“It is a sad thing,” Jack offered at last, “when your private shame becomes a public scandal.”
Warren nodded.
Maybe this is a universal truth. Maybe everyone has something they’re ashamed of. Some family scandal, some personal failing.
Of course it is, he thought. We’re all broken. We’re all fallen.
“We have got to do better,” he murmured automatically. It sounded odd.
“What?” Warren asked. He set his beer next to the rocker with a clink.
“Nothing,” Jack said. He drained his Shiner, thanked Warren, and got to his feet.
“Jack, you’re still a man of God, right?” Warren asked as they walked to the truck.
Jack paused to think about that. He shook his head. “Warren,” he said, “at this moment, I’m not really even sure what species I am.”
“No,” Warren said. “I watched you preach. A thousand people must have been there.”
“Ten thousand,” Jack corrected. “Sorry. Not that it matters.”
“Well,” Warren said. “Would you pray for Van?”
“What would you want me to pray?” Jack said, not committing himself.
“To do better?” Warren asked. He stopped, considered what he might say. “He’s really hurting his family.” He looked up at Jack. “He’s hurting all of us.”
“I can pray about that,” Jack said. He nodded to himself. “I will pray about that.” He climbed into the truck, looked at Warren. “Can you do the hard thing? Can you go on loving him, even while he’s hurting you? That’s really important.”
Warren blinked once or twice. Then, slowly, he nodded. “You can’t just stop,” he said. “Can you?”
“I don’t see how you can,” Jack said. “Not if other people go on loving us even when we disappoint them.” He started the truck. “Not if God goes on loving us.”
They each raised a hand, a Texas wave, good for all occasions.
“I’ll see you,” he said.
“Auf wiedersehen,” Warren said. “I’ll tell Van you asked after him.”
“You do that,” Jack said. He drove back into town and loaded the truck with Mrs. Calhoun’s shingles. They weighed in at about eighty pounds per bundle, and Jack actually had to stop, drink a Dr Pepper, and catch his breath again midway. He was totally out of shape for this kind of work. It had seemed so easy when he was twenty. He was too old for this.
He wondered how on earth his father had been managing these past few years.
“Dad,” he called, sticking his head into the store.
“I’m with a customer,” his father called back, not unkindly.
Jack loaded up the last bundles of shingles and the rolls of felt and then went back into the store ten minutes later. “I’m going out with this last delivery,” he said as his father rang up dozens of D batteries for Shirley Martin, the high-school music teacher.
“For my electronic keyboard,” she explained. “It eats them like jelly beans.”
“You know, we should carry some rechargeables,” Jack said without thinking. Must be that Seattle green creeping in. “I mean, Dad, maybe we could—”
“It’s a good idea,” Tom said, handing her back her change. “And surely a little gentler on the planet.” He nodded at Jack. “You can make some shelf room for them on Monday.”
Mrs. Martin left, the bell jingling as she exited.
“I’m going now, okay?” Jack said. “Could I have some—”
“Oh,” Tom said, stopping himself just in time from closing the till. “Right.” He pulled out some twenties, counted them, handed them to Jack.
“Have a great afternoon,” he said.
“I’ll pick up some chicken on the way home,” Jack said. “Okay?” He smiled. “A man should be able to eat what he wants to eat.”
“Oh, and football is on tonight,” Tom said.
“Football,” Jack said. “Is Seattle playing?”
“That’s next Sunday,” Tom said. “After we get home from church.”
Not a chance. That needed to be settled right away.
“Dad,” he said. “I’m not going to church. Not tomorrow. Not next week.”
“No?” Tom looked a little disappointed. “I’d be happy to show you off.”
“I’m sure you’d like that,” he said. “But I’m not sure everyone else would.”
Tom laughed. “You’ve not done anything worse than half the people there. Father Frank says you can’t trust any church that won’t accept that it’s made up of sinful men and women.” He closed the cash drawer. “Honestly, Jack, it’s just like every other place on the planet. Some people would be scandalized if you walked in. Some would welcome you with open arms.”
“I’m not ready for that,” Jack said. “Too many memories.”
“Memories can be good or bad. It depends on what you do with them.”
“Well,” Jack said, trying hard not to smile, “I have a memory that the last time I was in that church someone ordered me to stop preaching. It’s a little hard on the ego.”
Tom also struggled to hold a straight face. “Could be that begging you to stop was better than letting you go on preaching.”
Jack couldn’t hold it; a snicker crept out. “Could be,” he admitted.
“Have a great afternoon,” Tom said. “And it’s the Alamo Bowl tonight. Texas is playing.”
“You know,” Jack said, “that sounds good.” And he meant it. Texas football, fried chicken, some time with his dad. Not bad at all.
He turned to go, and then remembered what he’d come in to ask.
