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

"Well," he said, "I guess you should be glad that I'm the one you came across here. A respectable man would have every problem I have, trying to be protective. More problems, because he wouldn't know the place so well as I do. You'd probably be more at ease with someone like that. But I can slip you out of here, no one the wiser. It's just a matter of waiting till morning. A respectable man wouldn't be here at this time of night, I realize that. I'm speaking hypothetically, more or less. I just mean that I see your problem, and I'm happy to be of assistance. Very happy." That was nerves.

He thought he might have made her uneasy, since the realization was beginning to settle in that she really was there, not so unlike the thought he had had of her, and she might have heard a trace of familiarity in his voice, which would be worrisome to her in the circumstances.

She said, "I am grateful for your company, Mr. Boughton. Truly." Then silence, except for the wind in the leaves.

So he said, "I'll be the problem you have if you have one. If you stick to your story, you'll be all right. The guard isn't a bad fellow. You just don't want to be found in here with, you know, a man. I mean, that's how it would look. No offense."

"No, of course not."

"I'll go up the hill a ways. I can watch out for you from up there. All the regulars in here have probably passed out by now, or might as well have. But just in case."

"No," she said, "I'd rather you sat beside me here on this bench. You can't be comfortable where you are. The grass is damp." She may have wanted him to be where she could see him, to keep an eye on him.

"That doesn't matter."

"Well, of course it does."

"For a few minutes, then. I don't know the time. Sometimes a guard comes through here about midnight."

"It has to be past midnight."

"I'd say about ten thirty, if I had to guess."

"Oh! I've been walking around in here for hours. It seems like half my life. I went to one gate, then to another one, then all along the fence." He did not say time is relative. The few classes he had actually gone to had been interesting enough, but he had to remember how few they were.

She said, "This place is so big, you wonder who all they're expecting."

He laughed. "Everybody, sooner or later. About three hundred acres, they say."

"Nobody I know is coming here. They couldn't carry me in here if they wanted to, either. I'd climb out of the box."

It seemed she had forgotten about asking him to sit beside her, and he was relieved.

She said, "Isn't it sinful, anyway, putting up these big monuments to yourself? These rich old men, with their dying breath, saying, 'An obelisk will do. Something simple. The Washington Monument, but a little smaller.'"

"No doubt."

"Obelisks standing around by the dozen, groves of them. It's ridiculous."

"I can only agree." He thought he might have seen that word in print somewhere.

"When you think what could have been done with that money. Oh, just listen to me! I'm so tired I'm quarreling with dead people."

"It is a shame, though. You're absolutely right." Then he said, "My grave is in Iowa. You'd approve. It's about the width of a cot. It will have a little stone pillow with my name on it. Iowans aren't much for ostentation." And he said, "Maybe a grave isn't really yours until you're in it. You can never be sure where you'll end up. But I plan to make sure. I carry the address in my pocket. It's the least I can do, really. They're expecting me." He should have kept that cigarette.

She glanced toward him. Then she stood up. She gathered her flowers into a hasty sort of bouquet, wilted as they were. "I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Boughton. I feel better, now that I've rested a little."

So this is how it ends, he thought. Five minutes into a conversation he'd never hoped for. After years of days that were suffered and forgotten, no more memorable than any particular stone in his shoe, here, in a cemetery, in the middle of the night, he was caught off guard by an actual turn of events, something that mattered, a meeting that would empty his best thoughts of their pleasure. Those dreams of his had been the pleasant substance of long stretches of time, privileged because they were incommunicable and of no possible interest to anyone, certainly never to be exposed to the chill air of consequence. But she, Della, was gathering herself up in that purposeful way proud women have when they are removing themselves from whatever has brought on that absolute no of theirs. Forever after, the thought of her would be painful, because it had been pleasant. Strange how that is.

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.