Devoted Heart

by Bill Myers

  “I am marrying my daughter.”

  “But—”

  “It’s what we’ve always planned, it’s what we will do.”

  I felt Mary’s body tense beside me. “Dad,” she said, “it’s not important enough to go against the Council. You know what they’ll—”

  “No.”

  “I’m just saying it’s—”

  “I will marry my daughter.” He still didn’t shout, but somehow his voice was louder than if he had. And that’s when I began understanding where Mary got her will.

  “Mrs. McDermott tried one final time. “If they defrock you, if they take away your license, what—”

  “Enough!” This time he did shout. More of a roar. “The wedding is in 48 hours and nothing will stop me from marrying my daughter!”

  The room grew silent.

  But there was something that would stop him. Something even stronger than his love, his iron will . . . and even his faith.

  CHAPTER TEN

  M ary’s love. That was the only thing that could stop her father.

  The next day, eighteen hours before the wedding, I was kneeling in gray, gritty slush alongside Highway 12, fixing a flat on my pickup. I’d dropped a lug nut from my numb fingers and was digging through the mush to find it. Mary stood behind me in the falling snow, hands stuffed in her jacket, plumes of breath around her head. She’d just undergone a mild contraction and wanted to be outside to stand. She said it was nothing to worry about, some women get them two to three months ahead of time. Apparently, she was one of the lucky ones. Still, it was a first for me and a bit alarming.

  As I dug through the slush, she asked, “Need a hand?”

  “Nah, I’m good,” I said. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m good,” she repeated.

  But, of course, neither of us was good. I felt like a traitor. And Mary? I can’t imagine what she felt. But the decision had been made and we were following through. Two hours earlier, at St. Arbucks, she had sprung it on me.

  “It’s just a ceremony,” she’d said.

  “It’s something you’ve waited for your entire life.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Joey . . . I waited my entire life for you. Not the ceremony. The ceremony is just a . . . formality.”

  She was a terrible liar. Never had the practice. Her eyes shifted to the counter, then stared out the window, anywhere but to mine. She was desperate to save her father’s reputation, not to mention his job, and she’d do anything necessary for him to keep it. “If we leave right now we could make it over to the courthouse before they close.”

  “Mar—”

  “We’ve already got the license. But we have to leave now. They close at 5:00 and it’s a two-hour drive.

  I shook my head.

  “Why not?” she said.

  “Our parents, our friends—”

  “We’ll still have the reception. It’ll be exactly the same, except—”

  “Except you’re sacrificing everything you ever dreamed about in a wedding.”

  “If we don’t do it, Dad will sacrifice everything he’s ever dreamed and worked for.”

  I watched as she looked back out the window, back to the counter, down at her coffee. It was dueling love . . . a father’s love verses his daughter’s.

  “Joey.” She turned back to me. “I’ve dreamed about becoming your wife before you even knew I existed.”

  “Oh, I knew.”

  “And marrying you will be the happiest day of my life. But if we don’t do something for Daddy, it’ll also be my saddest.”

  Daddy. In all our time together, I’d never heard her use that term. Daddy. Coming from her at that time, in that place, it made her sound so fragile, desperate . . . child-like. I could have fought her. After all, it was my wedding, too. But who was I kidding? This was Mary. To go against her on this would be going against her very core—the very thing that made her who she was—that grabbed my heart and had never let it go.

  Still, maybe I should have said no. I’d thought about it a dozen times as we headed off into the growing snow flurries. I thought about it as Mary texted her mom then turned off the phone so she wouldn’t get back the protesting response. Yes, I thought about it. But, like her father, like his daughter, love seemed to be winning out.

  It wasn’t until I tossed the jack behind the seat and helped Mary up into the cab that I realized it still wasn’t done with us. I glanced at my watch. 4:42. I slid behind the wheel to coax the pickup into starting and Mary said what we were both thinking.

  “We’re not going to make it now, are we?”

  I looked out the windshield. The snow was falling faster. Wet and heavy. I sighed and shook my head. “Not in this weather.”

  We sat a moment in silence.

  “Maybe it’s a sign,” I said. “Maybe God’s telling us to head home and go ahead with the— What are you doing?”

  She’d pulled out her cell phone and checked something.

  “Mary?”

  She read the screen. “The Courthouse opens at 10:00 AM.”

  “Mar-”

  “No, listen. The clerk could marry us tomorrow.”

  “But the reception. In this snow we’ll never get back in time for—”

  “It’s just a reception. Besides, not that many people are coming.”

  “Come on, it’s important.”

  “We can make it up to them. Throw a big pot luck next week. Or the week after.” She was determined, though her voice was thickening with emotion. “That way we’d have more time to spend with them, one on one and . . . and, I think that’s what we should do.”

  She looked out the passenger window. If she hadn’t given her cheek a quick brush, I’d have never known she was crying.

  “Mary . . .”

  Still looking away, she nodded. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  I waited, watched. She gave another nod, repeated more softly. “It’s the right thing.”

  It was settled. I knew her mind was made up. I knew something else, too. Her love had just raised the stakes . . . and, once again, it had won.

