On the Loose (A Katie Parker Production)

by Jenny B. Jones

Pastor Mike gives us the ground rules for painting then turns us loose.

  I follow Frances into a small kitchen and inspect the paint cans.

  “Sunshine yellow, that’s right.” Mrs. Dobbs hobbles in behind me. “Isn’t that a lovely name for some paint?” Her rusty laugh fills the room. “Lord knows we could use some sunshine in this old house.”

  Frances hands me a paint roller and smiles at the woman. “When do you expect to be back in your house, Mrs. Dobbs?”

  “Oh, child, you call me Sarah.” She pushes a stray piece of hair out of her eyes. “Well, we’ve been living with the neighbors for over five weeks now, but we’ll be able to move back in when you children get done and the fumes clear out a bit. But we’ve waited this long, we can wait some more. No hurry.” Mrs. Dobbs pats me on the back. “It’s all in God’s timing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.” I nod like I mean it. “Do you have family here?”

  “No, our family’s all gone, except for Elmer’s brother in Ohio. The Lord didn’t bless us with children, so it’s just me and Elmer.” She grins toward the living room. “But God gave us good neighbors and a good church. He always provides. Yes, indeed. Don’t you agree, child?”

  My head lifts as I realize she’s directing her question at me. Again. “Um . . . yeah.”

  She leans in closer. “I didn’t get to be this old without knowing what I’m talking about, you hear what I’m saying?”

  I swallow. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “When you paint my walls the color of sunshine, you think about what the Lord has brought me through. Would you do that for me?” Mrs. Dobbs pats my shoulder with her bent hand. “This wasn’t my first tornado, you know what I’m saying?”

  She waddles away, chuckling to herself.

  I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. Christians are a weird species.

  “Hey, guys.” Charlie walks in carrying two brushes and some painter’s tape. I see he brought his attachment, Chelsea, who, for whatever reason, wears ballerina flats, a denim miniskirt, and some rich girl shirt that was probably seen on the red carpet just last week.

  Frances and I grab a roll of the blue tape and help Charlie tape off the room. Chelsea leans against the kitchen table and watches.

  “I think that should do it for now.” Charlie surveys our work. “Let’s get started. Chels and I will detail, and you two use the rollers.”

  I paint in small areas like I’ve seen on HGTV, and soon the wall looks cleaner and brighter. Like sunshine.

  “Are you kidding me?” Chelsea shrieks and holds up her dainty hand. “I can’t get this paint off my fingernails.”

  I try not to laugh but totally fail. “It’s not permanent. It’ll wash off with soap and water.”

  She curls her lip. “I just got my nails done. So no, I don’t think it’s just going to wash off.” She gazes mournfully at her fingers. “I’m gonna have to leave and get this fixed.”

  Charlie puts his brush down. “Chelsea, it’s not that big of a deal.”

  Her mouth drops. “Not a big deal? Going like this—” She sticks her hand in his face. “For five days is not a big deal?”

  “This is a mission trip—a working mission trip. What did you think you’d be doing when they said we were helping tornado victims?”

  Her gum crackles in her mouth. “I don’t know, Charlie. Dusting? Baking?”

  Baking. Yes, a tornado tore their home apart, and what they want more than anything is some cupcakes.

  “Would you rather paint with the roller?” Frances asks patiently.

  Chelsea rolls her eyes. “Forget it. I’m fine.” She looks at Charlie, who clearly is not impressed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have my latte this morning, and you know how I get.”

  Psycho? Whiny? Obnoxiously annoying?

  “I think we need some more help in here.” Charlie stands up from his spot on the floor.

  I look around, proud of our progress. “No, we don’t.”

  His eyes widen for a millisecond. “Yes, we do. I’ll be right back.”

  Paint fumes getting to him, I guess. I dip my roller in the tray and continue splashing on the yellow.

  “Look who I found.” Charlie pulls Nash into the kitchen. “I was hoping you’d help me tape around the cabinets.”

  “No problem, dude. I am here to help.” Nash greets everyone and goes to work.

  I catch Charlie’s eye and give him a thumbs up.

  “So . . .” I scoot closer to Chelsea. “How was your rehearsal Friday night?”

