Jack Page 2

  “No, of course not.”

  “I’ll go up the hill a ways. I can watch out for you from up there. All the regulars in here have probably passed out by now, or might as well have. But just in case.”

  “No,” she said, “I’d rather you sat beside me here on this bench. You can’t be comfortable where you are. The grass is damp.” She may have wanted him to be where she could see him, to keep an eye on him.

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Well, of course it does.”

  “For a few minutes, then. I don’t know the time. Sometimes a guard comes through here about midnight.”

  “It has to be past midnight.”

  “I’d say about ten thirty, if I had to guess.”

  “Oh! I’ve been walking around in here for hours. It seems like half my life. I went to one gate, then to another one, then all along the fence.” He did not say time is relative. The few classes he had actually gone to had been interesting enough, but he had to remember how few they were.

  She said, “This place is so big, you wonder who all they’re expecting.”

  He laughed. “Everybody, sooner or later. About three hundred acres, they say.”

  “Nobody I know is coming here. They couldn’t carry me in here if they wanted to, either. I’d climb out of the box.”

  It seemed she had forgotten about asking him to sit beside her, and he was relieved.

  She said, “Isn’t it sinful, anyway, putting up these big monuments to yourself? These rich old men, with their dying breath, saying, ‘An obelisk will do. Something simple. The Washington Monument, but a little smaller.’”

  “No doubt.”

  “Obelisks standing around by the dozen, groves of them. It’s ridiculous.”

  “I can only agree.” He thought he might have seen that word in print somewhere.

  “When you think what could have been done with that money. Oh, just listen to me! I’m so tired I’m quarreling with dead people.”

  “It is a shame, though. You’re absolutely right.” Then he said, “My grave is in Iowa. You’d approve. It’s about the width of a cot. It will have a little stone pillow with my name on it. Iowans aren’t much for ostentation.” And he said, “Maybe a grave isn’t really yours until you’re in it. You can never be sure where you’ll end up. But I plan to make sure. I carry the address in my pocket. It’s the least I can do, really. They’re expecting me.” He should have kept that cigarette.

  She glanced toward him. Then she stood up. She gathered her flowers into a hasty sort of bouquet, wilted as they were. “I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Boughton. I feel better, now that I’ve rested a little.”

  So this is how it ends, he thought. Five minutes into a conversation he’d never hoped for. After years of days that were suffered and forgotten, no more memorable than any particular stone in his shoe, here, in a cemetery, in the middle of the night, he was caught off guard by an actual turn of events, something that mattered, a meeting that would empty his best thoughts of their pleasure. Those dreams of his had been the pleasant substance of long stretches of time, privileged because they were incommunicable and of no possible interest to anyone, certainly never to be exposed to the chill air of consequence. But she, Della, was gathering herself up in that purposeful way proud women have when they are removing themselves from whatever has brought on that absolute no of theirs. Forever after, the thought of her would be painful, because it had been pleasant. Strange how that is.

  Just at the farthest edge of the circle of light she paused, looking at the darkness beyond it. So he said, “You would be safer if you’d let me watch out for you.”

  She said, “I wish you would get up off that grave and let me see you, then. It’s strange talking to someone you can’t see.”

  All right. He took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “I’ll be a minute,” he said. “I’m putting on my tie.”

  She laughed and looked around at him. “You really are, aren’t you.”

  “Indeed I am!” He was happy suddenly, because she had laughed. Feelings ought to be part of a tissue, a fabric. An emotion shouldn’t be an isolated thing that hits you like a sucker punch. There should be other satisfactions in life, to maintain perspective, proportion. Things to look forward to, for example, so one casual encounter in a cemetery wouldn’t feel like the Day of Judgment. He had let himself have too few emotions, so there wasn’t much for him to work with. But here he was, abruptly happy enough that he would have trouble concealing it. He came down the slope sidelong because the grass was damp and slippery, but almost as if there were a joke in the way he did it. I’m imitating youth, he thought. No, this feels like youth, an infusion of something like agility. Embarrassing. He had to be wary. If he made a fool of himself, he’d be drinking again.

