Saints (25 page)

“He’s drunk,” Charlie said contemptuously.

Dinah looked at her father and understood at last why he had come. God sent him back as the final test of their faith. He had tested Dinah with her husband’s brutality, had tested Charlie with the temptation of the riches of the world, but those were little trials compared to this. Here was the man who had caused them more misery than anyone else in the world, the man who had most bitterly betrayed them. How strong was their faith? Strong enough to forgive this man, their father, their enemy? Val came to her, reached for her, and she held him on her lap. The child held her tightly around the neck, staring at this stranger.

Dinah knew what she was doing when she told him, “Val, this is your gramfer.”

She nudged Val, and the boy slid down from her lap and walked across the room to the shabby man who was weeping, his face buried in his hands. Val touched John Kirkham’s knee, and watched in wonder as the sagging, tear-stained face rose from the abyss of grief and smiled at him. Val knew what to say to someone who was crying. Hadn’t Dinah said it to him over and over again, when he awoke from his nightmares? “Don’t cry. It’s all right now.”

You must forgive your father and forget your fear of him, Dinah had taught Val, for however much he hurt you, he helped make for you the body that feels the pain. Forgive the sins of your parents, child, for in time you will beg your own children to forgive yours.

“It’s all right, Father,” Dinah said. “You’ve come home.”

Dinah’s decision was the final one; she knew it as she said it, for Anna looked at her with unspeakable relief, and even though Charlie raged, she knew he’d come around. Or at least she hoped he would.

“God in heaven!” Charlie shouted. “Am I the only one who remembers what this man has done? This isn’t
his
home, it’s my home, and I bloody well won’t have him in it!”

Anna’s voice was thick with emotion. “It’s my home, too, Charlie.” And at that Charlie stormed out of the cottage, slamming the door behind him.

Charlie didn’t know where he was going when he left the house, but he was not surprised to find himself at the apostles’ office on Oldham Road. He ran up the stairs and then stopped, unsure of what he was there for, what he wanted to say. The apostles were all there, and William Clayton, the branch president, and several other men from other branches who had come for the conference. Plainly it was a meeting of the church leaders, and in other circumstances they might have told Charlie politely that he ought not to be there and could he please come back later. But there was something in the expression on Charlie’s face that said this was something important. Heber and Brigham glanced at each other. Brigham nodded, and Heber got up and took Charlie down the stairs and outside.

Charlie poured out the whole story to him. The whole branch had assumed that Anna Kirkham was a widow, and the family had never said anything to disabuse them of the notion, so the whole thing came as a surprise to Heber. He listened quietly, now and then prompting Charlie with a question, but hearing the whole tale through without judgment. Charlie finally finished by saying, “I know I’m supposed to forgive my neighbor, but how can I? He’s been the poison of my life, everything I’ve ever hated and feared came from him. I can’t forgive him for that. I can’t, Brother Heber, even if I go to hell for it.” He was crying, of course, and so far gone in his anguish that he didn’t even bother to wipe away the tears.

When it was clear that Charlie was through, that he had no more to say, Heber began to speak, softly and reasonably, his arm around Charlie’s shoulder so that Charlie felt very young and small and safe, even though he was taller than the American apostle.

“Charlie, you don’t have to forgive him for the chimney-sweep putting needles in your feet. You don’t have to forgive him for your not having proper schooling, or for your family’s poverty, or for your mother being a servant, or for the man who attacked your sister. You don’t have to forgive him for any of that, because he didn’t do it. If he hadn’t left you, he might have lost his job anyway, right? You might have had to go live in the same filth, your sister might have had to work for the same foreman, you might still have been apprenticed off to the sweep, your mother still might have been a servant in a rich man’s house.”

“But I would have had a father through it all.”

“Yes,” Heber said, “yes, that’s the one sin you can lay at your father’s door, the one thing you must forgive him for, that he left you fatherless through all those years. But the other things were not in his control. You can’t blame your own sins on Adam, Charlie, and you can’t blame all your suffering on your father. Lay at each man’s door only what he did himself.”

Charlie didn’t answer, and they walked on in the darkness.

“Charlie,” Heber said. “If you’re going to blame him for every bad thing that happened in your life, at least be fair about it. If your mother hadn’t had to be a servant in Mr. Hulme’s house, then would you have ever been tutored by the old man? Would you have your fine position where you work now? And would you have been in St. Anne’s square that day at noon and heard me preach and looked at me with such a brightness in your eyes that I knew I should go to you and invite myself to your home? Would you have ever read the book, would you have come to the day when you heard your sister speak with the voice of an angel, would apostles have ever laid their hands on your head and given you the power of God, if it hadn’t been for your father?”

Charlie stopped walking then, for Heber had led him to the front door of his own house, and inside the door he knew his father was waiting for his answer.

