No. You should support him, Willa Johnson said. She and Alene were sitting not far from her.
What did you say? Are you talking to me?
You should stay here and help him. This is your place. I thought that was what you came forward to tell us. I was thinking, good for you, I was thinking that you were brave, more than I knew.
No. Don’t you see? That’s not it. What can you know? How can you understand what it’s been like for me?
I don’t care what it’s been like for you. You’re his wife. Your place is with him.
Have you ever been married?
Yes, of course. I was married for a long time. This is my daughter here with me.
All right, Lyle’s wife said. I will admit that he has principles. I am aware of that. I used to admire him for his principles and his generous intentions. But what good are they, finally? You can’t eat them. You can’t depend on them. There’s no security in principles.
You should be proud of him, Willa said. So few of us have the beliefs he has. And fewer still act on them.
Then the boy John Wesley stood up in the middle of the sanctuary, where he’d been sitting in embarrassment staring at the floor, his face in his hands. Now he was angry. Shut up! he shouted. Shut up! You don’t know anything, you stupid old woman! Be quiet! Leave my mother alone.
Then, as on the previous Sunday, the usher came hurrying down the aisle. Stop it! We won’t have this again! We had it once, but we won’t again. This is the church.
You shut up too! the boy cried. All of you! Everyone stop talking! Leave us alone! And he turned out of the pew and ran back up the aisle and out the big doors.
They watched him, in shock and amazement, and then they turned once more to look at Lyle’s wife. She appeared to be crying now — her hands over her face. She started to move slowly, gropingly up the aisle, her head lowered, following her son, then near the back of the church she dropped her hands and began to hurry and she rushed out. The usher came all the way down to the front. He looked all around. What should I do with these? He held up the church bulletins.
Never mind, Willa said. We don’t need them anymore, Wayne.
We got so many, he said.
Yes, she said. Thank you for taking care of them. Maybe you’d better shut up the church now.
She and Alene went out and the woman at the piano closed the lid over the piano keys and walked away and the rest of the small congregation filed out of the church, not talking any more than they had the previous Sunday, moving quietly. The usher began to close up the high stained-glass windows with his hooked pole.
When Lyle left the church he went home to the parsonage and walked directly through the house and out the back door to the garage and climbed in the car and drove out on the narrow blacktop to the south, driving fast but slowing after a few miles and turning east on one of the county roads. He drove without motive or destination and after a while he came to the sandhills and stopped to look at three horses standing in a pasture. He got out and walked down through the ditch weeds and stood at the barbed-wire fence. The horses watched him, two red mares and a colt. One of the mares came forward and he held out his hand and she nuzzled it and backed away. Then the mare and the two others turned and walked off. He went back to his car and drove on along the section roads, all running north and south or east and west, straight and surveyed and exact, and after an aimless hour of driving he came to the Johnsons’ place.
They were already home from church, not having wanted to see anyone or talk to anyone, and at home they’d taken their Sunday dresses off and changed into soft worn housedresses and had sat at the kitchen table and had eaten tomato sandwiches, the tomatoes from their own garden, and had drunk iced tea. They’d spoken only a little about what had happened at church. Then they heard the car on the gravel coming up to the house. Alene got up and looked out the kitchen window. It’s him, she said. Reverend Lyle.
Oh good Lord, Willa said. What would he want?
Let’s find out, Alene said.
He’ll want to talk, Willa said.
Maybe he will. That’s all right if he does.
They went to the porch and stood waiting as they had when Lorraine and Alice had come to visit in the previous week. Lyle climbed out and looked over the roof of his car at the women and at the barn and corrals and pens and the windmill and the outbuildings and sheds. He turned back to the women again and walked around the rear of the car and stopped. Would you mind if I rest a moment?
No. For goodness’ sake, Willa said. Come in. Won’t you?
I’d like to.
Yes, Alene said, do please come in.
He came up the little sidewalk in the yard and followed the women into the kitchen.
This is pleasant in here, Lyle said. It’s very cool and peaceful.
It always stays cool in this part of the house, Willa said. Because of the shade trees and the porch.
And you keep the windows open, Lyle said.
We almost never close these windows in summer. There’s almost always a breeze. Will you sit down?
I’d like to wash my hands first, if you wouldn’t mind.
The bathroom’s there, Willa said.
He went inside and shut the door and when he came out Alene was clearing the table.
Do you prefer to sit here or in the living room? Willa said.
This is fine here, Lyle said. Don’t you think?
Have you had anything to eat?
No.
We have cheese and tomato for sandwiches, Alene said. Or I could make you a bacon lettuce tomato sandwich.
Thank you. I’d like that.
Please sit down. We don’t stand on any formalities here.
He sat down at the table and Willa seated herself across from him. Alene brought the iced tea and began frying bacon in a black iron skillet.
I saw the name on the mailbox, Lyle said. That’s how I found you. I thought it must be you.
Yes. We’ve been here a long time. My husband grew up on this ranch and then we lived here after we were married and then Alene came. After she went away to college and started teaching, it was just the two of us again until he died.
When did he die?
It’s been thirty years now, Willa said. I’ve been without my husband for thirty years. He had a heart attack out in the calf pen at night checking for new calves. I was the one who found him. I went out in my nightgown and overcoat with a flashlight and there he was on the ground with his eyes staring up.
I’m sorry. That must have been hard.
Yes, it was, she said softly. I’ve often wondered, is it better to have these years with someone you love and then have to remember and compare ever afterward and feel the lack of him. She glanced at Alene. Or never to have had that other person so you don’t have to keep remembering what it used to be.
I’d have to say it’s better to have loved that person, Lyle said.
Alene brought the sandwich to the table on one of the delicate old plates with the blue grapes painted on it and poured a bag of potato chips into a bowl and refilled Lyle’s iced tea glass.
Can I get you anything else?
No. But thank you very much.
She sat down next to him across from her mother. He began to eat. They watched him, he ate in big bites, they wouldn’t have guessed that he would. There had not been a man eating in their kitchen for a long time.
He ate half of his sandwich and began on the other. His face looked sore and swollen. I saw you at church, he said. Did anything happen after I left?
Yes, Willa said. You may not want to hear about it, though.
What was it?
Your wife got up and came down front, Alene said, and spoke to us.
What did she say?
She said she admired your principles, but she said you can’t eat principles.