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In
the
summer
father
and
son
walked
downtown
together
to
have
their
shoes
shined
—
Dick
in
his
starched
duck
sailor
suit
,
his
father
always
in
beautifully
cut
clerical
clothes
—
and
the
father
was
very
proud
of
his
handsome
little
boy
.
He
told
Dick
all
he
knew
about
life
,
not
much
but
most
of
it
true
,
simple
things
,
matters
of
behavior
that
came
within
his
clergyman
’
s
range
.
"
Once
in
a
strange
town
when
I
was
first
ordained
,
I
went
into
a
crowded
room
and
was
confused
as
to
who
was
my
hostess
Several
people
I
knew
came
toward
me
,
but
I
disregarded
them
because
I
had
seen
a
gray
-
haired
woman
sitting
by
a
window
far
across
the
room
.
I
went
over
to
her
and
introduced
myself
.
After
that
I
made
many
friends
in
that
town
.
"
His
father
had
done
that
from
a
good
heart
—
his
father
had
been
sure
of
what
he
was
,
with
a
deep
pride
of
the
two
proud
widows
who
had
raised
him
to
believe
that
nothing
could
be
superior
to
"
good
instincts
,
"
honor
,
courtesy
,
and
courage
.
The
father
always
considered
that
his
wife
’
s
small
fortune
belonged
to
his
son
,
and
in
college
and
in
medical
school
sent
him
a
check
for
all
of
it
four
times
a
year
.
He
was
one
of
those
about
whom
it
was
said
with
smug
finality
in
the
gilded
age
:
"
very
much
the
gentleman
,
but
not
much
get
-
up
-
and
-
go
about
him
.
"
.
.
.
Dick
sent
down
for
a
newspaper
.
Still
pacing
to
and
from
the
telegram
open
on
his
bureau
,
he
chose
a
ship
to
go
to
America
.
Then
he
put
in
a
call
for
Nicole
in
Zurich
,
remembering
so
many
things
as
he
waited
,
and
wishing
he
had
always
been
as
good
as
he
had
intended
to
be
.
For
an
hour
,
tied
up
with
his
profound
reaction
to
his
father
’
s
death
,
the
magnificent
façade
of
the
homeland
,
the
harbor
of
New
York
,
seemed
all
sad
and
glorious
to
Dick
,
but
once
ashore
the
feeling
vanished
,
nor
did
he
find
it
again
in
the
streets
or
the
hotels
or
the
trains
that
bore
him
first
to
Buffalo
,
and
then
south
to
Virginia
with
his
father
’
s
body
.
Only
as
the
local
train
shambled
into
the
low
-
forested
clayland
of
Westmoreland
County
,
did
he
feel
once
more
identified
with
his
surroundings
;
at
the
station
he
saw
a
star
he
knew
,
and
a
cold
moon
bright
over
Chesapeake
Bay
;
he
heard
the
rasping
wheels
of
buckboards
turning
,
the
lovely
fatuous
voices
,
the
sound
of
sluggish
primeval
rivers
flowing
softly
under
soft
Indian
names
.
Next
day
at
the
churchyard
his
father
was
laid
among
a
hundred
Divers
,
Dorseys
,
and
Hunters
.
It
was
very
friendly
leaving
him
there
with
all
his
relations
around
him
.
Flowers
were
scattered
on
the
brown
unsettled
earth
.
Dick
had
no
more
ties
here
now
and
did
not
believe
he
would
come
back
.
He
knelt
on
the
hard
soil
.
These
dead
,
he
knew
them
all
,
their
weather
-
beaten
faces
with
blue
flashing
eyes
,
the
spare
violent
bodies
,
the
souls
made
of
new
earth
in
the
forest
-
heavy
darkness
of
the
seventeenth
century
.
"
Good
-
by
,
my
father
—
good
-
by
,
all
my
fathers
.
"
On
the
long
-
roofed
steamship
piers
one
is
in
a
country
that
is
no
longer
here
and
not
yet
there
.
The
hazy
yellow
vault
is
full
of
echoing
shouts
.
There
are
the
rumble
of
trucks
and
the
clump
of
trunks
,
the
strident
chatter
of
cranes
,
the
first
salt
smell
of
the
sea
.
One
hurries
through
,
even
though
there
’
s
time
;
the
past
,
the
continent
,
is
behind
;
the
future
is
the
glowing
mouth
in
the
side
of
the
ship
;
the
dim
,
turbulent
alley
is
too
confusedly
the
present
.
