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“Yes,” the old man said, as he did when memory stirred. “Those were good times.”

O
NE EVENING
J
ACK CAME IN FROM THE LATE TWILIGHT
while Glory was settling her father for the night. They heard him in the kitchen getting himself a glass of water. The air had cooled. Insects had massed against the window screens, minute and various, craving the light from the tilted bulb of her father’s bedside lamp, and the crickets were loud, and an evening wind was stirring the trees. It always calmed her to know Jack had come inside for the night. She knew he would be propped against the counter, drinking good, cold water in the dark, the feel and smell of soil still on his hands. But her father was restless. He had something in mind, an intention he meant to act upon even in violation of this sweet quiet. He said, “I want a word with him. If you wouldn’t mind, Glory.”

So she called him, and she heard him shift himself upright and set his glass in the sink, with that little delay that meant reluctance overcome. When he came into the room he smiled at her. “Well, here I am.”

His father said, “Bring that chair over here. Sit down.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s something I want to say to you.” He reached a hand out of the covers and patted Jack’s knee. He cleared his throat. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I feel I know what is troubling you, Jack. I believe I always did know, and I just haven’t been honest with myself about it. I want to talk to you about it.”

Jack smiled and shifted in his chair. “All right. I’m listening.”

“It’s that child of yours, Jack.”

“What?”

“Yes, and I want you to know that I realize how much I was at fault in it all.”

“What?” Jack cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”

“I should have baptized her. I have regretted many times I didn’t do at least that much for her.”

“Oh,” Jack said. “Oh, I see. Yes.”

His father looked at him. “Maybe you didn’t realize that, that she died without the sacrament, and maybe I shouldn’t have said anything about it, since it might only add to your grief. I was reluctant to mention it. But I wanted to be sure you understood the fault was entirely mine.” He put his hand to his face. “Oh, Jack!” he said. “There I was, a minister of the Lord, holding that little baby in my arms any number of times. Why didn’t I just do the obvious thing! A few drops of water! There was a rain barrel right there by the house—who would have stopped me! I have thought of that so many times.”

Glory said, “Papa, we’re Presbyterians. We don’t believe in the necessity of baptism. You’ve always said that.”

“Yes, and Ames says it. He’ll take down the Institutes and show you the place. And Calvin was right about many things. His
point there is that the Lord wouldn’t hold the child accountable—that has to be true. As for myself, well, ‘a broken and contrite heart Thou wilt not despise.’ I must remember to believe that, too.”

They were silent. Finally Jack said, “Everything that happened was my fault. It was all my fault. It is hard for me to believe that you could find any way to blame yourself for it. I’m—I’m amazed.”

“Oh,” his father said, “but you were young. And you didn’t know her. Glory was always trying to get a good picture to send to you, she’d dress her all up, put bows in her hair. But you couldn’t really tell much from the pictures. She was such a clever little thing, such a sprightly, funny little thing. She couldn’t wait to get up and start walking. Remember, Glory? When she was no bigger than a minute she’d be tagging after her mother, they’d be playing together—I’ve often thought I should have baptized her mother, for that matter.” Then he said, “To know a child like that, and then not to do just anything you can for her—there’s no excuse.” He said, “The Lord had the right to expect better of me, and you did, too. I understand that.”

Jack pushed back his chair and stood up. “I—I have to—” He laughed. “I don’t know. Get some air.” He smiled at Glory. “If you’ll pardon me, I—” and he left the room.

Glory kissed her father’s forehead, and then she said, “You get some sleep now,” and turned his pillow and smoothed it. She followed Jack into the kitchen. He was sitting at the table with his head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He said, “Do you mind if I turn off the light?” So she turned it off. After a long time he said, “If I were an honest man I’d have told him I have never given a single thought to—any of that. Not one thought. Ever.”

“Well.”

“I mean, to whether or not she was baptized. I have thought about the rest of it, from time to time. I have.” He laughed. “Never because I chose to.”

She said, “That was all so long ago. You were young.”

