Excerpt from Jack by Marilynne Robinson, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"If some white people come along, you'll be gone soon enough."

He took a step back. "What? Do you think that's what happened?"

"I saw them, Jack. Those men. I'm not blind. And I'm not stupid."

He said, "I don't know why you are even talking to me."

"That's what I'd like to know, myself."

"They were just trying to collect some debts. They can be pretty rough about it. I can't risk, you know, an altercation. The last one almost got me thirty days. So that would have embarrassed you, maybe more."

"You are something!"

"Maybe," he said, "but I'm not— I'm so glad you told me. I could have left you here thinking— I wouldn't want you to—"

"The truth isn't so much better, you know. Really—"

"Yes, it is. Sure it is."

"So now I'm supposed to forgive you because what you did isn't the absolutely worst thing you could have done."

"Well, the case could be made, couldn't it? I mean, I feel much better now that we've cleared that up. If I'd walked away ten minutes ago, think how different it would have been. And then I really never would have seen you again."

"Who said you will now?"

He nodded. "I can't help thinking the odds are better."

"Maybe, if I decide to believe you. Maybe not."

"You really ought to believe me," he said. "What harm would it do? You can still hang up on me if I call. Return my letters. Nothing would be different. Except you wouldn't have to have such unpleasant thoughts about how you've spent a few hours over a couple of weeks. That splendid evening we meant to have. You could forgive me that much."

"Forgive myself," she said. "For being so foolish."

"You could think of it that way, too."

She turned and looked at him. "Don't laugh at this, any of this, ever," she said. "I think you want to. And if you're trying to be ingratiating, it isn't working."

"It doesn't work. How well I know. It is some spontaneous, chemical thing that happens. Contact between Jack Boughton and—air. Like phosphorus, you know. No actual flame, of course. Foxfire, more like that. A rosy heat of embarrassment around any ordinary thing. No way to hide it. I suppose entropy should have a nimbus—"

"Stop talking," she said.

"It's nerves."

"I know it is."

"Pay no attention."

"You're breaking my heart."

He laughed. "I'm just talking to keep you here listening. I certainly don't mean to break your heart."

"No, you're telling me the truth now. It's a pity. I have never heard of a white man who got so little good out of being a white man."

"It has its uses, even for me. I am assumed to know how many bubbles there are in a bar of soap. I've had the honor of helping to make civic dignitaries of some very unlikely chaps. I've—"

"Don't," she said. "Don't, don't. I have to talk about the Declaration of Independence on Monday. There is nothing funny about that."

"True. Not a thing." He said, "I really am going to say something true, Miss Della. So listen. This doesn't happen every day." Then he said, "It's ridiculous that a preacher's daughter, a high-school teacher, a young woman with excellent prospects in life, would be hanging around with a confirmed, inveterate bum. So I won't bother you anymore. You won't be seeing me again." He took a step away.

She looked at him. "You're telling me goodbye! Why do you get to do that? I told you goodbye and you've kept me here listening to your nonsense so long I'd almost forgotten I said it."

"Sorry," he said. "I see your point. But I was trying to do what a gentleman would do. If a gentleman could actually be in my situation here. I could cost you everything, and there's no good I could ever do you. Well, that's obvious. I'm saying goodbye so you'll know I understand how things are. I'm actually making you a promise, and I'll stick to it. You'll be impressed."

Excerpted from Jack by Marilynne Robinson. Copyright © 2020 by Marilynne Robinson. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.