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T
HAT WAS THE DAY A PHONE CALL CAME, A WOMAN ASKING
to speak to Jack Boughton. Glory said he was in the garden and she would call him, but he wasn’t there, so she went to the barn, where she found him leaning into the engine of the car. “There’s a telephone call for you.”

“Who is it?”

“She didn’t say. A woman.”

“Jesus,” he said, and he stepped past her and ran down the path and up the steps into the house. When she came into the kitchen the phone was back on its hook. “She hung up.” He said, “Sweet Jesus, I’m out of the house twenty minutes—”

“I’m sorry—”

He shook his head. “It’s not your fault. Did she tell you her name? What did she say?”

“She said she was calling from St. Louis. The connection was very bad. There was a lot of noise. She was calling from a phone booth, I think.”

“From St. Louis? She said that?”

“Yes.”

He sat down at the table. “St. Louis! Did she say she would call back?”

“Well, no. I thought I would be able to find you. I guess I thought she’d stay on the line. I should have asked.”

He drew a very deep breath and rubbed his eyes. “None of this is your fault,” he said. His hands were greasy, so he went to the sink and washed them, and washed his face, then he took a dishcloth and wiped down the telephone. “None of this is my fault, either, I suppose. There’s absolutely no comfort in that thought.” He sat down at the table. “I hope I’m not in the way here. I cannot be farther than an arm’s length from the telephone into the indefinite future. Jack Boughton in chains. All I need is an eagle to peck at my liver, such as it is. Ah,” he said, and he laughed. “At least I got a call. That’s something.” The thought seemed to lift his spirits.

“Can’t you call her? I mean, I know she was calling from a phone booth. But couldn’t you call her family and ask how to reach her?”

He shook his head. “I have been warmly encouraged not to do that. By her father, no less.”

She brought him the book she meant to read next,
The Paths of Glory
.

“Your memoirs?”

She said, “The girls in this family got named for theological abstractions and the boys got named for human beings. That’s bad enough without our having to be teased about it for the rest of our lives.”

“Sorry. It just slipped out. No more jokes.”

“‘The paths of Glory lead but to the grave.’ Now you don’t have to struggle with the urge to say that, either.”

“Thank you,” he said. “What a relief!”

So he sat in the kitchen reading, drumming his fingers. He turned the book to the last few pages and read the ending. “Sad!” He put it aside. She gave him a bowl of walnuts and he shelled them. And he paced. And he stood on the porch, just outside the back door, and smoked.

Two hours passed and the phone rang.

Her father called, in his sleep, “Could you get that, Glory?”

“It’s probably for Jack, Papa.”

“No, Faith said in her note she’d be giving me a call. She hasn’t called in a number of days.”

“You talked to her yesterday.”

The phone rang again. She whispered to Jack, “Answer it!” because he was just standing there, looking at her. She took the phone off the hook and handed it to him, and then she went to her father’s room. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked drowsy, but he seemed set on getting up, so she brought his robe.

She heard Jack clear his throat. “Hello?”

Her father said, “That’s a very good thing. He should talk with all his sisters and brothers. Every one of them. They are anxious to hear from him.”

Jack said, “What’s that? I can’t quite hear you! He did? When? I am talking louder! No, it’s not your fault, I know that! Yes, they do get upset!”

Her father said, “Well, I can’t imagine that there could be any reason to shout like that!”

Glory said, “It’s a bad connection, someone calling from a phone booth.”

“Well, I hope so. Otherwise I’ll have to call Faith and explain. And I really don’t know how I could explain his shouting at her like that. I really don’t. She has always been very fond of him.” His eyes were closed, but she combed his hair and helped him into his slippers.

“He would never shout at Faith, Papa. So it has to be someone else.”

“Yes,” the old man said. “I suppose I should have realized that.”

Glory was trying to distract her father from the conversation, and she was trying not to hear it herself, though Jack did sound alarmed, or aggrieved, and she could not help but wish she knew what the matter was.

“If the boys could keep looking!” he shouted. “I’ll pay them! I’ll send money!” A pause. “No, I wasn’t suggesting that! I mean, I’m sure you are all doing your best, Mrs. Johnson! Believe me! I certainly don’t blame you!”

