Benediction (15 page)

You’re sure about this, he said.

I want her to meet you.

She’s not going to like it. You know that. How could she?

Yes, but I want her to know that I’m not alone.

If that’s what you want.

He opened the door and they stepped into the warm café. The headwaiter met them at
the front. Two? he said.

We’re meeting someone, Alene said. She may be here already.

Yes, she said you would be coming. She’s back here. Will you follow me?

He led them through the big room of dining tables that were set with clear water glasses
and shining silverware and white napkins on the white tablecloths. They followed him
into the next room to the
table where Willa was seated near the wall. She looked well dressed and sure of herself,
a woman in her early fifties then, iron gray hair and the eyeglasses that were not
bifocals yet. The waiter led them to her table. Here you are, madam.

She looked up at them. The waiter left.

Mother, this is John Kelly. This is my mother, Willa Johnson.

How do you do.

The principal held the chair for Alene and she sat down beside her mother and he sat
across from her.

I hope you haven’t been waiting too long, he said.

No. Not very long.

The waiter, a different one, came to the table with menus and asked if they wanted
to order drinks. Willa ordered white wine and Alene and the principal each asked for
red wine. The waiter wrote in a little pad and went away.

I believe I’ve been told that you’re a high school administrator, Willa said.

Yes. That’s right.

Where is the school?

North of here. In a little town along the Front Range.

I notice you don’t say the name.

I could tell you, he said. But it won’t matter.

To me or to you?

I was thinking it wouldn’t matter to you and might only cause problems for me.

Because you’re married.

He looked at Alene then at her mother. Yes, he said. That’s right. Because I’m married.

At least you don’t hide it anyway, Willa said.

Do you mean from your daughter?

From her. Or from me.

I don’t think I would do that. I might do other things. But I wouldn’t keep that from
Alene. There are enough secrets already.

Your wife doesn’t know, of course.

No. She doesn’t. I wouldn’t be here if she knew.

Do you have children?

Yes. Two girls.

How old are they?

They’re ten and eight.

Just young girls.

Yes. Innocent young girls, if that’s what you mean.

Do you love them?

What do you think?

The waiter came with their drinks on a tray and a plate of bread and butter and set
them out on the table and took their dinner orders.

I was a teacher myself, Willa said. A long time ago, before I married Alene’s father.

What did you teach?

This was out in a country school in South Dakota. I had five grades all at the same
time, all subjects. Then I fell in love and after I got married I found out that my
husband didn’t want me to work outside the home. He wanted me there with him. I hadn’t
understood that before I married him. People didn’t divorce then, so I gave up my
career. I never went back.

I’d guess you were a good teacher.

Yes, I was. I was very good.

Why are you telling all of this now, Mother? Alene said.

Because it’s true. I want your friend to know. It was after the Depression. We were
lucky to have survived.

You’re exaggerating now, Alene said.

Do you think so? There were people out on the plains who canned thistles to eat. People
died of lung disease because of the dust. You might not believe me. But it’s true.

The man passed the plate of bread around.

Do you intend to leave your wife? Willa said.

He put his roll down. We haven’t decided that yet.

When will you decide?

Mother, now what are you doing?

I’m trying to ask the questions you need answered.

You don’t know anything about this.

Don’t I?

No. Please stop it.

The man laid his napkin down and rose from his chair. He took out his wallet from
a pocket of his trousers and placed money on the table beside his plate.

This isn’t doing anybody any good.

I think I would like you under different circumstances, Willa said.

Probably not, he said. Good-bye.

Alene got up and went with him out through the café to the sidewalk. The sky was darker
now, the streetlights had come on and people were hurrying. It was cold now outside
along the street.

I’m sorry, she said. I didn’t expect this.

It was a mistake. We shouldn’t have done it. This was too much to expect her to accept.

Will you call me?

Yes.

When?

In a few days.

He kissed her quickly and walked away around the corner out of sight and she went
back inside and sat down beside her mother. The waiter had brought their entrées and
the plates of food were steaming at the table.

What were you thinking? Willa said. Why would you want me to know about this? I thought
we were just meeting for supper. Just a friend of yours.

I wanted one person to know, Alene said.

You should have told a girlfriend, one of your young friends. Not me.

I thought you’d want to know. For my sake. Because I’m happy when I’m with him. There’s
some pleasure in my life that I’ve never had before.

He’s married. He has children to think of. Nothing good can come of this.

Don’t say that, Mother. I thought it would be all right if I could tell one person.
I wanted you particularly to know.

You were wrong, Willa said.

Why did you tell him about teaching and the Depression? And my father. You didn’t
have to say all that.

Because things don’t often turn out the way we think they will. I wanted to be sure
you knew that.

I know that too well, Mother.

W
HEN
F
RANK WAS FIFTEEN
and Lorraine eighteen and they were both attending Holt County Union High School,
he came into her bedroom late one night. She was in her winter pajamas reading, listening
to the radio turned down low. He stood in the doorway looking at her. What’s wrong?
she said. He came in and shut the door. Come over here, she said. He went to her bed
and stood there. Tell me.

They did it again, he said.

Oh no. What was it this time?

He told her. After football practice that afternoon some seniors and a couple juniors
jumped him when he came out of the shower and held him down on the floor in the corner
while he was still wet and naked and rolled him over and slapped him hard on the butt
and the back of the head, laughing and calling him what they always called him, and
then turned him faceup and one of the naked boys sat on him. Look at him. He likes
that. One of the boys grabbed at his dick and hit it back and forth, cursing him,
while the others pinched and gouged at him. One boy had an arm pressed against his
throat and he could hardly breathe.

