Benediction (6 page)

Are you the preacher here? he said.

That’s right.

We were looking to get married.

Would you care to come in?

They stepped into the office. They did not appear to be nervous or uncertain. The
boy looked around.

Would you care to sit down? Lyle said.

He removed some books from the couch next to the wall and wheeled up his office chair
from behind his desk and sat near them. The woman was not tall and the short skirt
of her white dress rose up on her thighs when she sat down. She took the boy’s hand
on her lap.

This is Laurie Wheeler and I’m Ronald Dean Walker, he said.

It’s good to meet you.

You too.

When were you thinking of having the wedding? Lyle said.

Today, the boy said. He looked at the woman. Now. If that’s possible.

Yes. That’s possible. May I know something about you first?

What do you want to know?

Well, I wonder where you come from. How you met each other.

He comes from over by Phillips, the woman said. He grew up there. Didn’t you, Ronnie.

I was born there. I’ve been other places but I come back.

He works in a feedlot over there, riding pens. But he can do a lot of things.

I’ve done a fair number of things so far, he said.

He can fix anything you want fixed.

And yourself, Lyle said. What about you?

I came from South Dakota. But I’ve been in Colorado for about seven years.

I see. And what do you do?

I run a café in Phillips. That’s how we met. He came in for supper one night and didn’t
have his billfold.

I forgot it out at the trailer. And I didn’t have no money on me to pay with. No checkbook
neither. She thought I might be pulling something.

I didn’t really think that, she said. But you don’t know. You get all kinds in a public
café. So we got to talking and then the next day he brought me back the money. And
then he said, When do you close up shop, ma’am, if I may be so bold.

I was trying to kid her a little.

He’s got a good sense of humor.

And that was the beginning, Lyle said.

That was the beginning, the boy said. That’s how we got started. He looked at the
woman and then at Lyle seated in the chair beside them. Can you marry us this morning
like you said?

Yes. But you’re aware you need a license.

The boy reached inside his vest and unsnapped the pocket of his white shirt and took
out a marriage license that had been duly prepared and stamped and handed it to Lyle.
It had been folded and unfolded and was frayed at the creases. Lyle inspected it.
Yes. This looks fine, he said. It looks legal and official.

They said we could get married if we was over eighteen and we are. Both of us.

I’m older than he is, the woman said. You probably noticed.

That don’t matter to me, the boy said. It’s only five years. She knows a whole lot
more than I do.

Isn’t he nice, she said.

He seems like it, Lyle said.

He is.

But you know in Colorado you could marry yourselves, Lyle said. You don’t need me
or someone like me or a judge even. Just the license and saying to each other we’re
married and then afterward you return the license to the county clerk.

We know, she said. They told us that. But we wanted a preacher in a church. And in
some other town than Phillips.

It’ll be a pleasure, Lyle said. You do seem to love each other.

We do.

Could you tell me why you love each other?

You want us to tell you why we come to love one another.

If you don’t mind. I’d like to hear it.

You go on first, the boy said.

All right, the woman said. She spoke very seriously. I love him because he’s such
a nice man as I said before. He treats me gentle and careful. Not all men are like
that you know.

No.

He’s reliable and he’s a hard worker. He’s not afraid of work.

I’ve held down a job ever since I was ten years old, the boy said.

He pays attention to things, she said. He pays attention to me. She looked at Lyle.
All those reasons are why I love him.

I can see that. And why do you love Laurie?

The boy turned to look at her. They looked solemnly at each other.
They were still holding hands on her lap and he was holding the hat on his knee with
his other hand.

My life is altogether different ever since I met her. My life is every way changed.
The way I look at things. He stopped, then went on. I want to say this girl has altered
just about everything in the world for me. To the good, I mean. He stopped again.
This girl here is the best person I know on earth. I don’t ever hope to meet no one
any better.

She smiled and there were tears in her eyes now and she leaned toward him and kissed
him on the mouth.