Her father said, “Yes, he mentioned a Mrs. Johnson. He’s shouting at someone we don’t even know.”

“Please, if he turns up, call any time! Call collect! Yes, thank you, thank you!”

She followed her father down the hall to the kitchen. Jack was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up, rubbing his face. He stood up and smoothed back his
hair. He was pale and his eyes were red. He said, “It’s nothing. A dog ran off. I promised someone I’d look after his dog.”

“Oh yes,” his father said. “All that shouting was about a dog.” He shook his head. Her father woke up gruff sometimes, or confused. Sometimes he needed an hour or so to come into himself. Jack couldn’t know that.

“It
was
about a dog,” he said softly, and he smiled at her, because they had spent those long hours together and she would understand the bitterness of his surprise. “I can’t be trusted with a
dog
.”

She said, “They do come back sometimes. I think you’d better sit down.”

He nodded and smiled, pale as she had ever seen him. “I’ll get past this,” he said. “I’ll be all right.” He took the chair she pulled out for him. “Thank you.” She gave him a glass of water. “Maybe I can make it up to him.” He shrugged.

His father was gazing at him, and Jack glanced up and then looked away, uneasy. The old man said, “Well, whatever the trouble is, I’ll help if I can. I think you must know that by now.”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“At this point I’m pretty much reduced to praying for you. Of course I do that anyway. If anything else comes to mind, let me know.”

“Yes, I will.”

When they were children their father had always avoided fault-finding, at least in the actual words he spoke to them. But there was from time to time a tone of rebuke in his voice that overrode the mildness of his intentions. She had not heard him speak that way in any number of years, and she watched Jack accept it now, patiently, as if he were hearing something necessary and true, something chastening. So she said, “None of this is your fault, Jack. The phone woke Papa out of a sound sleep, and he’s a little cross. That’s all there is to it.”

Jack said mildly, as if he found the fact interesting, “It never seems to make much difference. Whether I’m at fault or not.”

“Yes, if Glory says I was cross, I suppose I was cross. It wasn’t my intention, not at all. I don’t know what it was I said. I believe I said I’d help if I could. That seems all right to me. I don’t know.” He shook his head.

Jack said softly, “It was all right. It was very kind.”

“Yes,” the old man said, “I meant to be kind to you. I certainly did.”

M
ORE OFTEN, AS THE DAYS WENT BY
, J
ACK SOUGHT HER
out to talk with her, and when the talk drifted into silence, sometimes he would smile at her as if to say, You and I, of all people, here, of all places, killing time for lack of anything else to do with it. A stranger might look at her that way, past the tedium of their situation, past the accidental companionship that came with their whiling it out together, to let her know in a decorous and impersonal way how glad he was she was there.

And sometimes, when they were working in the garden or doing the dishes, she would notice that he had drawn back to watch her, appraisingly, as if he had suddenly dropped every assumption about her, as if she were someone who figured in an intention of his and about whom he realized he knew nothing to be relied upon, or nothing that mattered, someone he must consider again carefully. She did not remember from her childhood the habit he had now of running the tip of his tongue across his lower lip, but she thought she did remember that estrangement of his gaze, that look of urgent calculation, of sharply attentive calm. It could only be fear, and she wanted to say, You can trust me, but that is what they had always told him, and he laughed and pretended to believe them, and wished to believe them, she was sure, and never did. Her father always said, “That loneliness of his,” and when she saw it in him now, she felt lonely, even abandoned for the moment it lasted, until the banter of comfort and familiarity took up again. He’d say, “Hey, chum,” to coax her out of her thoughts. They were indeed very sad thoughts, as his must have
been, too, and he would smile with fellow feeling, her bemused and improbable companion.

He would ask her advice about how to live in that house, and usually he would take it. He asked her if she thought it would be all right if he trimmed back the vines that grew on the front of the porch, and she said, “Better not. Those are there to attract hummingbirds.”

“The old fellow can hardly see who’s going by in the road.”

