by Karon Ruiz
When the VW reached Kaibab Road, Gordon noticed a few cars heading toward the freeway.
“I wonder why some cars work and some don’t?” Jeremy asked.
“It depends on the year and if the car has electronic components,” Gordon answered. “Those with electric or hybrid engines seemed to be the ones affected, especially if they were charging during the CME. Fortunately for me, any car manufactured before 1973 will drive.” Gordon patted his dashboard affectionately. “My grandfather left me this baby. It runs on pure gas, nothing else.”
“My wife’s going a little nuts right now,” Jeremy said. “She didn’t want me to come. The kids are climbing the walls and have been banned from our pool.”
“We covered ours,” Gordon said. “Anyone with a pool should do that. Water will be like gold, eventually.”
“I’ve got to locate our cover when I get back,” Jeremy said. “How are you and Laney doing, Martin?”
“Since we got the heads up from Samantha yesterday, we got what we could and filled up the inflatable swimming pool. Got close to three thousand gallons of water in it right now. It came with a cover to keep the critters out. Not quite sure how we’re gonna get bath water out of there.”
“You’re not on a well?” Gordon asked.
“Unfortunately, no. I picked up a siphon at Jacobsen’s and it seems to work with the pool water, though it’s a slow process. Laney and I already washed a load of dishes.”
“We have a well,” Gordon said. “I found a hand pump and was able to prime a steady supply of water last night. It made our morning coffee possible.”
“You’ve really stepped up in your dad’s absence,” Martin told him. “Your mother must be proud.”
Gordon wondered if that was true. Right now anger boiled beneath the surface. When he saw his dad today, he might explode. He’d been ruminating all morning on how to tell him off. What his dad had done to the family was unforgivable, especially to Grace. Yesterday all she talked about was ice cream and why her daddy hadn’t come back. How any decent person could do that to a kid was beyond him.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The Way Up Is Down
_________________________________________________________
Dalton held his hand in front of his face, seeing the silhouettes of his fingers. He peered into the shadows straining to see. He let his hand drop and crawled to the bench. He pulled himself up, sat on the steel, then scanned the cell. A voluminous orange shape came into focus. He squinted at it, adjusting to the sliver of sunlight that penetrated the window. A large black man with peppery hair stared back, wearing a jumpsuit like his. The inmate’s mouth drew a broad grin, revealing a row of alabaster teeth.
The older prisoner walked toward him. He shook Dalton’s hand, then sat next to him. “I’m Moses. My friends call me Mo,” he said.
“My name’s Dalton. When did you get here?”
“I’ve been here a few hours. You were sleepin’.”
The man’s warm smile disarmed Dalton and a sense of peace wrapped him as snug as one of his mother’s quilts on a winter night.
“I’m surprised they brought in anyone new with the power being off.” Dalton leaned past the man and stared. Bulldog and T.T. dozed in the corner.
“I’m not afraid of the dark.” Mo chuckled, then eyed Dalton, his gaze raking from his toes to the top of his head. “Did they give you somethin’ for those?”
“For what?”
“You’re havin’ withdrawls, right?”
Dalton’s eyes widened. “I’m not going through withdrawals … I have the flu.”
“Really?” The man’s brows knitted together over an infectious grin.
“Yes, really,” Dalton snapped. He wasn’t about to admit anything to this stranger. Truth was, the pain he’d felt hours ago had certainly waned. Maybe the worst was over. His gut let out a rumble and his stomach cried for food. That was a switch.
Mo handed Dalton a paper sack. “Here’s your supper, brother.”
“Gee … thanks … I’m starved!” Dalton ripped it open. Yesterday’s bologna had been replaced with roast beef on rye. There was a pint of milk, some vanilla pudding, and a banana. It looked like someone had gone to a lot of trouble making this stuff in the dark. Must be leftovers from the staff refrigerator. Better give it to the prisoners since it might spoil anyway.