  “This is quite a surprise,” he said, standing in the road, in the light. “For both of us, no doubt.”

  She said nothing, studying his face forthrightly, as she would certainly never have studied anyone in circumstances her manners had prepared her for. He let her look, not even lowering his eyes. He was waiting to see what she would make of him, as they say. And then he would be what she made of him. He might sit down beside her, after all, cross his legs and fold his arms and be affable. At worst he’d go find that half cigarette he had dropped in the grass, which was damp, not wet. Once she was out of sight. He was pretty sure there were still three matches in the book in his pocket. And she would walk away, if she decided to. Her choice. The darkness of her eyes made her gaze seem calm, unreadable, possibly kind. He knew what she saw, the scar under his eye, which was still dark, the shadow of beard, his hair grazing his collar. And then his age, that relaxation of the flesh, like the fatigue that had caused his jacket sleeves to take the shape of his elbows and his pockets to sag a little. Age and bad habits. While she read what his face would tell her about who he really was, she would be remembering that other time, when for an hour or two she had thought better of him.

  She said, “Why don’t we sit down?”

  And he said, “Why not?” And as he sat down he plucked at the knees of his trousers, as if they had a crease, and laughed, and said, “My father always did that.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “I guess it’s polite, somehow.”

  “It means you’re on your best behavior.”

  “Which in fact I am.”

  “I know.”

  “Which can fall a little short sometimes.”

  “I know that well enough.”

  He said, “I really would like to apologize.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “I’ve been assured that it’s good for the soul.”

  “No doubt. But your soul is your business, Mr. Boughton. I’d be happy to talk about something else.”

  So she was still angry. Maybe angrier than she had been at the time. That might be a good sign. At least it meant that she’d been thinking about him.

  He said, “I’m sorry I brought it up. You’re right. Why should I trouble you with my regrets?”

  She took a deep breath. “I’m not going to get into this with you, Mr. Boughton.”

  Why did he persist? She was reconsidering, taking her purse and her bouquet into her lap. Could that be what he wanted her to do? It wouldn’t be self-defeat, precisely, because at best there would be only these few hours, tense and probationary, and then whatever he might want to rescue from them afterward for the purposes of memory. That other time, when the old offense was fresh, she had seemed to regret it for his sake as much as her own. He had seen kindness weary before. It could still surprise him a little.

  He nodded and stood up. “You’d rather I left you alone. I’ll do that. I’ll be in shouting distance. In case you need me.”

  “No,” she said. “If we could just talk a little.”

  “Like two polite strangers who happen to be spending a night in a cemetery.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Okay.” So
he sat down again. “Well,” he said, “what brings you here this evening, Miss Miles?”

  “Pure foolishness. That’s all it was.” And she shook her head.

  Then she said nothing, and he said nothing, and the crickets chanted, or were they tree toads. It had seemed to him sometimes that, however deep it was, the darkness in a leafy place took on a cast, a tincture, of green. The air smelled green, of course, so the shading he thought he saw in the darkness might have been suggested by that wistfulness the breeze brought with it, earth so briefly not earth. All the people are grass. QED. Flowers of the field. The pool of lamplight kept the dark at a distance. Shunned and sullen, he thought. Injured. He did not look at her, because then she would look at him. He had noticed that men in his line of worklessness, which did involve recourse to drink, were marked, sooner or later, by a crease across the forehead, but he did not touch his brow. It was nerves that made it feel that way, tense. If they sat there side by side till dawn, that would be reasonably pleasant.

  She said, “I owe you an apology. I haven’t been polite.”

  “True enough,” he said. “So.”

  “So?”

  “So, pay up.”

  She laughed. “Please accept my apology.”

  “Consider it done. Now,” he said, “you accept mine.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t really want to do that.”

  “Fair’s fair, isn’t it?”

  “No, it isn’t, not all the time. Besides, I promised myself I wouldn’t.”

  “You promised yourself? That practically doesn’t count. I break promises to myself all the time, and we’re still on speaking terms, myself and I. When there’s nobody around to hear us, anyway.”