“Don’t think I belittle what you feel, Charlie,” Heber said quietly. “But I can’t help remembering that I left my wife and children hungry and penniless and homeless in Illinois to come on this mission. I’d like to think my children will understand and forgive me for walking off and leaving them in a time of trouble. I reckon I’m waiting for your answer, too.”

Charlie’s answer was to embrace Heber and kiss him on the cheek as the Brethren were wont to do to show their love in Christ. Then he left him there in the darkness, walked to his own door, opened it, and went inside.

They were still there as he had left them two hours before, Dinah and her children, Anna, and John Kirkham. They all looked up as he closed the door behind him. “You can stay,” Charlie said. “Father.”

And so it was done. Or almost, anyway. For after Dinah and the children had gone home, there was the matter of going to bed. Anna went first into her room. John Kirkham started to follow her. But Charlie was there, blocking his way.

“That’s not your room, sir,” Charlie said softly. “You’ll be sleeping in
there
.” He pointed to his own door just across the hall.

John’s eyes looked sadly up into Charlie’s. “I thought after ten years I’d sleep with my wife tonight.”

“You have the smell of another woman’s sweat on you.”

Forgiveness for abandonment Charlie could give; forgiveness for adultery was out of his reach. After all that had passed, it would offend decency too much for them to share a bed so soon. John Kirkham opened his mouth to speak and Charlie cut him off curtly. “I’ll see you in hell first.” After that John Kirkham made no argument.

Anna came out of her room then with an armful of John’s old clothing. “Yours,” she said.

John smiled ruefully and fingered the clothes he was wearing. “I suppose there’ll be no point in even washing these.”

“Oh, we’ll wash them,” Anna said. “And then we’ll give them to the poor.”

John pointed to the clean clothes she was carrying. “Why didn’t you give
those
to the poor?”

Anna did not need to say a word. They all heard the answer anyway. Because I knew that you’d come back. I saved them all these years for you.

Then Anna returned to her room and closed the door. If John had had any lingering hope of entering that room tonight, that was his answer. He looked at Charlie and smiled in surrender. And then, almost as an afterthought, he said, “Charlie, this religion that you and Anna and Dinah have joined. Your mother said they baptize for the forgiveness of sins.”

Charlie nodded. “I’ll bring them to preach to you, if you’d like.”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

John smiled again, trying to establish some bridge between them. But Charlie didn’t smile back, just left the room and closed the door. And tonight he made up his bed in the hall, so John could not possibly leave the room without Charlie knowing. Not until the old man was clean in every way would Charlie let him pass that barrier in the night.

Robert had no keener eyes than Charlie or Dinah, but his memory was sharper: he knew John Kirkham instantly, the moment he saw the man loitering outside the factory gate. Days before John made his way to the Mormon conference and followed his family home, Robert saw him and knew him and gave him an answer that would never bend.

“Man here to see you, sir,” the office boy said.

“Did he give his name?”

“Said he was a man you’d want to see.”

“He was wrong.”

The boy knew his duty then, and started out the door of the drafting room. Robert stopped him.

“Wait.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t tell him I won’t see him. Tell him to wait. And then talk to him. Find out all you can—where he’s from in London, what he’s doing here, what he wants. As much as you can. But don’t so much as give him the name of my wife. Then come back to me.”

Robert had longed for this day. Once, when he was younger, because he loved his father and missed him; then, for many years, he had hoped there’d come a time when he could repay the old cruelty. Now he stood leaning on the drawing table, feeling so weak, trembling so much that he dared not let go. The man was here. After all these years, why had he come?

And then Robert’s gaze fell upon the newspapers stacked on the table—London papers of a week ago. Hulme’s solicitor had brought them back with him from London only last evening, because they had articles on the new engine. And in the articles there was a paragraph that explained why John Kirkham was here:

Of course John Kirkham read it. So young Robert was saying he was orphaned, was he? So young Robert was at the forefront of his trade, was he? The smell of money was powerful enough to be detected as far away as London. And from the look of him, John Kirkham needed money.

“He wouldn’t say much,” the boy reported. “But he’s a cheerful fellow.”

“No doubt.”

“Said he was from London, that’s all. But he did mention a pub he was often at—St. Vine, he said.”

“A pub or a church?”

“That’s what he said. St. Vine.”

“And nothing more?”

“Just that he’s hungry.”

Robert dug into his vest pocket and took out a guinea. “Give him that and tell him he’s not wanted here.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “He’s a kind enough man, sir.”

“Say as I said it. Tell him exactly this: The place he wants is no longer available.”