Then the coach finally heard the shouting and noise and came down the hallway. What
in the goddamn hell? You boys get the hell out of here. Go on now. Goddamn it, get
out of here.

They jumped up and grabbed their clothes from the metal lockers and put them on and
ran out. He was still wet and naked, where they’d left him in the corner. He got up
and stood shivering, shaking
uncontrollably, turned sideways away from the coach, hiding himself.

What was all that? the coach said. What in damn’s name is going on here?

He wouldn’t speak. He stood shaking, burning all over.

The coach looked at him for a long time.

You better go on home. I don’t like this. Go on now.

I’m going.

What did you do to them? You must of done something.

I didn’t do a goddamn thing to those sons of bitches.

Well. I don’t know. You think you’re all right? Are you hurt?

I’m all right.

Get dressed then. Go on now. The coach watched him a while longer and shook his head
and turned and went back to his office down the hallway.

He went into the toilet stall and blew his nose on the paper and washed his face at
one of the sinks and got dressed and left.

I’m never going back, he told his sister now. I’m done. I’m quitting them all. I don’t
care.

You don’t have to go back. You shouldn’t go back.

The goddamn assholes. He began to cry, his shoulders shaking.

She got up and drew him down on the bed and they sat together with her arm close around
him. It’s all right now. It’s okay. Oh, Frankie.

He cried for a time and then stopped.

Are you going to tell Dad and Mom? she said.

No.

Then I’ll tell them.

No. Don’t say anything about this.

They’ll know something’s wrong if you come home early from school. And if you’re not
suited up for the games.

I’ll tell them. I’ll make something up.

He began to cry again and she held him tighter.

Those sons of bitches.

Don’t, she said. They’re not worth it. Not one of them is worth it. You’re here. It’s
okay now.

No, it isn’t, he said.

She held him as close as she could and pulled the blanket over them both. Later in
the night he went back across the hall to his own bed.

T
HE QUESTION WAS
how to make it seem acceptable to Berta May. I’ve known her for more than sixty years,
Willa said. She was just a young woman only a little younger than I was when I moved
here to marry your father. I met her at church. And then that man she married turned
out to be no good and he left her and their daughter, and then her daughter married
someone like her father and now she’s dead from breast cancer and Alice is sent here,
for Berta May to raise at her age. I won’t have her troubled anymore, even a little,
for anything. We have to be careful how we do this.

We can tell her it’s for us, Alene said.

That’s exactly what it is. It is for us.

We’ll tell her she would be doing us the favor.

That much is true.

Even if she doesn’t believe it.

We can hope she wants us to think she does. Will you call her or shall I?

You’ve always known her better, Alene said.

So the next day in the middle of the afternoon Berta May sat in the living room of
her house in her housedress and apron and then the girl came out with her hair brushed
and her face freshly washed.

Come here, honey. Let me look at you.

The girl stood in front of her.

You look just fine, Berta May said. Now be nice to them. Like you were when they took
you out to eat. Do you know why?

No.

Because they’re lonely. They want to do something with someone young. They chose you.

But why?

I don’t know. They don’t know other young girls, maybe. Just be grateful for this.

But Grandma, I don’t need new clothes.

Yes, but they need to give you some. It’s for them. They need to have a reason to
be with you and this is how they do it. It’s all right for you to receive this.

You said it was better to give than receive.

Now you’re letting them give. You’re giving by letting them.

When they drove up in front of the house, Berta May and Alice came out and stood at
the door and looked out at the old woman and her elderly daughter waiting in the car
and Berta May said, Now have a good time. That’s allowed. And you remember to thank
them.

I will.

Good. I know you will. Go on then.

The girl walked down the steps and out to the car, not in a hurry but steadily, and
got into the backseat behind Willa. Alene was driving.

Hello, dear, Willa said.

Hello, she said.

Alene turned and smiled at her and she smiled back. They drove over to Main Street
and parked in front of Schulte’s Department Store at the intersection of Main and
Second. Inside the store it was warm and not very brightly lighted. The big ceiling
fans were spinning, making a clicking noise. They went back toward the rear of the
old store with its narrow creaking wood floors to the girls’ section and Alene and
Willa began to consider the selection of shorts and T-shirts. Alice hung back and
then the clerk came, a high school girl working in the summer, and the Johnson women
explained to her
what they had in mind and she began to show Alice different outfits and combinations
and to hold them up against the girl’s thin bony chest to size them. Alice watched
the two women, to see what their reaction might be, and then she went alone into the
small boxy dressing room against the wall where there was a full-length mirror and
locked the door and took off her clothes and set them carefully on the bench and put
on the new clothes, looking at herself in the long mirror, turning to view herself
sideways, and unlocked the door and came back outside to the aisle where the women
and the high school girl were waiting.

Well yes, Willa said, you look very nice.

Alene came forward and adjusted the shirt a little. What do you think, honey?

I like them all right.

Just all right?

They’re okay. They’re nice.

But you don’t really like them.

She shrugged.

What do you like better?

I don’t know.

Would you want to look at these over here? the high school girl said.

Alice went back to the dressing room and took the new clothes off and came out again
in her own clothes and then they went to another section even farther back in the
store and Alice stopped to look at some black shorts and black tops with long red
sleeves.

Aren’t they too hot for summer? Willa said.

If it’s what she likes, Alene said, that’s what matters. Do you like these, honey?

If you don’t care.

No. Now it’s not if we care or don’t care. It’s what you want. You have to say.