It’s always this way in time of war, Willa said. It was like this in the 1940s. And during Vietnam. This mix of nationalism and hate and fear.
What will you do now? Alene said.
I’m not sure, Lyle said. This doesn’t change what I believe.
No. Don’t be disheartened.
You won’t be, will you? Willa said. They shook his hand again and went on outside.
The usher had shut all the windows and had gone down the back stairs to close up the basement. Lyle’s wife and son, the last in the church, came toward him, John Wesley in front, taller than his father. Lyle reached to take his hand.
Don’t, the boy said. Don’t touch me. God, how I hate you when— He broke off. How could you? He swung violently away and rushed down the concrete steps to the street, running past the Johnson women and all the others going to their cars, running on toward the parsonage and his bedroom two blocks away.
Lyle’s wife stepped up. At first she didn’t speak, she seemed quite calm. Slim, smooth haired, wearing a summer blouse and skirt. You’ve ruined this too, she said, haven’t you. What did you think people would do? Did you actually think they’d agree with you? Be convinced by your eloquence and passion? My God.
No. No, I didn’t think that. I had to say it anyway.
Why? For what earthly reason?
Because I believe it.
You believe it. You take it literally, you mean?
Yes. It’s the truth. It’s still the only answer.
Oh my God. She shook her head and looked away. You’re such a fool.
He watched her descend into the bright day. The sun was directly overhead now. He pulled the big doors shut again and stood alone at the back of the church looking at the dim and silent and empty sanctuary.
26
THERE WERE OCCASIONS when Dad Lewis and Mary went together to Denver to see Frank after he left home and never came back. Once was when he was nineteen and waiting tables in a downtown café, just before Christmas. It was not an expensive or sophisticated place where he worked, but more than a hamburger joint, more of a steak-and-potato and deep-fried-fish sort of place, in a one-story building that ran all the way back to the alley.
They drove in from Holt on a bright cold Sunday afternoon. They were only a middle-aged couple then, Dad still had most of his hair and Mary’s face was not yet wrinkled and lined. Along the highway snow was drifted in the fields of corn and wheat stubble and cattle were humped up in the freezing air. When they got to Denver they found the café on a corner of Broadway.
You think this is it? Dad said.
It must be, Mary said.
It doesn’t look like much.
Now don’t start.
I’m not starting anything.
Then don’t use that tone.
What tone is that?
She looked at him. And don’t be stupid.
What if I can’t help it?
Just don’t be stupid on purpose, she said. Be nice. I want this to be nice. I’ve been looking forward to it. And you have too, only you won’t admit it.
You know a lot, Dad said, but you don’t know everything.
He parked the car and they went inside. The café was not busy, it was too early for the supper trade and they had stopped serving lunch two hours ago. At the front counter was a sign that said Please Seat Yourself. They took a table by the windows overlooking a side street and a used-car lot with a long cord of white lightbulbs that drooped above the hoods of the cars. The lights were already switched on in the late overcast winter day. The interior of the café had a lot of black and white. The stools at the counter were all black plastic and the tables had checkered tablecloths matching the black-and-white tile on the floor.
I don’t see any waiters, Dad said.
Somebody’ll come.
I thought he was supposed to be working now.
This is his shift, she said. That’s all I know.
A man with a flattop haircut came out from the kitchen over to their table. I’m sorry, we’re not open for supper yet.
When will you be? Dad said.
Another hour.
What can we get now?
Whatever’s not listed on the supper menu.
We don’t have any menus at all yet.
The waiter went to the register and brought back two plastic-covered menus.
We were really just wanting to see our son, Mary said. Is Frank here?
Do you mean Franklin?
Frank, Dad said. Last name Lewis.
Well, there’s a Franklin Lewis here.
Is he nineteen years old? Mary said.
Maybe. I’d guess about that.
Could you tell him we’re here?
He’s out back in the alley on break.
You think we could have some coffee while we’re waiting? Dad said.
Of course. I should of offered. He went behind the counter and returned with a coffeepot and two white mugs and poured the coffee and went behind the counter again and through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Franklin, Dad said. Is that what he’s calling himself?
I don’t know, she said. Do you want some cream?
He didn’t bring us any.
I know. She got up and looked at the tables, then leaned over the counter and found a little metal pitcher.
This looks fresh, she said.
She sat down again. Dad poured cream into his coffee and looked in his cup and sipped at it.
Is it all right?
He nodded.
Then Frank came out through the kitchen door. He saw them and came over and stood beside their table. He was tall and very thin, his hair grown out long. There was a bruise on his cheek.
Well, you made it, he said. You’re too early for supper though.
That waiter let us know, Dad said. He called you Franklin.
That’s what I call myself now.
Why would you do that?
Because. I’m making changes. That’s part of it.
Changing your name.
That’s right.
It isn’t what you were born with.
I know. That’s the point, Dad.
Dad looked out across the street at the used-car lot.
How long will you be here? Frank said.
We have to go back tonight, Dad said. He turned back.
Lorraine’s at home on Christmas break, Mary said. We don’t want to be away while she’s there.
We don’t close till eight and I have to help clean up. So it’ll be late.
We can wait for you, Mary said. She looked at Dad. Can’t we.
They won’t let you off any earlier? he said.
They might but I don’t want to lose this job. I’ve just had it a month. Do you want anything to eat?
I guess we can get some hamburgers, Dad said.
You want some chips too?
You don’t have any fries?
Not yet.
Frank left and went back to the kitchen.
He looks too thin, Mary said.
He always was thin. He’s probably always going to be thin.
You saw that bruise on his cheek?
He must of got hit, Dad said. In a fight or something.
Why would someone want to hit Frank?
I advise you not to ask him.
I know. I don’t intend to.
Maybe it wasn’t too bad, Dad said. Maybe he didn’t get the worst of it.
Frank came back carrying two thick crockery plates with the hamburgers and chips, lettuce and tomato and onion on the side. He stood for a while next to the table, talking. Then a boy about his age came out from the kitchen and stood beside him.
This is Harlan, Frank said. He wanted to meet you.
How do you do, Mary said.
The boy reached and shook her hand. His hair was long too.