  Her forehead wrinkles. “Rehearsal?”

  “Yeah. You know, the one you said you had with Trevor. That the rest of us weren’t needed for?”

  Her eyes drop to her brushstrokes. “Oh, yeah. Of course. It went fine. Just a few rough spots to work out. We have very challenging parts.”

  Frances snorts behind us.

  “Which part do you find such a challenge?” I ask.

  Chelsea huffs and her brush stills. “I’m a perfectionist. I’m not content to just memorize some lines and sleepwalk through a production.”

  “No, of course not.” I bite back a grin. “Everyone knows what a strong work ethic you have.”

  She forces a smile. “Exactly. Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go text my manicurist.”

  Thirty minutes later Chelsea is still blissfully absent, and Charlie has maneuvered Frances over by the cabinets next to Nash.

  “Nicely done.”

  Charlie picks up Frances’s discarded roller. “Thanks. I hope you don’t still think I’m letting you down on all my promises.”

  I raise my nose a few inches. “The jury’s still out.”

  Charlie’s eyes fuse with mine. His hand raises slowly and inches towards my face. Maybe he thinks hard work is sexy on a girl.

  “You have some paint on your nose.” His fingers brush the tip of my nose, his gray eyes holding mine.

  “Thanks. For everything.” I should look away. But I can’t. “You’re not so bad, Charlie Benson.”

  “Wow, from you that’s quite a compliment.” Those captivating eyes twinkle.

  “Oh, that is looking marvelous. It’s like a new kitchen already in here.” Mrs. Dobbs bursts into the room, breaking the spell. Charlie and I both take a step apart.

  She shakes her gray head. “Elmer will be tickled to death when he sees this. This looks so good it’s bound to make my cookin’ taste better.” She laughs and the noise travels through the tiny house, like her joy won’t be contained in this small space.

  Mrs. Dobbs studies each one of us before her gaze settles on me. “Yes, indeed, Elmer and I huddled up in the living room. I couldn’t get him to the bathroom to take cover, so I just said, ‘All right, Lord, if the living room is as far as I can go, then I’m gonna trust you to take care of us.’” She stares through me like she’s reliving the night. “And that mean old twister came and dipped into our house. There’s not a sound like it. And I knew it was hitting us, but me and Elmer, we kept on a praying. And do you know what?”

  Forgetting everyone else around us, I look at Mrs. Dobbs. “What?”

  “Our giant oak tree in the backyard crashed into our house. The only room that wasn’t hit was—”

  “Your living room.” Chills tingle up and down my paint-splattered arms.

  “Do you think that was luck, child?”

  I slowly shake my head. “No.” And tears pool in my eyes. Why on earth is this making me weepy?

  “No, it wasn’t luck. It was the Lord. We got a big God. Sure enough. He’s so big he can take care of the both of us.”

  “You and Mr. Dobbs?”

  “Him too.” Her wrinkled eye lid drops in a wink. “But I meant you.” Her shoes click on the linoleum as she walks away whistling a happy tune.

  Chapter 34

  Fixing a bowl of Frosted Flakes is about the extent of my meal preparation abilities. And right now I’m listening to the youth pastor’s wife explain how we’re going to cook for over one hundred pe
ople. No problemo.

  “So you just add water and butter and stir. And in a few minutes, you have mashed potatoes. Got it, Katie? . . . Katie?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Stir, pour in water, and put in some . . . um, more water.”

  Frances pushes up her tiny glasses and squints. “Weren’t you listening?”

  “Sure I was.” I caught at least two or three words. My body hurts from stretching in ridiculous positions to paint the Dobbses’ walls today. And then Sarah and Elmer won’t get out of my head. And I wonder what my mom is doing right now. Is she thinking of me? Is she wishing things were different? Making plans so things will be better? Knowing her, she’s probably propped on the couch, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, screaming at Pat Sajak for a vowel.

  “You okay?” Laura pulls me to the side, away from the food prep.

  I nod and look down, totally uncomfortable. “Yeah. Seriously, I’m fine.”

  “Sarah Dobbs is a pretty cool lady, isn’t she?”

  “Uh-huh.” If I had just listened to the potato making instructions, I wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. Was I supposed to add milk?