“Well, he doesn’t seem to mind that. He loves those birds. So did Mama. That’s part of it.”

Jack said, “Right.” Then he said, “When we were kids, we’d have thought crazy people must live in a house that looked like that. All overgrown.”

She laughed. “I remember the Thrushes. Teddy used to make you go with him to collect for the newspaper, because those old shrubs had grown up and buried the house.”

“I was thinking about that. She used to stand on her porch on Halloween night and call to the kids in the road. She’d say she had cookies and apples for them, and they’d take off running.”

“Everybody knows about Papa and his trumpet vines, though. And the house is pretty strange-looking, anyway. In my opinion.”

Jack said, “True.” But later she saw him appraising the vines again from the edge of the road, and the next day he began cutting back at the spragglier branches, more of them the next day and the next. She noticed the trimmings stacked out of sight behind the shed. Against her advice and to her surprise, he had undertaken a furtive campaign to make the house look a little less forbidding. He even found a flower pot in the barn and shoveled up some petunias to put in it and set it on the step.

“I didn’t think anyone would mind,” he said, when he saw her notice it.

G
RADUALLY HE GAVE UP ON THE HOPE THAT THERE WOULD
be another telephone call. He began spending time in the barn
again, leaning into the engine of the DeSoto. To work on a car where anyone might see was considered unseemly by the Boughtons, not different essentially from setting it up on blocks. And Jack was aware of the likelihood of failure and therefore careful to provide as little opportunity as possible for anecdote or, worse, for offers of help or advice. Glory mused from time to time on how often the starchy proprieties observed in her family overlapped more or less precisely with Jack’s strategies for avoiding humiliation. In any case, he spent a good part of every day in earthy, dank concealment, oiling some memory of resilience into stiffened leather upholstery, or sinking inflated inner tubes into the horse trough to find the leaks in them.

They had had a horse once, mottled white with a grayish face and stockings. They called him Snowflake for a dingy splat of near-white on his brow. He was docile when her father bought him for the first two of his children. There were photos of Luke and Faith as toddlers astride the horse and her father holding the reins. Docile meant old, and in the photos his weariness and bewilderment are already visible. But in fact what the photos captured was only the onset, in fact the spring, of a terrible longevity. Even Glory remembered the ancient, moldy horse standing in the barn or the pasture with his legs splayed out as if he expected the earth to tilt abruptly and was braced for it. It was his misfortune to be a horse, with enough persisting horse-like attributes, for example a mane and most of a tail, to have, in the eyes of children, a chivalric dignity and romance. So, year upon year, the matter of bringing an end to the tedium and confusion of his interminable life could not even be broached. Then finally one day he was gone. The boys made horrible jokes about how he had made a run for it, had charged through Gilead overturning matrons and baby carriages on his way to the freedom of the high plains. They took to calling glue and all that was gluelike Snowflake, to the irritation of their father and the bafflement of the younger children. Still, there was something about the fact that there had been a horse in that barn, that his trough still stood by the wall and his
bridle still hung from a nail above it, that gave the barn itself a certain melancholy romance. A few motes of straw still managed to scintillate in any shaft of sunlight. It seemed sometimes as if her father must have meant to preserve all this memory, this sheer power of sameness, so that when they came home, or when Jack came home, there would be no need to say anything. In the terms of the place, they would all always have known everything.

J
ACK STILL HAD A LETTER TO MAIL ALMOST EVERY DAY
. H
E TOOK
the letters to the post office, at the back of the drugstore. He dressed carefully before every venture into town, jacket, tie, and hat. It was a louche sort of respectability he achieved, she thought, but it was earnestly persisted in, with much attention to the shine on his shoes. He would sometimes tell her whom he had met on the street, if he recognized anyone, or, more precisely, if anyone recognized him. He reported brief conversations as if they were heartening, proof of something. Once he said, “I believe I could see myself here. Jack Boughton, honest working man. Little wife at home, little child—frolicking with his dog, I suppose. Not unthinkable.” And sometimes he came back drawn and silent, as if he had been shunned or slighted, perhaps. All those letters, and never a word about whomever it was he sent them to, and never a word of reply.