Dalton devoured half the sandwich. His stomach received the nutrition without complaint. Though his facial injury still felt stretched and uncomfortable, the pain was nothing close to yesterday’s. He probed the bandage with the tips of his fingers. His cheek had deflated to about half its previous size.
Mo bowed his head and prayed silently for several seconds, then dove into his own meal.
A believer? In jail? How did he end up here? Dalton shook his head. How did he end up here?
“Where are you from?” the older man asked, chewing a mouthful of food.
“A town called McCormick. About an hour south.” Dalton took a long sip of milk. The coldness surprised him. With the power off, everything should be lukewarm.
“Your people there?”
“My wife, Sammy. I have two kids.
“How large is your church?”
“Huh?” Dalton’s eyes narrowed. “I never mentioned church.”
“Many folks go to church.” Mo stuffed in the last of his sandwich, then opened the pudding.
“Well … uh … I actually pastor a church.”
“You do?”
Dalton’s shoulders sagged. “I used to anyway. I might lose my job.” What was he saying? Stop talking, stupid!
“We all have our share of troubles,” Mo said. “You can tell me ‘bout it if you want. I’m all ears.” The big man wadded up his empty lunch sack and set it aside, then knotted his burly hands between his knees, giving Dalton his full attention.
Dalton thought for a second. “Not sure I want to.”
“I get that.” Mo cocked his head. “Sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger. I’ve got all night to listen. Gettin' out tomorrow.”
He was getting out of this place? This guy must have a good attorney. If only Dalton hadn’t cashed out his stocks, he wouldn’t be stuck with a public defender. And maybe he’d have hope of a release tomorrow, too.
Dalton leaned back, crossed his ankles in front of him. This man would be gone tomorrow. What harm could it do to tell someone what was going on? With Bulldog and T.T. asleep, now might be the best time.
“You were right about the withdrawals,” Dalton admitted. Once he loosened his tongue, his words tumbled out with ease. “They started yesterday. I’ve never been as miserable in my life. They seem better now, but honestly, if they come back, I don’t know what I’ll do. It’s excruciating.”
“From what I see, you’re probably gettin' better,” Mo said. “What are you coming off of?”
Coming off of? Did this guy think Dalton was a common drug addict? He stalled for a moment, rubbing his temple. “They were legal drugs. Prescription painkillers that I needed.” Dalton tried to control the edge in his voice and couldn’t resist the urge to explain himself even though he didn’t know Mo from Adam. “I took them for an injury.”
“It’s the legal types that are more dangerous.”
“What do you mean?”
“Prescribed pills can be slippery. They sucker folks,” Mo said. “Because they’re legal, people get fooled, makin' it easy to overdose. They’ve been okayed by a doctor. Why would they be harmful? That’s the lie that gets us in trouble.”
Dalton stared into Mo’s eyes, then furrowed his brow. Mo said, “Us.” Dalton relaxed against the wall, feeling more at ease.
“Why did the doctor give ‘em to you?”
“It began with a back country ski trip,” Dalton explained. “I should have listened to my wife, Samantha, that morning, but I didn’t.” He described being buried chest-high in snow at the base of Doyle’s Saddle. He told
Mo about the knee surgery and agonizing recovery. “I wouldn’t have been able to cope without those pills,” he said. “The pain was too much.” He paused.
Should he tell the rest of the story?
As he recounted the events from Sunday, the realization of what he’d done hit him with a clenched gut. “My car … is at the bottom of Copper Lake.” His cheek muscles tightened, bringing a tinge of pain as he spoke, realizing his own life had hit bottom, too.
“Look here.” Dalton pointed to his face. “I did that. To myself. With a hammer.”
Had Sammy really watched him the whole time? He stared at his feet. How could he have traumatized her like that? What kind of husband was he?
Void of disgust, Mo’s eyes misted. “As the adage goes, ‘desperate times call for desperate measures.’”
Dalton had been desperate. But had it been worth it? The unbearable agony that had radiated through his flesh had driven him close to madness these past few hours.