  “That woman is amazing.” Laura shakes her head and her blonde ponytail sweeps across her shoulders. “It’s like she can see right through you, you know?”

  “I dunno.” But I felt it too.

  “It’s like God whispers in her ear exactly what to say to someone.” Laura shrugs. “Oh, well, maybe it’s just me.”

  An hour later I have whipped up my last batch of instant mashed potatoes. Like my arms weren’t already about to fall off. Maybe all this arm work will boost my bust line. “Hey, Katie, how’d you get those new and improved boobs?” “I made mashed potatoes.”

  “Have you guys seen Chelsea?” Charlie wipes his hands on a towel then drapes it over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, she’s over there icing our sheet cakes.” Frances points to a far-off corner in the activity center.

  He mutters something under his breath and heads in her direction.

  “She’s been icing the same cake for forty-five minutes.” Frances chops into an onion and blinks at the powerful smell.

  “Well, it’s hard to talk on the phone, text, file your nails, and spoon out icing.”

  “Frances, the salad is ready for the onions.”

  Frances shoves her bowl of onions at Pastor Mike. “Good riddance.” She wipes at her tearing eyes.

  A half hour later the first of the dinner guests arrive. Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs, holding hands like high school sweethearts, lead the line.

  “Hello, children. My, it smells wonderful in here. Doesn’t it, Elmer?”

  “It sure does. Not as good as anything from your kitchen, but I do believe it smells good enough to eat.” Mr. Dobbs grabs a plate and hands it to his wife.

  Frances gives everyone a piece of fried chicken, placing it on their plates like it’s a masterpiece. When they have all their side items, they come to my station for their dessert.

  “This is the most important part of the meal, I say.” Mrs. Dobbs grins. “I might even eat my dessert first.”

  Chelsea butts in behind me. “I made it.”

  “You did, did you?” Mr. Dobbs nods in appreciation.

  “Yes, she put the canned icing on this cake all by herself.” Oops, did I say that out loud?

  “Well, we’ve all got our role here. And I think the cake looks beautiful.”

  Feeling Mrs. Dobbs not so subtle chastisement, I cut extra big pieces for the couple. They thank me and move on.

  I slice another piece and ease it onto the next plate held out.

  “Thanks, Katie.”

  Before I even raise my head, I know this voice. “Hi, Jeremy.” My cheeks flush, and my brain overloads with the awkwardness. “I like your nose.”

  He touches his face. “What?”

  “Er, I mean the one you brought to rehearsal last week. I liked it. It was your best one yet.” In some part of my brain it registers I’m friends with someone who collects noses.

  “Oh, thanks.” Cheeks pink, he looks down when a little boy with orange hair like his scoots beside him, plate wobbling.

  “Help your brother.” Jeremy’s mom balances a baby girl on her hip and her own plate of food.

  “Mom, this is Katie. She’s my ugly stepsister.” Jeremy’s eyes light up as he laughs. A sharp contrast to his mother’s expression. She wears a look of weary that is so set in, like it’s tattooed on and never coming off.

  “Nice to meet you.” She glances at me for a second then walks away, pushing her middle son ahead of her.

  “Well, I’ll see you later. Thanks . . . um, for the . . .”

  “I’m glad you’re here, Jeremy. And if you want extra dessert, I’ve got connections.” We exchange smiles, and he joins his family at a table.

  “I didn’t know Jeremy was poor.” Chelsea appears at my side and inspects her handiwork again. Her voice oozes revulsion.

  “You don’t have to say it like that. I happen to be poor.”

  She laughs and rolls her eyes. “No, you’re not. I’ve met your foster parents.”

  “Yeah, foster parents. Wanna know where I came from before the Scotts took me in?”

  “Not especially.”

  “A trailer park. And I don’t mean the nicely decorated modular home variety. Ours was orange and white. With green shag carpet. And if your next question is did we have tires on our roof, the answer is yes.” Though honestly I never knew why. “And before that? We lived in our car for a few weeks. And before that—”

  “Chill out.” Chelsea’s glossy lip rises in disgust. “What is your deal?”