She’s awful good-looking too, the boy said and grinned.

They turned forward on the sofa and looked at Lyle.

I think that’ll do, he said. That’ll do just fine. You know about love, I can see
that. But let me just add my own thoughts. Love is the most important part of life,
isn’t it. If you have love you can live in this world in a true way and if you love
each other you can see past everything and accept what you don’t understand and forgive
what you don’t know or don’t like. Love is all. Love is patient and boundless and
right-hearted and long-suffering. I hope you may love each other all your days of
life together. And I hope you may have a great many years of those days.

They sat looking at him talk. Yes sir, we will, the boy said. He glanced at the woman.
Can you perform the service now?

We’d like it in the church if you could, the woman said.

Of course. It requires a big room, doesn’t it. Something more than a small ordinary
place like this. Come in here.

He rose and they followed him into the sanctuary.

Afterward, after Lyle had said the words out of the old book, holding it open in his
hand, and after the boy and woman had repeated what he’d said and they had kissed
each other for a good long time and were still standing in front of the altar with
the sun streaming through the stained-glass windows, the boy took out his wallet from
the rear pocket of his jeans and presented a fifty-dollar bill to Lyle.

I never forgot my wallet this time, he said. Will that be enough?

It’s more than enough, Lyle said. It’s too much.

No sir. It’s worth every dime to me to have this wedding here. To have Laurie and
myself be connected together.

Then thank you, Lyle said. I’ll find something good to do with it.

The boy shook his hand briskly and turned and picked up his hat from the pew behind
them and he and the woman twined their arms together and walked up the aisle, and
outside the boy set his hat firmly on his head and they stepped down the shining concrete
steps to the freshly washed pickup parked at the curb and drove off.

That evening, over the dinner table, Lyle told his wife and his son about the wedding
and about the way the boy and the woman talked and conducted themselves. That was
love, he said.

His wife and son didn’t say anything.

That was an example of love for anyone to see.

He took out from his shirt pocket the fifty-dollar bill and set it on the table.

I’m going to put this money in the World Mission Fund. I think it’s important to use
this particular bill and not some other or some check but this one specifically. I
won’t use his name. Let it be anonymous. It represents a half, better than half a
day’s work for that boy. Maybe even a whole day. Something good should come of it.
Nobody but the three of us will ever know. An anonymous gift. To somebody somewhere
else in the world who needs it without the giver even knowing he’s made the gift.

Later in the evening while Lyle was out of the house making calls at the hospital,
John Wesley went into his parents’ bedroom at the top of the stairs. His mother, a
pretty dark-eyed woman, lay in bed reading, the bedside lamp shone onto her face and
shoulders. She had on a summer nightgown and her shoulders were bare. She pulled the
sheet up and put down her book. The boy stood at the foot of the bed.

Why does he have to talk like that? It makes me sick.

Don’t talk about him that way.

He’s not preaching here. At the table to us. But he still sounds like he’s preaching
or pointing up some moral.

He means well, you know that. He was trying to tell us about something that was important
to him.

He’s full of shit, Mom.

Don’t talk like that. It’s not true.

It is. I can’t stand it when he sounds like that.

Be patient, you’ll be gone to college before long.

Two years from now. I want to go back to Denver.

We’re living here now.

These kids are all going to be hicks. You know they are.

You’ll find someone to like. You didn’t like everybody in Denver either, don’t forget.

I liked some of them. I still have friends there. I’m never going to have any friends
here.

Yes you will. Somebody’ll come along.

You don’t have anybody here yourself.

We just got here. I have your father and you.

The boy looked at her and looked at himself in the bureau mirror. You don’t have him
very much.

Don’t say that.

I haven’t forgotten what happened in Denver.

I know and I wish it had never happened. Go to bed. You’ll feel different tomorrow.

