at. Unfathomable. He thought, Once again I am a person of consequence. I am able to do harm. I can only do harm. If I walk down her street tonight just to see if her lights are on, someone will see me, someone will talk. I’ll be feeding the rumors that will sooner or later burst into scandal and break her father’s heart. Ah, Jesus, get her home, keep her safe. Keep her safe from me.