  I set the cake server down with more force than necessary. “My deal is you. We’re doing mission work here, not let’s count how many people we can look down our noses at.”

  “I’m not looking down my nose at anyone.”

  Oh, that’s right, because if you did that, you’d have to actually stop and really look at people. I take a deep breath, remember I am supposed to be nice to Chelsea. I so deserve a medal. “I just think you and I are here for two different reasons.”

  “Really? And what exactly is your reason for being here, Katie?”

  “To help some people, and to—” My mouth snaps shut.

  “To what?”

  I don’t know. Or at least, I’m not sure. But I think Pastor Mike was right. I’m starting to feel like I’m supposed to be here too. “Never mind.” My eyes skim the crowd, and I see Charlie playing with Jeremy’s brother, but watching Chelsea and me. “I’m sorry, Chelsea. I hope you have a good week here.” Ouch. That little piece of niceness hurt.

  Much later the lights dim when Pastor Mike climbs the stage and opens his Bible. He reads from the book of Hebrews, listing people in the Bible and things they’ve gone through.

  “Look at all you’ve overcome. Each one of you here. God wants the opportunity to be your ultimate rescue.”

  I doodle on a piece of paper stuck in my Bible as he wraps it up and begins the invitation. The God Wads set up behind him and begin to play at a low volume.

  A guy standing behind the pastor softly sings. Nash picks at his acoustical guitar and harmonizes with the lead singer. Words are thrown up on a screen. My eyes scan over the lines, and I find myself humming along.

  Then quietly, hesitantly . . . singing.

  For the first time since coming to In Between Community church, I do more than stare at the words. More than wordlessly move my lips. I am singing.

  The words about amazing grace wash over me like the shower that took away all the yellow paint. And I get it—this grace stuff. I glance at Jeremy and at the Dobbs, and I see myself. If not for some serious grace, I could be right where they are. And in some ways, I actually am. Like them, I’m depending on people for help. Before I came to the Scotts, I had nothing. No home, no real family of my own, few people to care about me, and life was bigger than any homework assignment a teacher would throw at me. And like t
hese people here, things are still totally up in the air. I don’t know when or if my mom is gonna show up. And I don’t know with one hundred percent certainty Millie is gonna be all right. And I still go to bed each night in fear Rocky will crawl into bed with me and drown me in drool. But the Scotts have given me grace. And so much more.

  The words to the song ring in my ears. I’m not lost anymore. I am found. Millie and James Scott picked me up and asked me to trust them. And they haven’t let me down yet.

  Is that what you’re asking me to do? Give you blind trust?

  That’s so not my thing though. Until Mrs. Smartly and until the Scotts, no one on this planet had come through for me. No one. And now I’m just supposed to free-fall into faith like God’s gonna be there to catch me.

  But can I? The Scotts are there—I can see them, touch them. Bum money from them. But God? How can He be that real to me?

  I really want to believe you’re there.

  A few rows over Mrs. Dobbs raises up her hands and sways to the music. Her eyes closed, her head tilted back, she sings her heart out to the Lord. God is that real to her. Is it really just that easy?

  Through many dan gers, toils and snares . . .

  we have already come.

  ’Twas grace that brought us safe thus far . . .

  And grace will lead us home

  It’s not like it could hurt. I mean, I’m Katie Parker. Disaster sits in my back pocket and follows me everywhere. I could use the insurance. It seems to have worked for the Dobbs. That woman sat in her living room and prayed, fully expecting God to take care of her and her husband. And he did.

  I need you to take care of me. And Millie.

  Pastor Mike continues talking as the band sings the first verse again.

  A movement to my left catches my eye. Jeremy, my friend and cast-mate, places himself in front of our youth minister. Pastor Mike puts his arm around Jeremy and pulls him close, speaking in his ear over the strains of music. I see Jeremy nod a few times and brush at his eyes with the back of his hand. Minutes pass before Pastor Mike signals for the band to close.

  “Guys, tonight I want to introduce you to Jeremy. His family was hit by the storm, and they lost nearly everything they had. Jeremy’s been trying to make sense of it all ever since. Tonight it’s not about logic, it’s about what God’s put in your heart. Following his lead. Jeremy, are you ready to let God take that lead?”