“I’ve ruined everything with my family,” Dalton said. “I don’t know if they’ll ever forgive me. I’m not even sure God will forgive me.”
“You know the Good Book says, ‘ask and you will receive’ … have you asked?”
“Huh?”
“The Father. Have you asked Him?”
No, he hadn’t even thought to pray. The distance between God and him seemed impossible to close.
“I know He loves me,” Mo asserted, then smiled, looking longingly at the cement ceiling overhead. “He loves you too, brother. He forgives when we ask. You, being a minister, must know this.”
He shrugged. He was a minister. Why didn’t he get it? The concept of God’s love was nothing but a bunch of head knowledge that hadn’t found its way to his heart. Being a pastor never gave him one bit of assurance about that. What he preached on Sunday mornings was for others—those searching for hope, for an anchor—not for him. He knew that love from a far-away God was as unreachable as his dead mother’s arms.
“Something much more painful than a torn-up knee caused your addiction,” Mo interrupted his thoughts.
“Everyone keeps saying that,” Dalton snapped.
“What?”
“That I have an addiction.” The man had crossed the line now and it stung. “I have a problem, that’s all. A problem that I’m dealing with.”
There was a pregnant pause between them as Mo’s chocolate eyes bore through him. “Problems don’t torment a fella’s body with an appetite that can’t be appeased,” Mo said with certainty. “Problems don’t shackle folks like handcuffs, making them feel it’s impossible to change.”
Dalton twisted his wedding ring.
“Father wounds choke us, leaving a strangled soul,” Mo continued. “Addiction can be the result.”
Dalton’s scalp tingled. He sighed, not anxious to drag up all those emotions. He hadn’t mentioned anything about his dad, yet Mo had nailed it. It was bad enough that his past reared its ugly head at the most inopportune times. Like during a worship song at church or at his mother’s graveside. He hated those memories. Subduing them with Oxy was the only thing that had worked.
The older man scratched his chin stubble. “Opiates numb a deeper pain.”
It was like Mo read his thoughts. And he was right. No matter how hard he’d tried to kick the drugs, he’d failed.
Dalton nodded and considered the black man. “I couldn’t get free.” The words tumbled out. “I craved more. And more. And then even more.”
“Your soul hunger is insatiable. Nothing in the physical realm can quiet its cry.”
Mo was filled with wisdom, even greater than his own mother. “I noticed you praying earlier. Are you a Christian?”
The man smiled and nodded. “Yes, I believe.”
“Sometimes I wonder about my faith,” Dalton said. “It feels like God’s done with me. I’m a mess.”
“It’s actually quite the contrary,” Mo said. “The broken seem to have a special place in His heart. The bruised reeds, the smoldering wicks.”
“Bruised reeds?”
“A great verse. You oughta’ read it sometime.”
“In the Old Testament?”
Mo nodded. “A gold nugget for sure. It’s tucked away in the book of Isaiah. Unless you’re lookin’ for it, you might miss it.”
“I’ve heard it before. I never gave it much thought.”
“I’m not surprised. Can I be honest with you, brother?”
“I guess so,” Dalton said. His lips formed a straight line. He gritted his teeth and readied himself for expected criticism. It usually came after a question like this.
“You’ve spent your whole life tryin’ to get a smile from God, haven’t you?”
A smile from God?
Not really. Being tolerated and put up with was more like it. Eating the meager scraps under God’s table, absolutely. But an affectionate beam? He couldn’t imagine God smiling at him. That was a foreign concept.
Mo continued, “This prophet’s prose is able to knock you flat on your back with the reality of God’s love, drowning the lies of performance-based religion.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rigid obedience is nothing more than a patch kit for a leaky boat. Eventually you run out of epoxy and begin to go under. None of us have the wherewithal to make it across this angry sea, called “life.” Eventually we lose steam. We mess up and lose our will to perform. Our boats start sinkin’.”
