Jack (Gilead #4)(7)

“No, not a poet. Someone who tries a line or two now and then.”

He nodded. “I’ve tried my hand from time to time.”

“Yes, I liked the little poem you wrote in my sister’s Hamlet. Those lines.”

“Hmm. That was your sister’s book, was it. Well, she’ll probably like it, too. It has had a fair success with women. Two and a half couplets! I’d finish it if I could, but it doesn’t really seem to be necessary.” That would keep compassion from threatening for a while. Still, her quiet had become silence, a thing he had to regret. And he had a lively fear of regret. So he said, “Praise means a lot more, coming from someone with your education.”

Silence.

“That was a ridiculous thing to say, I mean, it sounded ridiculous. But there’s some truth in it. Obviously.”

Silence.

So he said, “I suppose you thought I wrote it for you.”

“Why should that matter. I never gave it a thought.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. I did, though. Write it for you. Then I thought it might have seemed—forward. In retrospect. Since you don’t know me. And don’t intend to.”

“I liked it,” she said. “My sister will, too. Let’s leave it there.”

“Thank you.”

She laughed. “You do get yourself in trouble.”

“Easy as breathing. Now you talk. There are too many hazards in it for me.”

“All right. Let me see.”

“Nothing profound.”

“Don’t worry.”

“I’m a simple man who was brought up by a complicated man. So I have mannerisms and so on. Vocabulary. People can be misled.”

“I’m not.”

He laughed. “Not even a little? That’s discouraging.”

“You think too much about yourself. Putting on that necktie! No wonder you’re all nerves.”

“You are very frank, Miss Miles.”

“I’m in a graveyard on a dark night passing the time with someone I’ll never see again. Whose opinion doesn’t mean a thing to me. If I can’t be frank now, when in the world can I be? I can’t even see your face.”

“Yes, the moon must have gone down. The half moon. It’s nice. If you like it, I guess. And I’m glad I’m here in the moonless dark to offer you my arm on this very uneven ground. You need not think of it as the arm of any particular gentleman. Kindly intent, disembodied. Civility in the abstract.” He was surprised to feel her hand in the crook of his elbow.

She said, “Thank you.” After a while, she said, “Have you ever noticed that if you strike a match in a dark room, it seems to spread quite a lot of light. But if you strike one in a room that is already light, it seems to make no difference?”

“Uh-oh. A sermon illustration.”

She took away her hand.

He said, “Just joking. No, I haven’t noticed. I’ll make it a point to notice in the future. I’m sure you’re right.”

Silence.

He said, “Come to think of it, a moral could be drawn. More rejoicing in heaven over the sinner who repents and so on. Than for the righteous, poor souls. My father’s favorite topic. So it was probably inevitable that I would take it wrong. You know how it is. You’re a preacher’s kid.”

She said, “I was asking a different kind of question. I just think it’s interesting. If you add light to light, there should be more of it. As much more as if you add light to darkness. But I don’t think there is.”

“A conundrum.”

They walked on through the deep grass, shoulder to shoulder in the dark, breathing together. Humans, making their slight, bland sounds, breaths and whispery footsteps, while creatures all around them rasped and twittered as if their lives depended on it. He said, “Are you cold?”

“Not very.”

“We’re not just wandering. I know where we are. I want to show you something.”

“Show me? I can hardly see a thing.”

“Do you have any matches? No, you wouldn’t. Foolish of me to ask. Well, I have a couple.”

They walked a little farther, and then he said, “Come here,” and took her elbow to help her down a slope. “Come a little closer. Now look at this.” He struck a match, and a chalk-white face appeared in its light, then dimmed and vanished.

“Who is it?”

“No idea.” He struck another match, and again the face bloomed out of the darkness, shadows cast up by the flame so the curves of its cheeks darkened the hollows of its eyes. Usually he would touch its plump stone shoulder, long enough to think that the warmth that passed from his hand might equal the cold that passed into it. But Della was there. His little rituals would seem strange to her. It wasn’t comfort that he took from them.

She said, “A cherub.”

“That’s the idea, I suppose. The place is full of them. I like this one best. Do you mind walking back again? To the place where you found me? I am a little embarrassed to admit it, but I left a blanket roll there. In case I ended up spending the night. Which does happen. You could wrap up in it. You might find it a little—objectionable. Damp. It’s always damp. You know how that is. Or you don’t. Fair warning. Or I could use it, and you could borrow my jacket, which is probably better. But not as warm. Or we could just keep walking.”