Home by Marilynne Robinson Page B

said, “When we finish our breakfast, can we go back to bed?”
    “No.”
    “I suppose I should have guessed that.”
    “He almost never sleeps this soundly. I’m not going to disturb him. But I don’t want him to be confused when he wakes up. I’ll stay here. You can go back to bed.”
    Jack watched his father for a moment. Then he stood up, put one arm under his knees and the other around his shoulders, andlifted him out of his chair. The old man murmured, and he said, “You’re fine, sir. It’s Jack.” A hand floated up to touch his face, his cheek and ear. Jack carried him into his room and tucked him into his bed. Then he came back to the kitchen.
    “Now you can get some more sleep,” he said.
    Glory said, “Thank you, I will.” And she went upstairs and lay on her bed and hated her life until morning.
    W HEN MORNING CAME, SHE WENT DOWN TO THE KITCHEN and made coffee and pancakes, as if for the first time. Jack’s expression was opaque. Her father was drowsy, or he was pensive. Finally he said, “I have something on my mind. ‘Last night I saw the new moon with the old moon in his arm.’ What is that? I’ve been trying to think.”
    She said, “‘The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens.’”
    Jack said, “Good for you, college girl.”
    “No,” the old man said. “She was an English teacher. In high school. A very fine teacher of English, for a number of years. Then she got married, so she had to resign. They made them do that. ‘The new moon with the old moon in his arm.’ That is a very sad song. A number of times I heard my grandmother sing it, and it was very sad. ‘Oh forty miles off Aberdour ’tis fifty fathoms deep, and there lies good Sir Patrick Spens with the Scots lairds at his feet.’ She said the life was very difficult in Scotland, but she was always homesick. She said she would die of the homesickness, and maybe she did, but she took her time about it. She was ninety-eight when she died.” He laughed. “‘We that are young will never see so much nor live so long.’” He said, “You just picked me up and carried me, didn’t you, Jack. Well, that’s all right. I’m not the father you remember, I know that.”
    Jack put his hand to his brow. “Of course you are. I didn’t—I’m sorry—”
    “No matter. Never mind. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
    The color left Jack’s face. After a moment he pushed back hischair. “Well,” he said. “There’s work to be done.” He went out to the garden and stood in the path he had made along the iris beds and lighted a cigarette. Glory watched him from the porch. She said, “I should probably help him.”
    The old man said, “Yes, dear, that would be good of you.” So she settled her father in the Morris chair with the newspaper, and then she went out to the garden. She touched Jack’s arm and he looked at her.
    “What is it?” he said.
    “I just wanted to say that there was nothing wrong with what you did. He hates being feeble. And he’s had to put up with it for a long time.”
    He drew on his cigarette. “Thank you,” he said.
    “No, really. I thought it was gallant. A beau geste. A demonstration of your fabled charm.”
    “Too bad. I’ve found that people weary of my fabled charm.”
    “Well, I guess I haven’t had much chance to weary of it.”
    He laughed. “The day is young.” Then he said, “I didn’t intend anything when I said college girl. I don’t know what was offensive about it.”
    “It wasn’t offensive. He just wants to make sure you think well of me. He’s afraid we don’t get along.”
    He looked at her, studied her. “He said that?”
    “Yes, he mentioned it.”
    “Last night.”
    “Yes—”
    “And what did you say?”
    “Well, I said that you and I never did really know each other very well.”
    “That’s all?”
    “He was too sleepy to talk much.”
    “So he’s worried about it.”
    “He worries about everything. It’ll be fine. You’ve always known how to please