“That describes me to a T,” Dalton admitted. He dropped his chin to his chest, remembering when he’d finally stopped obeying “the rules.” After his skiing accident. When he opted for an Oxy ride over dealing with his inner ache. The tiresome climb toward an unseen God was no longer an option. Things had suddenly gotten easier. At least for awhile. If he’d been able to produce even a smidgen of energy to save himself, he would have tried by now. Truth was, he felt empty and exhausted. Worse yet, God had abandoned him. Especially now. The cold dark shadows of a country jail cell made that clear.
“Do you recall where that verse is?” Dalton asked. “I don’t have my Bible with me.”
“Chapter forty-two, verse three. What is bruised and bent, He will not break; He will not blow out a smoldering candle.” Mo studied him. “How old are you, brother?”
“Forty-five. Why?”
“I’m surprised it took you so long.”
Dalton’s brow furrowed again. “What do you mean?”
“This is your Jacob moment. A place where all people end up at some point.”
“I don’t get it.” Dalton’s gut clenched as the sandwich hit.
“In the Bible, come on, man … you’re a minister, for heaven’s sake.”
“Oh … that Jacob.” He forced a grin. “Genesis, right?”
“He wrestled with God at the Jabbok River, remember?” Mo asked. “He was at the end of himself. Sort of like you.”
Dalton had taught that passage a few times through the years. He’d always made sure to comfort and reassure parishioners who’d grown weary of persevering, who felt God was against them. But he’d never applied it to himself.
“This is a turning point,” Mo proclaimed in a deep voice. “Here, tonight, right in this cell, is where you will wrestle with God.”
“Wrestle? Aren’t you contradicting what you just said?” Dalton shook his head and looked at the concrete floor, picturing Jacob struggling against God, begging to be blessed. “I can’t do another thing. I have nothing left inside.”
“The fight won’t be one of self-effort, Dalton. Your boat patchin’ days are over.”
That’s a relief. The thought of a real wrestling match drained him.
“You are exactly where you need to be.”
Dalton’s head snapped to the side. “What?”
“Give up, brother. Stop trying. He never asked you to save yourself. Your fight will be against the lies you’ve believed all your life. That’s where your battle
will be. But even here, God will fight the fight for you. This war cannot be waged apart from trusting in a Father who deeply loves you.”
Dalton shot a look at their cell mates but T.T. and Bulldog slept on. He turned to Mo. So far, the guy had described his whole situation. And now he knew Dalton’s deepest insecurities about God. Until this moment, only Sammy had seen his vulnerability, the anxiety lurking beneath the layer of pomp that undergirded his Sunday show. He’d always been jealous of her friendship with God. But he’d long since given up trying to get into God’s good favor. Mo was right. He didn’t trust God. Not in the least little bit.
“You know His book, Dalton.” Mo interrupted his thoughts. His eyes glistened above a slight smile before he spoke in a firm voice. “He might even be an acquaintance. But no, you don’t trust Him.”
It was downright eerie the way this man read his thoughts. Mo was right, but what could he do? How could he trust a God who seemed like an utter stranger?
“If He was your confidence, you would have run to Him instead of those drugs. The only path up is down.”
“Huh?”
“On the floor, brother.”
“There?” Dalton pointed to the cement, eyeing his wadded blanket, crumbled in a corner. He’d shivered under it hours earlier. Nearby were remnants of vomit drying into thick glue.
Mo chuckled, joining his gaze with a knowing look. “I speak of a lower place. It’s your bottom. Only you know when you’ve reached it.”
Dalton looked around the tiny jail cell, full of murky shadows. His cellies snored loudly, oblivious to the surreal world around him. Could he really go lower than this? He couldn’t imagine anything worse. Please, Father, help me … I can’t go farther down than this. I have no strength left. This week his scale of righteousness had been drastically tipped and Dalton knew he could never even it out again.
What did he have to lose by following Mo’s advice? The devil had almost check-mated him. Was God showing him one more move?
“How do I find this lower place? And how will I climb out of it?”