Chapter 26

Harry's Eats is always good, even if it doesn't measure up to Cecelia's cooking. Nothing measures up to Cecelia's cooking, so Harry ought to be happy with what he turns out. Or turned out – there's no Harry involved with the place anymore.

We all pigged out, and the conversation got so general that it was impossible for me to follow it all. I could keep up with scraps here and bits there and pieces in between, but usually the only conversation I could truly follow was the one I was in at the time. A table full of people just doesn't allow for knowing what everyone's talking about, much less keeping your own opinions involved. You talk to those you can talk to, and let the rest go.

I do know I heard, and sometimes participated in, exchanges on football, and the look of the Sandia Mountains in the light of late morning and early afternoon, and the heavy traffic on Tramway, and the sermon we'd heard that morning, and my mustache, and Cecelia's penchant for the fanciest available words. It was pleasant, and friendly, and the only problem was something Vern had said early on.

When we finally were done, and were leaving without paying or even asking for the check – I suspected Cecelia would get a bill in the mail – I hung back and grabbed Vern. "I gotta talk to you," I said.

He looked at me for a moment. "Sure. Let's go out the front door." We'd come in the back door, which isn't really open to the public but which Cecelia has somehow managed to make into our family's entrance.

I followed Vern out the front door, and we found a corner against one of the stone pillars that pretend to hold up the front roof overhang. He leaned against the stone, his hands in his pockets. "What do you want to talk about?"

"You said inside that you're grateful for all our forgiveness."

"I am, too."

"Oh, I don't doubt that, not anymore. The thing is ... the thing is, Vern, I haven't given you forgiveness."

"Yet." He smiled at me, such a genuine and transparent smile that I could no longer harbor any doubt about his conversion or his repentance.

But what I knew of him didn't change me. When I spoke it was with a tinge of bitterness. "You seem willing to expect from me what you didn't ask from your daughter."

"She had the hardest task. She's the one I raped." He said it easily – not in the way of a man who either doesn't care that he's done wrong or doesn't know that what he's done is wrong, but rather with the confidence of a man who knows that the worst is over, and naming the truth can't hurt him any more than he's already suffered.

I shook my head. "Maybe so. But still..."

"But still, it seems like I'm ready to press you for something that I was willing to wait for from Alison. It's not that way, though, and I didn't mean to say it is. I said 'yet' not trying to ask you for forgiveness or pressure you into giving it, but because I really believe it's just a matter of time."

I turned away and stared out at the traffic passing on Montgomery. When I turned back to Vern I felt as bleak as a chunk of rusted iron in winter. "The thing is, I have to forgive you, and I flat don't want to."

"I don't blame you."

"How on earth, Vernon Hitt, am I supposed to stay mad at you when you admit your sin so easily?"

"Are you supposed to stay mad at me?" He stood up straight, looking me in the eye. "Look, I know how much you hate what I did, and you should. You should have wanted to do whatever it took to protect Alison from me. But the fact is that she doesn't need protecting from me anymore. That she ever did is my everlasting shame, but she doesn't need that anymore. I've done what I had to do. I've repented, I've trusted the Lord to cleanse me, I've turned away from all that, I've apologized, I've sought forgiveness. I can't do any more. It's up to you now. And whenever you're ready, that's soon enough for me. I'm not going to push."

Cecelia came around the corner behind Vern, and I waved her back with a sharp gesture. I saw her eyebrow go up, but she went. Vern didn't pay that any mind – he just looked at me, waiting for my response. When it came, I knew I sounded like a surly child. "Maybe just being here is pushing."

"Maybe so. I've got to get back to Seattle anyway, now that this is over. I've spent five years looking, and I've found my daughter, and now it's time for me to go and put things back together there, and see what kind of relationship Alison and I can create after all that's happened. I'll be out of your hair by this time next week."

"Vern, I'll know you're there, whether you're in town or not. Just knowing you're there, knowing what I know about you, it's pressure."

"Not from me."

"No – from God." I clenched a fist, wanting to hit something, anything, but I couldn't see anything that wouldn't bust my knuckles or cut my hand up. "That's what's got me so fusterated, Vern. God won't leave me alone. He wants me to do the right thing, and do it now, and I can't."

Vernon leaned back against the pillar again. "Alison's told me about when Alan forgave her. I don't know her whole story, there's a lot of years to tell, but I guess she was already married to him, and in Phoenix prostituting herself, and he found her and brought her back – he did, and you helped him, or something like that. Anyway," he said, waving the details away, "after she came back Alan had a hard time forgiving her for being a whore, and especially for being pregnant with another man's child. Abbie's not Alan's daughter, not by blood, though he loves her anyway. But finally, Alison tells me, he just did it. They both realized that forgiveness isn't a feeling anymore than faith or repentance, and he just – forgave her. You'll come to that place too, I think. And whether I ever know it or not, I believe you'll forgive me." He looked down at the gravel between his feet. "Not that I deserve it..."