  “Do you think I’m going to tell anyone else what you did? I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking with you, now that I think about it.”

  “Well,” he said, “so you thought you’d see me again, and you wanted to make sure you didn’t give in to your better nature and let me make amends. You had to steel yourself against the possibility. Now here you are, glad to see me, whether you like it or not. We’ll be here for hours. I’ll be charming—”

  “You’re really not very charming. You should know that by now. You might as well stop trying.”

  He drew a breath. “All I’m trying to do is to keep some kind of conversation going. That’s what you said you wanted. I acknowledge my limitations. No need to be harsh.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, I’m sorry. I am. Forget I said that. It’s just that I’ve been so mad at you for such a long time.”

  He said what he thought. “I’m honored.”

  She looked at him, and he let her. The dark quiet of her face still soothed him, like a touch. She said, “I don’t remember that scar.”

  He nodded. “It wasn’t there.” And then he said, “Thank you.”

  She looked away. “Let’s not talk for a while. We can just be quiet.”

  “As you wish.”

  They were quiet, and then she whispered, “Did you hear that? Did you hear voices? Is somebody coming?”

  “I didn’t hear anything. But we could walk up the hill, out of the light, just to be safe.”

  “I guess we ought to do that. We could see farther up the road from there.”

  They were whispering. High-heeled shoes, of course. The ground was soft and uneven. They were trying to hurry. He thought of taking her arm, then decided he would not. They walked up beyond the farthest effect of the light and stood there, and watched a man in work clothes and a cap stroll past, singing to himself. Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette. “Maybe I could talk to him,” she said, and he heard her shift a little, the beginning of an intention. When the man was gone, she said, “Why are you here?”

  “I don’t know. Why not?”

  “Just about anybody in the world could give you a hundred good reasons why not.”

  “You want a better answer. All right. It’s my birthday.”

  “I suppose I could believe that. It wouldn’t explain anything.”

  “Not exactly my birthday. One I choose to commemorate, when I remember it. I have to be in the right frame of mind. Sober, for one thing.”

  “I guess that’s sad, if it’s true.”

  “Yes. Actually, I want to feel the sadness of it. I don’t, always. So I come here. And then sometimes I just come here. For the quiet.”

  She nodded. Pensive, he thought. Even a little downcast. Turning his strange sadness over in her mind. So he said, “I had every intention of paying you back,” and regretted it.

  She looked at him. “Are you really trying to talk to me about money? Do you think I’ve given one thought to that money?”

  “I just wanted to say that I know you could interpret what happened as a kind of theft, if you didn’t know I meant to get it back to you. So I wanted to say that. I’ve wanted to for a long time. And this is my chance. I don’t expect another one.”

  “Ah, Jack!” she said. Jack.

  A minute passed. She said, “Laugh if you want to. I’m working on a poem. That’s why I came here.”

  He didn’t laugh, but he did want to.

  She said, “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Farthest thing from my mind.”

  “What is?”

  “That there is no real shortage of poems inspired by graveyards. Of course,” he said, “human mortality—that’s another matter. Hardly touched on.”

  “It’s another kind of poem. A prose poem, really. Not about death, either.”

  “I hope I’ll have a look at it, when it’s finished.”

  She shook her head. “There’s not a chance in this world.”

  “I know. I was being polite.”

  “I don’t know why I told you about it. I knew you’d laugh.”

  “I didn’t.” She glanced at him. “All right. I came close. It’s a problem I have, even in moments of great solemnity. Which are rare, fortunately.”

  She said, “Maybe. Maybe they are.”

  “It comes upon us like an armed man. My father always said that when one of his flock fell off a barn roof or down a well or something. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. Some poor codger hauled onto the cosmic stage, no chance to rehearse his lines. It’s good I never considered the clerical life. Not for a minute, actually. Too much on my mind as it is.” She was quiet, and then she glanced at him, as if she were considering asking him one of those questions that are moved by compassion, questions women ask. So he said, “A poet. I don’t mean to sound surprised. It’s just never a thing you expect. Of anybody. Not even an English teacher.”

  “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.”