“No. I wasn’t young. I don’t believe I ever was young.” Then he said, “Excuses scare me, Glory. They make me feel like I’m losing hold. I can’t explain it. But please don’t try to make excuses for me. I might start believing them sometime. I’ve known people like that.”

She paused. “You did know that she died.”

“That envelope had a black border. I thought it might be—”

“What? Someone who mattered?”

“I didn’t say that. I didn’t mean it. You just never expect a child to die—” He said, “I never thought of it then. Now I do. I think of it now, all the time.” He laughed and put his hands to his face. “That can’t be justice. It would be horrible to think it has anything to do with justice.”

What could she say to comfort him? “These things are hard to talk about. I say things I shouldn’t. I’m sorry.” And after a moment, “I don’t really think justice can be horrible.”

“Really? Isn’t that what vengeance is? Horrible justice? What would your papa say?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but grace seems to answer every question, as far as he’s concerned.”

Jack looked at her. “Then he shouldn’t have to worry about his reprobate son, should he. I wish you would point that out to him. I mean, it does seem like a contradiction, doesn’t it?”

She said, “It does. I think we’re beyond the point where we can raise questions about his theology, though. If I pointed out a contradiction in his thinking, I would probably upset him. He’s gotten touchy about that kind of thing. Well, he has been for years. Anyway, I don’t think he worries about all that any more than you do.”

He shrugged. “Like father, like son.”

T
HE OLD MAN SEEMED TO HAVE ALARMED HIMSELF WITH
his candor. He was suddenly anxious to be with Jack, at companionable,
fatherly peace with him. He mustered a sociable interest in television, especially baseball, and he and Jack talked about the teams and the season as passionlessly as anything of great moment could be talked about, as if they were summer weather, drought and lightning. He always seemed to nod off if there was news of turbulence anywhere.

Jack must have taken his father to be in fact asleep, because when the news turned to the troubles in the South, he said, softly, “Jesus Christ.”

The old man roused himself. “What is it now?”

“Oh, sorry,” Jack said. “Sorry. It’s Tuscaloosa. A colored woman wants to go to the University of Alabama.”

“It appears they don’t want her there.”

Jack laughed. “It sure doesn’t look like it.”

His father watched for a moment and then he said, “I have nothing against the colored people. I do think they’re going to need to improve themselves, though, if they want to be accepted. I believe that is the only solution.” His look and tone were statesmanlike. He was making such an effort to be mild and conciliatory, even after Jack’s misuse of the name of the Lord, that Jack simply studied him, his hands to his mouth as if to prevent himself from speaking.

Finally he said, “I’m a little unimproved myself. I’ve known a good many Negroes who are more respectable than I am.”

His father looked at him. “I don’t know where you get such a terrible opinion of yourself, Jack.”

“Well, I guess that’s something we should both be grateful for.”

His father said, “I’m serious. There’s a lot you could do if you put your mind to it.”

Jack laughed. “True enough. I could stay in a hotel. I could eat in a cafeteria. I could hail a cab. I could probably exercise my franchise. Unworthy as I am.”

“You’re a college graduate,” his father said firmly.

Jack smiled and glanced at Glory. She shook her head. So he
said, “True.” Then he said, “Most people don’t have that advantage, however. I mean, white people.”

“All the more reason you should take some pride in yourself.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, sir. I’ll bear that in mind.”

After a moment his father said, “I know I strayed from the point a little there. But I’ve wanted to mention that to you. I’ve wanted to say you should think better of yourself.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll give it a try.”

“The colored people,” his father said, “appear to me to be creating problems and obstacles for themselves with all this—commotion. There’s no reason for all this trouble. They bring it on themselves.”

Jack looked at him. He drew a long breath, then another. He asked softly, “Have you heard of Emmett Till?”

“Emmett Till. Wasn’t he the Negro fellow that—attacked the white woman?”

Jack said, “He was a kid. He was fourteen. Somebody said he whistled at a white woman.”

His father said, “I think there must have been more to it, Jack. As I remember, he was executed. There was a trial.”

Jack said, “There was no trial. He was murdered. He was a child, and they murdered him.” He cleared his throat to recover control of his voice.