The boy paused a moment, trying to make sense of the message, then gave up and went to do the errand. In a few moments Robert could see the shabby man walking away from the factory. He had understood well enough. Whatever else Robert’s father was, he was no fool. He knew he had been recognized; he knew he would not be forgiven.

It was only later in the day that Robert realized he would not be shut of his father so easily. As Robert went to take his dinner with two railroad men from Bristol, he saw a man passing out papers to those who walked by. Robert recognized him as a Mormon, one who was often at Mother’s house. Ordinarily he would have passed by, deliberately paying no attention, but he happened to hear his brother’s name. “Charlie Kirkham,” said the man, “so it won’t be just Americans speaking—you’ll hear the gospel of Jesus Christ in English, too!”

There was some laughter at that, but Robert was not amused. He took a flier out of the man’s hand and read it as he walked to the restaurant. Charlie was going to give a speech. John Kirkham would surely see the notices. He would go to Mother and Dinah and Charlie. And, fools that they were, they’d believe whatever lies he told, believe his tales of repentance and love and suffering and whatever else he said to win their pity. But Robert knew better. John Kirkham had accepted the guinea. The man was a beggar without pride. Whatever he might say, it was Robert Kirkham’s money that had brought him to Manchester. But failing that, John Kirkham would surely settle for Charlie’s money. It wasn’t nearly as much, but it would do.

The dinner went well, despite the fact that Robert’s mind was busy with worries about how to protect the family from this dog returning to his vomit. By now Robert could handle railroad men with ease. Of course they did not want to buy—they wanted to steal. So Robert accurately told them everything his engine could
do
—and amiably lied about how his engine did it. Go home and try to build
that
, he said silently as he smiled at them over the wine. Go home, build what you think I’ve taught you to build, and your customers will all come to
me
for an engine that delivers on its promises. They laughed and told stories and for all the world might have been friends dining together for the first time in years; but the dinner was a battle in a long war, and as usual Robert won. He might be fooled, but not so easily as
that
.

After the meal, Robert went to his solicitor. Since Charlie worked in the firm, Robert did as he always did: he entered by the back stair and slipped into Royal’s office without passing through the counting room where Charlie ruled and Robert would be viewed as an interloper.

“I thought you said there was no urgency on those papers!” Royal said with surprise.

Papers? Oh, yes. Royal was doing research for him on the question of the powers of a husband over a wife. Not for him to use against Mary, of course, sweet Mary who was all a man could hope for, loyal, hardworking, and uncomplaining. A wife like that needed no compulsion. “I’m here on another matter.”

“Matters do have a way of proliferating, don’t they?” said Royal with a chuckle. “Therein lies the profit in the legal profession.”

“When are you going to London next?” Robert asked.

“In a month, I expect,” Royal said. “It’s a city I do not love, I will confess it.”

“Then have you a man there who can do me a service, in your name?”

“Of course.” Royal looked interested. “Investments?”

“Information. I want to find out all there is to know about a recent resident of London. All I have is the man’s name, his occupation, his appearance, and the name of a pub.”

“Not much, you know. What sort of information do you hope to find?”

“Everything that can be discovered about him. I’ll decide what’s important and what isn’t. And not a word of this inquiry breathed to anyone.”

Royal looked pained. “When have I ever been wanting in discretion?”

“It’s the people you confide in who might be indiscreet.”

“I won’t even tell the other members of the firm.”

“I wish,” Robert said, “that there were a way for you to avoid even telling yourself.”

“My ears shall not hear what my lips pronounce.” Royal grinned. “Who is the man?”

“John Kirkham.”

Royal wrote it down. “Last name spelled the same as yours?”

“Yes. And the pub is called St. Vine.”

“A pub or a church?”

“From the look of him, definitely a pub. But tell your friend not to ask about him
there
. This fellow’s friends might be primed to tell a false story. Instead he should locate that pub, and then go to all the pubs in the vicinity
except
that one, and ask about John Kirkham, the painter.”

“What does he look like?”

“Like me. Only older, dirtier, and poorer.”

Royal did not ask; he did not have to. Robert had found his father.

A week later, Robert came home from work to find Dinah there, visiting. He was always glad to see her, but there was an awkwardness now. Not because she had become a Mormon. The strain was because of the incident with Matthew. It should perhaps have brought them closer together, but the very fact that Robert had intervened in her marriage made him, now, her superior; they both felt it. And Robert felt something else, too—that every blow Matthew had struck was Robert’s fault. After all, he had forced her into the marriage, hadn’t he? It had been the best way, the only alternative, but Robert knew that Dinah would never see it that way, any more than Charlie would ever forgive him for apprenticing him to the chimney-sweep. It seemed that the family always depended on Robert to save them from disaster, but then hated him for whatever that salvation cost. Nevertheless, Robert would not shirk his duty, just because he went unthanked for it. Robert was not John Kirkham. He would fulfill his responsibilities whether anyone liked it or not.