  I dropped the truck into gear, and pulled back onto the highway.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  J ust to be safe, Mary had called the courthouse to make an appointment for the following morning at 10:00 sharp. We came rolling in at about 11:05. Besides a rough night’s sleep at the nearby Motel 6 (two rooms, my idea, not hers), there was a trip to Target to pick up some makeup and other odds and ends (her idea, not mine). Girls, go figure.

  The snow had been coming down steadily all night and the temperature had dropped to near zero. We were grateful to step into the warmth of the old, historical building that smelled of dusty books and floor wax. Not so grateful when we met the county clerk, a Napoleon wannabe, with thick eyeglasses, stationed behind the counter.

  “We’re late,” I said.

  Carefully eyeballing Mary, he answered with what he must have thought was humor. “By about nine months.”

  I let it go. “Can you still squeeze us in?” I asked.

  He motioned to the empty lobby—empty benches, empty clerk windows, not a soul in sight.

  “Great,” I said. “So where do we go, what do we do?”

  “You have a witness?”

  “A . . . witness?” I looked to Mary who frowned. This was news to both of us.

  He pushed up his glasses. “Not official without a witness.”

  Behind him two workers were hunched over their computers. “What about one of those—”

  “County employees.” He busied himself with papers. “Can’t go stopping every time some kids think they want to legalize their sex.”

  Mary sensed my anger and touched my arm as a caution. I pulled it together. She was right. This was the little man’s little fiefdom and there was no use trying to wrench it from him. But even then, I was back to thinking, why? It was the same question I’d struggled with ever since Charlie Riorda
n got hit, since I first heard the news about Mary. Why, if God had so much love, why was He so hard on those who loved Him the most?

  I’d barely finished the thought before something behind us caught the little man's eye. “Ah, you’re in luck.”

  I turned, following his gaze past the lobby to the double doors where an old, familiar couple and their daughter entered.

  “Momma?” Mary gasped. “Dad?”

  “There they are!” Rebecca cried as she spotted us. She raced across the floor, leaving plenty of watery tracks and a scowl on the clerk’s face.

  “What . . . what are you guys doing here?” Mary asked as Rebecca hugged her.

  Her sister giggled mischievously and turned to hug me.

  McDermott’s voice boomed from the doors as he stomped the snow off his feet. “Terrible weather out there.”

  “We’re not too late, are we?” Mrs. McDermott asked.

  “No, Momma.” Mary grinned. She gave her cheek another brush. “You’re right on time.”

  And that’s when it hit me — my question about God’s love. Maybe, just maybe the greatest love comes wrapped in the greatest difficulties. The idea was supported by something else as well. It looked like the clerk would have to wait just a little bit longer before starting the ceremony. Because there, folded over Mrs. McDermott’s arm, was her wedding dress.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  M ary’s folks sprang for three days at the local Holiday Inn in Chehalis. Their wedding gift to us, as if they hadn’t given enough already.

  “Cool,” Rebecca called from across the hotel’s lobby. She’d already scored a free oatmeal cookie from the front desk, poked around the lobby with its fake-log fireplace, and checked out the Photo-shopped pictures of blurry streams and waterfalls. Now she spotted the swimming pool across the hall from the elevators. “Can we stay, too?”

  “No way,” McDermott said as he finished signing at the desk.

  She half-skipped, half-twirled back to us, focusing on her mom. “Please . . .”

  Mrs. McDermott chuckled. “That’s up to Mary and Joe.”

  She turned to us. “We won’t disturb you. Please . . .”

  Mary shook her head. “I love you squirt, but Dad’s right, no way.”

  “What about just me? I could hang out way at the other end of the hall or even the other floor. You wouldn’t even know I’m here.”

  We traded amused looks.

  “Pleeease . . .”

  Then, like some TV sitcom, we answered in perfect unison, “No way!”

  I won’t go into detail about our wedding night—though I can tell you, out of respect for what was growing inside her, we had agreed not to, as the Bible says, know one another. Even at that, as we got ready for bed, we were painfully self-conscious, giggling like school kids. I can also tell you my feelings as I watched her finally slip into sleep, the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders under the amber parking lot lights diffused through window sheers. Actually, I just had one feeling. Awe. Awe over the strength of this woman/child whose back was nestled into me. Awe, that she was protecting and pouring her life into the making of another. Awe, that with my arms wrapped around her, my fingertips were just inches from an entirely different life that was forming at millions of cells per second. And awe at how that life had already, and would no doubt, continue to change our lives.

  If I slept, I can’t tell you when. The time was too precious to miss a second. But the sheers slowly turned from amber to dull white. And that’s when my phone rang. I tried to catch it before it woke her, but managed only to fumble it from the nightstand to the carpet. I slipped out of bed and dropped to my knees to answer in a whisper.

  “Hello?”

  “Joseph?” A woman’s voice. Ragged and breathy.

  “Yes.”

  “Joseph Shepherd?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Dorothy Riordan.”

  My mind raced, trying to place the name.

  “Charlie’s mom,” she said. “Charlie Riordan?”

