Gryphon_ New and Selected Stories - Charles Baxter [36]
“My son would like to read to you,” the man said, glancing down at the boy. “Do you have time to listen for a minute?”
Jeremy said nothing.
Taking this as a sign of agreement, the man nodded at the boy, who pushed his glasses back, opened the Bible, and said, “Psalm forty-three.” He swallowed, looked up at his father, who smiled, then pulled at the red silk bookmark he had inserted at the beginning of the psalm. He cleared his throat. “Give sentence with me, O God,” he read, his finger trailing horizontally along the line of type, his voice quavering, “and defend my cause against the ungodly people; O deliver me from the deceitful and wicked man.” He stumbled over “deceitful.” The boy paused and looked through the screen at Jeremy. Jeremy was watching the boy with the same emptied expression he used when watching television. The boy’s father touched his son on the shoulder and told him to continue. A bird was singing nearby. Jeremy looked up. It was a cardinal on a telephone wire.
“For thou art the God of my strength,” the boy read. “Why hast thou put me from thee? and why go I so heavily, while the enemy oppresseth me?”
For the first time, Jeremy said something. He said, “I don’t believe it. You can’t be doing this.” The father and the boy, however, didn’t hear him. The boy continued.
“O send out thy light and thy truth, that they may lead me, and bring me unto thy holy hill, and to thy dwelling.”
Jeremy said, “Who sent you here?” The father heard what he said, but his only reaction was to squint through the screen to see Jeremy better. He gave off a smell of cheap aftershave.
“And that I may go unto the altar of God,” the boy read, “even unto the God of my joy and gladness; and upon the harp will I give thanks unto thee, O God, my God.”
“You’re contemptible,” Jeremy said, “to use children. That’s a low trick.”
This time both the boy and his father stared in at him. Harriet had appeared and was standing behind Jeremy, pulling at his shirt and whispering instructions to him to thank them and send them on their merry way. The father, however, recovered himself, smiled, pointed at the Bible, and then touched his son on the head, as if pressing a button.
“Why art thou so heavy, O my soul?” the boy read, stuttering slightly. “And why art thou so disquieted within me?”
“Stop it!” Jeremy shouted. “Please stop it! Stop it!” He opened the screen door and walked out to the front stoop so that he was just to the right of the father and his boy. Harriet crossed her arms but otherwise could not or did not move. Jeremy reached up and held on to the man’s lapel. He didn’t grab it but simply put it between his thumb and forefinger. He aimed his words directly into the center of the father’s face. “Who sent you here?” he asked, his words thrown out like stones. “This was no accident. Don’t tell me this was an accident, because I’d hate to think you were lying to me. Someone sent you here. Right? Who? How’d they ever think of using kids?” The bird was still singing, and when Jeremy stopped he heard it again, but hearing it only intensified his anger. “You want to sell me The Watchtower?” he asked, sinking toward inarticulateness. Then he recovered. “You want my money?” He let go of the man’s lapel, reached into his pocket, and threw a handful of nickels and dimes to the ground. “Now go away and leave me alone.”
The stranger was looking at Jeremy, and his mouth was opening. The boy was clutching his father’s coat. One of the dimes was balanced on his left shoe.
“Go home,” Jeremy said, “and never