Jack (Gilead #4)(69)
“And you want to reform for her sake.”
“I have a wonderful wife, and I want to be very good to her.”
“We’re speaking of Miss Miles.”
“Of course. Yes.”
“She isn’t your wife.”
“There are varying definitions of marriage. In Scripture—”
“I know all that. And will there be children of this union? Yes, there will. That’s clear enough. You’d better give some thought to how many people you’re making trouble for.”
Jack nodded. “I do think about that. I’m not an innocent man, obviously. I’ve done a lot of damage in my life. I’d like to get some control of certain of my impulses. It would be a good thing if I could do that, in any case, married or not. So I thought I’d ask your help.”
“Well, I suppose you can see that you’re causing trouble right now. And you don’t intend to stop. I don’t know how a blessing’s going to help. How I’m going to help.”
Jack nodded. “It was just a thought. Thanks for your time.”
He stepped to the door, but the preacher said, “Mr. Boughton, I can spare a few more minutes, if you want to tell me a little about these impulses you mention.”
“All right, I’ll tell you. I’m a gifted thief. I lie fluently, often for no reason. I’m a bad but confirmed drunk. I have no talent for friendship. What talents I do have I make no use of. I am aware instantly and almost obsessively of anything fragile, with the thought that I must and will break it. This has been true of me my whole life. I isolate myself as a way of limiting the harm I can do. And here I am with a wife! Of whom I know more good than you have any hint of, to whom I could do a thousand kinds of harm, never meaning to, or meaning to.”
The minister said, “Good Lord.”
“Yes. So I hoped you might help me. You’re supposed to be a sort of last resort, aren’t you? Who else could I say this to? I don’t even know anybody.”
“Well, yes, Mr. Boughton. I understand your concern, I do. I’ve wondered why you’ve been coming here, to Zion, when there are plenty of white churches you could go to. But now I see they’d have less sympathy for your situation than I do, little as that is.”
“It’s like I’m in hell. A destructive man in a world where everything can be ruined or broken—whole avalanches of bitter consequence ready to be set off, my very wife jailed, if things go too wrong, as they do.”
“Well, yes. Please sit down, Mr. Boughton. Let’s see if we can put some of this in a better light. Sit down for a minute.”
He did. “I had no particular reason for coming to this church. Some people were kind.” He didn’t mention the business about retrieving his hat.
“I’m glad to hear it. And of course you’re welcome to come.”
“I can be calculating, but in this case I was not. Just to clarify.” He did not mention lunch, or that piano.
“I’m sorry if I seemed to imply that you were.”
“It’s all right.”
The minister said, “It might be worth remembering that responsibility for this doesn’t rest on you entirely. I have the impression that Miss Miles has gone along with it.”
Jack laughed. “We are altogether of one mind. We are conspirators. This is the most wonderful feeling I have ever had in my life. I get no comfort at all from the thought of lightening my burden by reminding myself of her ‘responsibility.’”
“No, of course not. But to put the matter another way, she must see something in you, since she loves you, apparently.”
“She has a high opinion of my soul. The first time we met, she thought I was a preacher. I don’t know how she could have thought so. I was wearing a black suit, with brown shoes.”
The preacher said, “It can happen to the best of us.” He was making a study of his pen.
“No, I mean, I must have been putting special effort into my respectability, to distract her, or to compensate.” He said, “Her kindness meant a great deal to me at the time. I did not wish to—complicate it. I mean, after I had first let her call me reverend, I couldn’t set it right without explaining myself, which at that time would have been exceptionally difficult.”
“But you did tell her.”
“She found out.”
“And it didn’t matter. She is still impressed with your soul.”
“Yes, my battered, atheist soul. I’ve been honest about that. Also, she’s an English teacher. I like poetry.” He laughed. “I have no explanation. I don’t think there is one. I’m going to be loyal to her. She has my worse-than-useless fidelity, death do us part. If I am disloyal sometime, because it’s my nature or because I’m persuaded by the soundest, holiest reasons in the world, that will end me, which might be a relief.”
“Well,” the preacher said, “if I can be any help to you, or if you just feel like talking, I’m usually here. I’m still thinking about that first question you asked me, how to tell faith from presumption, as I recall. An interesting problem.” Then he said, “You should remember that the part of you that makes you try to avoid doing harm is as much yourself as any of these impulses are. Maybe you should try calling them ‘temptations.’”