  Charlie Riordan, my buddy. The one who, despite my mistake, had risked his life to save mine. “Mrs. Riordan. How are you? How is he?”

  “He’s, uh, he’s asking for you.”

  “For me?”

  Mary stirred. “Joey,” she mumbled, “what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, babe, go back to sleep.”

  I bent lower to the floor, spoke softer. “He’s asking for me?

  “He’s taken a turn for the worse, and, uh. . .” The phone rustled.

  “Mrs. Riordan?”

  “Joey?” Mary struggled to turn, rose up on one elbow. “What are you doing? Who are you talking to?”

  Mrs. Riordan came back on. “I’m not sure what time it is where you are, and I know it’s a terrible inconvenience—”

  “No, no,” I said, “What can I do?”

  “He’s asking for you.”

  “Can you put him on?”

  “He had a pretty rough night. He’s sleeping now. But he wanted to know, he’s asking, I know it’s a terrible inconvenience…”

  “Please, what can I do?”

  Mary moved across the bed until she was looking down at me.

  “He’s asking, he wants. . .”

  And then it hit me. “He wants me to visit him?”

  “That’s . . . that’s what he’s asking.”

  My mind raced. I saw Mary trying to read my expression.

  “When?” I said.

  “I know it’s an inconvenience, but—”

  No, no,” I rubbed my forehead, “It’s no problem. Where is he? What hospital?”

  “No, he’s home,” Mrs. Riordan said. “He wanted to be here when he, uh . . . he wanted to come home.”

  “So it’s serious.”

  “We’ll pay for the flight. Only . . .”

  I finished her thought. “. . . the sooner the better.”

  “They said, they said he just has a few days.”

  I rose to my knees, opened the nightstand drawer searching for a pad and pencil. “Okay, and the address, can you give me your address?”

  Mary turned and grabbed them off her nightstand.

  “I know it’s a terrible inconvenience, and I wouldn’t ask—”

  “No, no, I understand.”

  Mary handed me the paper and pencil. I nodded a thanks.

  “And your address?” I said.

  We’re an hour outside of Fresno. We can fly you into Fresno and pick you up—”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said. “I can rent a car. And your address?”

  She gave it to me and again apologized for the inconvenience. I assured her it was no problem, that I’d be down there ASAP. I owed him that. I owed him more than that.

  We said goodbye and I hung up. Only when I looked up to see Mary staring quizzically down at me, did I realize how ‘inconvenient’ it really was. Because now, I wasn’t just making decisions for one person, it was two.

  Make that three.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  J oey, can you slow down a little?”

  “I did,” I said.

  “Which is why we’re back up to what, 70, again?

  “If we’re going to make it down to Portland before the storm hits, we’ve got to move.”

  Mary said nothing which was like saying everything which meant it was my turn again. “We’re being looked out for, remember?” I reached down to her hand. “God’s not going to let anything happen to us. If He said all those things about the baby then—” I stopped as the high beams appeared in my mirror—along with the flashing blue and red lights.

  Somehow, I managed not to cuss.

  Mary searched my face then turned to see a Washington State Patrol car signaling for us to pull over. I braked and moved through the slower lanes. His car remained glued to my tail, until we came to a stop in the emergency lane.

  “Great,” I said, throwing the truck into Park. “Just great.”

  Mary had good reason to say plenty. She als
o had the good sense not to. Another plus in her column.

  “Can you hand me the registration?” I said. “There should be an insurance card in there, too.”

  She opened the glove compartment and handed them to me as I waited. And waited. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. “You’d think . . .” I stopped, my mind rehashing why we kept having all these little setbacks. Yesterday I thought I had a handle on it. But that was yesterday.

  “Think what?” she asked.

  “You’d think if we’re so special, if your child was-”

  “Our child.”

  “If our child was so special, you’d think the Almighty would cut us a little slack.”

  She looked silently out the windshield.

  “What?” I said.

  “Maybe it’s because he’s so special. Maybe that’s why we have to do everything by the book. No short cuts. Maybe. . .” She stopped and shook her head, making it clear she didn’t know.

  I took a breath and blew it out. It was barely ten in the morning and it had already been a long day—starting off with our first, official, newlywed argument. . .

  “No,” I had called from the bathroom. “Absolutely not.”

  Mary, who had already dressed, was struggling to put on her shoes. “But I’m your wife.”

  “All the more reason not to drag you down to California.”

  “Chehalis is already half way to the Sea-Tac airport.” She struggled to stand. “You’re not going to drive me all the way back home, then have to turn around and come all the way back. In this weather it will take you forever.”

  “No. You can stay here. Your dad can pick you up.”

  “He’s done enough already.”

  “He’d understand. He’d—”

  “I’m not his responsibility, Joey.”

  The edge to her voice brought me up short.

  She continued, “You and me, we’re the ones who signed up for this program. Not my dad. Not anyone else. You. Me.”

  “I get that, but—”

  “I said yes to God. You said yes to God. That’s how it has to be.” Realizing things were getting heated, she brought it back down. “We’re family now. The three of us, we’re . . . family.”