“Father’s home,” Dinah said.

“Such as he is,” Robert said. He had received one letter already from the London solicitor, and the mere thought of his father made him angry.

“You knew?”

“He came to me first.”

She looked surprised. Of course John wouldn’t have mentioned it.

“I gave him a guinea,” Robert said, “and he went away.”

Dinah’s face went cold. “A guinea?”

So it had already progressed so far that Dinah would be angry at
him
for demeaning the man by treating him like a beggar. “He’ll have no more from me than that.”

“It isn’t money he wants,” Dinah said.

“No doubt he came for love and forgiveness.”

“Strange as it may seem to you, yes.”

“And he’s probably told you that he wants to become a Mormon, like you.”

Dinah raised an eyebrow. “And why not? It
is
the gospel of Jesus Christ, and the only way a man can receive forgiveness.”

Robert could not help but laugh a little. “I thought you had a better mind than that, Dinah, religion or no religion. Don’t you see that he’s doing exactly what he would do if he were trying to get your money?”

“He’s also doing exactly what he would do if he had had a true change of heart.”

“That is a problem. Did you know that he was an adulterer in London?”

Dinah pursed her lips and nodded. “So you’ve been spying—”

“I’ve been making inquiries.”

“He is your father, Robert.”

“I grew up as an orphan and did rather well. He should have stayed in London and been grateful that we managed to survive his crime against us.”

“And how would he have known it?”

Robert showed her the London newspaper articles. She was unimpressed. “You don’t know that he saw those, Robert.”

“These articles appear, and a few days later he’s at my factory gate. It is difficult to believe it was just chance.”

Dinah got up and began walking toward the door.

“Dinah!”

She stopped and waited, but did not turn to face him.

“In the name of God, Dinah, don’t you know I only want to protect you?”

She turned around, her face softer now. “I know it, Robert. But just because you’ve chosen to hate your father doesn’t mean that I must choose to hate him, too.”

“Dinah, he hasn’t changed. He was drunken scum in London, and he’ll be the same here.”

Dinah smiled. “And you, you’re a doffer in a sweatshop.”

“If you’d only listen to me when I warn you, Dinah, I wouldn’t have to step in and save you later, when you’re in trouble.”

“You don’t have to save me.”

“What, will
Father
protect you now?”

She knew—he could see that. She knew he was right about John Kirkham. But she wouldn’t admit it. It was that damnable religion of hers. She had to forgive him, because Jesus would have. Well, Jesus ended up dead. That was the way it was with all gentle, weak people. And damn few of them got resurrected, either. It was only beneficent power—law, money, prestige—that kept trusting fools alive. Only people like Robert. And damn little thanks he got for it, either. Well, he didn’t do it for the thanks. While Dinah and Charlie were going around being godly, Robert would reach out his hand and set a few things straight in the world. A few things straight, and then the world would be better because Robert Kirkham had lived in it.

Dinah heard Robert’s carriage outside, saw through the window as it slowed to a stop. She reached for her teacup to finish drinking it before Robert came in. It would be a nasty little meeting, but she knew she was more than a match for Robert—he always resorted to shouting, and she could always defeat his shouting with her silence.

Then she saw through the window that Robert was not alone. He had a small boy with him. For a moment she tried to recognize him as one of Robert’s boys. He had the family look, after all. But it was not one of Robert’s sons. Dinah was not a fool. Robert had asked them to be there so he could call upon them. Robert wanted a battle—and he had brought a weapon. There was no doubt in Dinah’s mind who the child was. Robert was armed for war, and Dinah wondered how she would fend his attack.

Anna opened the door. “Robert,” she said. Then she saw the child, and thought she recognized him. Thought she recognized him, realized that she had never seen him before, and then knew she recognized him after all, and did not want to.

“What are you here for?” she asked.

“May Corey and I come in?”

Anna backed up, opening the door. Robert led the boy into the cottage. The boy hung back, stood behind him. Robert looked around. Dinah sat placidly at the table, sipping her tea. Robert’s eyes met hers for a moment; then he looked away. The battle would be between the two of them, at the end. But for now he would pretend that the fight was between him and his father.

John Kirkham also sat at the table—but not at the head. Robert noticed that at once, with rueful pleasure. Charlie sat at the head of the table. He might have accepted his father home, but he would never relinquish place to him. For once Robert felt a bit of respect for his younger brother. There were ways, after all, that they were alike.

“What did you come for?” Charlie asked. The tone was so belligerent that Robert’s good feeling melted away.

“I came because I thought it would be good for all of John Kirkham’s children to be together.” And he pulled Corey forward, put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and looked squarely into John Kirkham’s eyes.