I
T WAS HER WAY
, Willa’s manner and her character to keep the house clean and in good repair out
in the country east of Holt though few people drove by to see it and almost no one
ever visited and entered it. A white house, with blue shutters and a blue shingled
roof. The outbuildings were all painted a deep barn red with white trim and they were
in good condition too though they had not been used for thirty years, since her husband
had died.

She still drove a car. Her eyes were failing but not so much nor so fast that she
was ready to give up driving. She had the thick prescriptive glasses. She leased the
land to the neighbor and he had black cattle in the pastures and did the haying and
what he paid her was enough to live on if she were careful. She liked seeing the cattle
standing at the stock tank at the corral beyond the barn. She liked the sound of the
windmill working and cranking, the sight of the spouting water. She still kept a garden
and she canned the vegetables and fruit and gave most of it away, and went into church
on Sundays and attended various church meetings and served on the boards and did her
grocery shopping on Wednesdays and ate in the Wagon Wheel restaurant on the highway
east of town. Now her daughter had come home again.

On a hot day in June she and Alene went into town and ate and then shopped for groceries
at the Highway 34 Grocery Store, then they drove past the Lewis house on the west
side of town and drove
slowly past the yellow house next door where Alice lived with Berta May and they both
envied the other old woman. They didn’t see the girl out in the yard as they had hoped
so that they might talk to her. They drove back home to the country once more and
put the groceries away in the kitchen and then went upstairs and got out of their
town clothes and put on thin cotton housedresses and lay down and napped in their
separate rooms with the windows open letting in the hot summer air and woke in the
afternoon and rinsed their faces at the bathroom sink and dabbed water on the thin
napes of their necks and returned downstairs and later they ate their quiet supper
and sat out in the yard in lawn chairs and watched the sky color up and darken on
the flat wide low horizon.

What are you thinking, dear? Willa said.

About what?

I mean what are you going to do now? Have you decided?

No. I don’t know.

You know you can stay here with me. You’re very welcome. You don’t have to go anywhere.
You don’t have to leave at all if you don’t want.

Alene looked out toward the fading sky. There was only a little light remaining. It
would turn nighttime now and soon they would return to the house. It would be too
cool to sit outside. It would get dark out. I’m so lonely, she said. I had my chance
and I lost it.

What do you mean?

My chance at love and a life.

That wasn’t much of a chance, I don’t think.

It was.

You did well to get out of it. You were wise to end it.

No. It gave my life some direction. It was my chance, Mother, and I lost it. It was
probably my only chance. Oh what’s wrong with me? Why have I ended up like this? I’m
not even old yet.

Of course not, dear.

But why am I this way? How did you live after Father died?

I just went on. I was lonely too.

Aren’t you still lonely?

I don’t think about it anymore. I’ve learned not to think about it. You have to.

I haven’t yet.

You will, dear.

But I don’t want to. I don’t want to be one of those sad old lonely women and not
even old but just one who has lost her life and her nerve. I don’t give off any intimation
of sex or even the possibility of it anymore.

Sex.

Yes. I don’t put anything out anymore for anyone to sense.

What are you talking about?

I mean that quality, that condition of being alive and interested and vital and active
and passionate in my life. Oh I hate this. I’m going to die and not even have lived
yet. It’s so ridiculous. It’s absurd. It’s all so pointless.

You’ll get better, dear.

How will I get better?

It gets better. Everything gets better.

How?

You forget after a while. You start paying attention to your aches and pains. You
think about a hip replacement. Your eyes fail you. You start thinking about death.
You live more narrowly. You stop thinking about next month. You hope you don’t have
to linger.

L
ORRAINE SAT SMOKING
in the evening. Rocking in the porch swing, scarcely moving. There was a little summer
night’s breeze. In front of the house the wide street was quiet and empty, at the
corner the street lamp shone blue. Then Dad was coming out and she got up to help
him through the door, he stepped out carefully and came past the swing to one of the
porch chairs and lowered himself and set his cane on the floor.