“Yes, that is upsetting. I had another memory of it.”

Jack said, “We read different newspapers.”

“That might be the difference. Still, parents have a responsibility.”

“What?”

“They bring children into a dangerous world, and they should do what they have to do to keep them safe.”

Jack cleared his throat. “But they can’t always—they might really want to. It’s very hard. It’s complicated—” He laughed.

“So you know some colored people, there in St. Louis.”

“Yes. They’ve been kind to me.”

His father regarded him. “Your mother and I brought you children up to be at ease in any company. Any respectable company. So you could have the benefit of good friends. Because people judge you by your associations. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s the truth.”

Jack smiled. “Yes, sir, believe me, I know what it is to be judged by my associations.”

“You could help yourself by finding a better class of friends.”

“I have made a considerable effort in that direction. But my associations have made it very difficult.”

“Yes.” His father was wary of this concession. The readiness of it sounded like irony. After a minute he said, “It seems to me you always think I’m speaking of that child of yours. You regret that you weren’t a father to her, I know that. And if you had it to do over again, you’d want to be there with her, I know that, too. And the Lord knows it.”

Jack covered his face with his hands and laughed. “The Lord,” he said, “is very—interesting.”

“I know you don’t mean any disrespect,” his father said.

“I really don’t know what I mean. I really don’t.”

“Well,” the old man said, “I wish I could help you with that.” Then he turned his face resolutely toward the television screen. Jack sat down beside him and watched it with him. In the gray light he looked saddened and spent and oddly young, a man whose father was still his father, and impossible, and frail. The old man patted his knee. Cowboys and gunfire. Glory fixed them a supper and they ate quietly, carefully polite. “I believe this is Thursday. Am I right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d like roast beef for Sunday dinner. I want the whole house to smell like roast beef. I’ll put on a necktie. We’ll light the candles. Maybe Ames and his family will join us. We could have a sort of a good time, you know. Will you be there, Jack?”

“Sure.”

“You could play a little piano for us.”

“I could do that.”

“Let me see your hand, where you had that splinter in it.”

“It’s healing.”

“Let me see.”

Jack gave his father his right hand, and the old man took it in his hands and stroked it and studied it. “There will be a mark there.” Then, “Twenty years,” he said, “twenty years.”

Jack settled his father for the night, dried the dishes, and went to his room.

W
HEN
G
LORY CAME DOWNSTAIRS THE NEXT MORNING
, Jack was at the stove, preparing to fry bacon. He said, “I believe I may have undergone a conversion experience.” He looked at her sidelong.

“Interesting. Tell me more.”

“Nothing dramatic. I was brushing my teeth, and a realization came to me. The gist of it was that Jack Boughton might become a Congregationalist. You know, at least try it on for a few weeks.”

“That’s a little bit dramatic. I mean, if you’re actually thinking of going to church.”

“I intend to do exactly that, little sister. Unless I change my mind. This coming Sunday. If it wouldn’t be inconvenient for you, which is why I thought I’d mention it. We can’t leave the old gent here on his own, I know that—”

“So that you can go to church? I might have to tether him to the bedpost to keep him from floating out the window. Aside from that, I doubt there would be any problem.”

“Well, that’s actually a concern of mine. He might make too much of it. It’s just a thought I had. I might not even go through with it.”

“I’ll stay with him. It’ll be all right.”

“I thought maybe I could talk with Ames about a few things.
If I got on better terms with him. That’s all it really amounts to. A gesture of respect.” He looked at her. “You would tell me if you thought this was a bad idea.”

“I really don’t know what could be wrong with it.”

He nodded. “Ames will be sure to mention it. So there’s no point being secretive about it. I wondered if you wouldn’t mind—”

“I’ll just bring him his coffee, and he’ll ask me why I’m not dressed for church, and I’ll say, Jack wanted to go this morning.”

“And then—” Jack said, and they laughed. “Ah,” he said, “help me think this through. Maybe you should just say Jack went to church this morning. If you say I wanted to go, he’d read a lot into that. Maybe—Jack decided to go. No, that’s almost as bad as wanted.”