“Dad,” he said, “how have you been managing to keep this store going all on your lonesome?”
Tom didn’t say anything for a long moment. Jack watched his father shaking his head in puzzlement. He shrugged. “Honestly, son? I don’t know. Somehow things get done. Trucks get loaded.”
“Things get done?” asked Jack. The English major in him had noted the passive voice, and he pursed his lips. “By whom are these things done, Dad? Elves?”
“Manny and me have held down the fort for thirty years,” his father said. He smiled. “I have not seen hide nor hair of any elves.”
“But—” Jack’s own muscles were aching from one morning of loading and delivering, and he was years younger. And cancer-free, for that matter. “How, exactly, have you held down the fort?”
“I’m glad you’re here,” was all his father said. “And you’ve earned your time to play. Go on. Drive safe.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “Here I go.”
8.
Jack’s last stop was Nora Calhoun’s, and that would launch him on his way out of town. As he walked out to the truck, he considered if he could make any of his purchases locally. The Buy-n-Buy only sold Texas novelty T-shirts; the Sears was mostly an order store now. He needed new clothes this moment.
He’d have to drive to Kerrville. But that was okay. It was a beautiful drive.
On the way over to Mrs. Calhoun’s, he stopped at The Lunch Counter for a sloppy joe and crinkle-cut fries that he could eat on the way. He dropped by the Buy-n-Buy and bought a Dr Pepper and some cassette tapes for the truck. The selection was limited, but he found a Best of Guns n’ Roses and an Al Green’s Greatest Hits, as well as a number of bands best left forgotten. Not even Father Frank would want these in his backseat.
Jack parked in the driveway, didn’t see anybody around, got out, walked up to the door, rang the bell.
Nora Calhoun opened the door slowly, and instead of smiling and telling him she was glad to see him, she stepped forward and sank into his arms.
She was crying, her gnarled fists balled and hard against his chest.
“Mrs. Calhoun,” he said, bewildered. He looked down at the top of her gray head. “Nora. What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
He looked into the house. Was someone hurt? Was something on fire?
“Oh, Jack,” she said finally. “Jack Chisholm, I am the stupidest old woman.”
That must have been what she needed. She sniffed, stepped back, drew herself up with some dignity, and invited Jack inside. They went back to the kitchen, and she seated him at the dining room table, which sat under a spreading water stain on the ceiling.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” she said while she poured him a cup of coffee. Maxwell House. It was his fate from now on. She lowered her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t accept delivery of those shingles.”
“I can take them back,” Jack said. “But, Mrs. Calhoun, you need a new roof.” It was the first thing he noticed when he pulled up to her house. The shingles were dingy and frayed. He looked up at the water stain—he must be sitting underneath the leak that Lyndi patched.
“I know that,” she said. “And after talking with your father the other day, I thought I’d found a good deal on labor. These boys were driving through town, saw my place, told me they’d come this morning to put on a new roof if I’d order the shingles.” She passed him the cup, warmed her own, and then sat down at the dining room table. Antique, Jack noticed now, cherry, beautiful grain. All it needed was a new coat of finish.
“I should have known it was too good to be true,” she was saying.
“They wanted to be paid up front,” Jack said, his heart sinking.
“How did you know?” she said. She shook her head. “That way they wouldn’t have to bother me when the job was done. But they didn’t show up this morning to start taking off the old shingles. And the phone number they gave me doesn’t work.”
“Cash or check?”
“They wanted cash,” she said. She raised a hand to her mouth. “I should have known. Oh, I am a stupid old woman.”
“Stop it,” Jack said. “It’s a common scam. I had some older members of my church get taken the exact same way. The exact same. And they weren’t stupid any more than you are.”
“I am so sorry to drag you out here,” she said. “Those shingles look heavy.”
“You know it,” Jack said. “And I still have to unload them.”
“But I don’t have any more money.”
“You need a new roof,” Jack repeated.
“There’s no more money,” she repeated.
They sat for a moment, sipping their coffee and sighing. At last, Jack swallowed the last of his Maxwell House and slid his chair back. Although he didn’t know yet how he was going to make it work, he had decided something. “This is going to sound counterintuitive, Mrs. Calhoun, but I am going to unload your shingles because I believe that somehow, some way, that roof of yours is going to get fixed.”
She looked at him skeptically. “By elves?”
“Sure,” he said. “By elves. Are you going to church tomorrow?”
“Am I alive?” she asked.
“You’re a praying woman,” he said. “Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to go to church and pray that somehow this will work itself out.”
Her pursed lips showed how much she believed him. “Is that your advice as a pastor, or as someone who doesn’t want to take my shingles back to the hardware store?”
“Both,” he said.
“I don’t much believe in miracles anymore,” she said softly. He knew her life had been fraught with tragedy.
