The Van Dad Drove to Church

Inga

I stayed out in the lot a minute. I did not look at Garrett, because I did not want him to think I was enjoying it.

I was not. It was a hard thing to watch my brother stand there like that, with every bit of it his own doing.

When I came up the steps, Dad and Inga were stopped in the entry, by the coat hooks.

Inga was holding his arm with both of her hands, the cane hooked over her wrist, and she was looking up at him.

“Clement,” she said. “Do you know you are the only man left in this town who still comes to the door?”

Dad laughed a little. “Somebody’s got to.”

“No,” Inga said. “Nobody has to. That’s why it matters.” She patted his arm.

“My husband used to come to the door. Your wife used to come to the door. Now it’s only you.” Her eyes were wet. “Don’t you stop, Clement. You hear me?”

Dad stood there in the entry of the church, in his too-big black suit, and he did not say anything for a while.

Then he bent down, slow, and kissed the top of her head, right on her church hat.

“I won’t stop, Inga,” he said. “Nils will drive. But I’ll do the doors.”

The service

We sat where Dad always sits, in the fourth pew on the left, with the six ladies spread out on either side of him like a row of hens. I sat on the end by the aisle.

Garrett and his wife came in late and sat in the back. I did not turn around, but I could feel him there the whole service.

The first hymn was “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.” Dad does not sing much anymore, because his voice gives out, but he held the hymnal open for Inga, who cannot read the small print, and he ran his finger under the words so she could follow.

During the prayers, the pastor thanked God for Clement Brandvold’s safe return home from the hospital. Six widows said amen louder than the rest of the church put together.

I looked down the pew at my father. He had his eyes closed and his hands folded, and he was not thinking about the van or the money or Garrett.

I am sure of that. He was just glad to be sitting there with his ladies.