Pew(41)

That’s what I heard, yes. And now his daughter sent this kid over here on this day of all the days. And no one sees any trouble with it.
You know as well as I do that the Gladstones did a lot for our community. Donated all sorts of—
But everybody knows what else he did and nobody says, Leonard said.
And he paid for Luella’s daughter’s wedding since she couldn’t, Dr. Corbin said. Paid for the whole thing out of his own pocket.
And you know what else he paid for—paid off the sheriff, that’s what. Everyone knows it’s true. Used to be anybody could get out of jail free if you’re on the right side of Mr. Gladstone. The sheriff still calls up Gladstone to ask him about this or that, is this guy all right or isn’t he, that kind of thing. I know somebody in the department is why I know. She hears all his phone calls and he underestimates her, that’s what—
Well, I don’t know anything about that, Dr. Corbin said.
Doesn’t seem anyone knows quite enough about it.
Dr. Corbin was turning a book over in his hands. The others fell quiet, then spoke among themselves for a while. Someone said something about personal fortitude and someone else said, Oh, here he goes with the personal fortitude again. I don’t remember Leonard leaving, but he must have gone away, scattered with the others back into their homes, their lives. There was, it seemed, so much to look after.
The sky shifted and the light shifted. The dogs were all sleeping in the shade of the house. The hose had been turned off and the children all sat on the ground, eating or napping or making little mounds out of the mud. Dr. Corbin was carrying things back into the house, stopping now and then to wipe his forehead with a white bandanna.
I turned to see someone sitting in the chair beside mine—an old woman wearing a bright blue suit, a hat with a tiny feather tucked in a ribbon at the brim. When she removed the hat, I could see the way her face had been shattered by time—something acidic and clean about her eyes, washed-out and elsewhere. It seemed a bright light had faded everything they’d ever seen, gifted them with emptiness.
We knew you’d come, she said. We just knew it.
In one hand she held her hat and in the other, a cane—the handle was a rabbit’s head, polished cherrywood, gleaming gem for an eye.
Our new jesus.
She tapped the cane on the ground and smiled her tiny teeth.
All this time we spent waiting and being called foolish. We never been foolish, we know, just faithful. And I knew it, knew it all along, knew this happy day would be upon just us given enough time. I thank our Lord I lived to see it.
She nodded.
Now, tell me, how long’d you know? Did you know the whole time or did it only occur to you lately?
I said nothing but she squinted at me and shook her head as if I were speaking to her, as if she were listening to a large, important story.
And how’d you find out about it? Did he come to you and tell you direct?
She stared into my eyes and I stared into hers. Such a prone and open tenderness, one I’d never seen or known before. I did not blink. I did not move.
Well, I’ll be.… It’s quite a story, ain’t it? What a life our God has given us. To be this close to it all. To be this close. In all things, we trust you. In all things, we follow you. We follow you to the end.
She and I sat there quietly for a while.
One last day. One last sunset. She shook her head. Her smile was so broadly held I could nearly hear its silent laughter. All this, all of this is leaving now. All of us, your children, we’re leaving now. All the birds are going to die. All the dogs, all the unbaptized, all the worms and beetles. Begin again. Something new. Maybe nothing. Nothing at all forever. It was all for this, wasn’t it? It was all for this now. This last day.
She looked out calmly for a while and the light kept shifting on us, then, seeming to forget me completely and still watching the wind barely fluttering the dogwood branches, she said, Did I ever tell you what I think about it? What I think is—what the problem is—what the real problem of it all is—they ought to stop all their fuss. I know they mean well, or some of them at least mean well, but they all ought to stop calling themselves something—you know? Religion, yes. Clergy, no. That’s what I say.
Mama, take this, a younger man said, handing her a few white pills and a cup of water. She brought her shaking hand up to her mouth and the water spilled from the cup, dampened her lap, but her eyes never unsteadied, not for a moment.




THE COUCH HAD BEEN MADE UP like a bed, the sheets tucked into the cushions, pillow there, folded quilt there. A woman standing beside Dr. Corbin was smiling with a hidden intensity. We’re so glad you’re here, she said, her arms coming toward me, then around me, the warmth of her body coming near then against mine. She held me like that awhile and warm tears from her face fell down my neck, down the back of my shirt, cooling on my skin, dampening the cloth, sinking into me.
Now that’s enough, Dr. Corbin said, we ought to let Pew get some rest now, don’t you think so? She detached from me and I could see how reddened her eyes had become, as if she were allergic to me. A phone rang and she moved quickly into the kitchen to answer it.
Binnie’s a good woman, Dr. Corbin said, looking toward the kitchen. We heard her speaking into the phone, her voice concerned and intent. But she gets overwhelmed by other people—she has to be careful of that. Taking care of others. It takes something, you know, it takes something from you to take care of another person and there’s only so much a person has to give.
It’s Randall, she called out from the kitchen.