“Miracles come in all shapes and sizes,” he said, reaching out to pat her hand. He got to his feet. “You just go to church. You pray. I think something good might happen.”
Outside, he unloaded the shingles by the front porch, grunting louder with each bundle. She watched him quietly, her expression something between doubtful and heartbroken. When he was done, he walked over and hugged her.
“Call Randy,” he told her. “Tell the police what happened. Let’s at least not let these guys scam anyone else.”
She nodded. It would be a blow to her pride—but better that blow than someone else be taken in.
“And listen—I want you to start believing something good is going to happen.”
She couldn’t. He could see that just by looking at her crumpled face, her defeated posture. Any kind of miracle was too much to hope for. She’d been kicked too hard to believe.
He knew that feeling well, and didn’t want anybody else to suffer it if he could help it.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said.
Sooner than she knew.
“Bless you,” she said, although he hadn’t done much yet worth blessing. “You know, you’re a good boy, Jack.”
“I’m glad somebody thinks so,” he said.
He waved to her, climbed into the hardware store’s truck, and was on his way out of town.
He drove the curves and shade of the river road as far as the highway. Then he turned south and let the wind rush through the cab as he lowered both windows, turned up the music, and got his speed up near seventy.
It was the fastest he had driven in a long time—and the farthest. Forty-five minutes later, he arrived in Kerrville blasting “Paradise City” and making a general nuisance of himself at each traffic light. Down past the Guadalupe River—pronounced in Texan “Gwad-a-loop”—he stopped at Bealls department store, and after sorting through designer jeans, pushing past Polo and Union Bay, he found what he was looking for: Wrangler Cowboy Cut.
He bought two pair, one blue, one black, plus some black T-shirts and a wool crew-neck sweater that didn’t look like something his mother had made. Beige, he thought. Ecru, the tag said. Either way, he was content.
On his way back out of town on Highway 16, he stopped at Billy’s Western Wear and tried on a lot of cowboy boots—Noconas, Justins, Ariats. At last, after walking around in each of them for a while, he decided on some Tony Lamas in brown bull hide. Settled, because what he really wanted was a pair of Tony Lama black ostrich boots, but he didn’t have near enough money. He also bought a matching leather belt after considering and rejecting a big buckle bearing a Texas star.
“It’s too much,” he admitted out loud to the salesman. “Too much, too fast.” He had worn a big belt buckle with a bucking bronco on it when he was a boy, and Jamie Taylor had once busted his knuckles trying to punch him in the stomach.
Jack smiled at the thought.
Maybe later.
As he walked out to the truck, he had another thought. Next door was a Home Depot. He pulled into their parking lot, wandered inside, and took a look at what they carried in their battery section. They shelved chargers and rechargeable batteries together. He picked out a package of four AA Energizers that came with a charger to show his dad and to get the product number.
Holy cow, he thought as he stood in line and looked around. It was a hardware theme park that stretched on into infinity.
This place has everything. No wonder people drove the forty-five minutes to get here.
He shook that thought out of his head. People loved his father. After all, they’d kept the Chisholm’s store in business for three generations—four, counting his daughter, Alison, wherever she was.
A lot could be said for doing business with integrity in your own hometown.
The checker put Jack’s batteries in a white plastic bag, and he ambled back out to the truck. He noticed an F-150 was parked next to his dad’s pickup, and someone was leaning against it.
The two of them marked each other at the same time. It was hard to say which of them was more surprised.
It was Bill Hall with his gray felt cowboy hat tilted back, one finger in his belt. He was bigger—he’d developed a substantial gut, although nothing like the one on Dennis, which was truly a wonder of the world—and had some gray at his temples. But he looked hearty and healthy, and was definitely the Billy Hall he had known his whole life.
Bill stood up straight upon seeing Jack, as though he’d been caught doing something obscene.
“I thought your dad was driving,” he said. “I was going to explain why I was coming here.”
“Bill,” Jack said, putting out a hand to detain him. They both looked at that hand, and then at each other.
“Y’know, Twelve,” Bill said, “I’d guess we don’t have much of anything to say to each other.” He brushed Jack’s hand to one side and stepped past him.
“Bill,” Jack called after him. He stopped a few steps off. “I just wanted to say—man, I’m sorry.”
Bill didn’t turn around. “I’d guess you’re sorry for a whole mess of things just at the present moment. Doesn’t do much for me, though.”
“You’re right about that,” Jack said. “I am a mess, true enough. But I can be sorry too. I’m sorry that I left the way I did. I didn’t think about all the people I’d be leaving behind when I walked away from my dad.”
“No,” Bill said. He turned to face Jack now. “You surely didn’t think of us.”
His face held no compassion anymore, no warmth. Once they would have run into a burning building for the other. Now they looked at each other as if they were strangers. Less than strangers, maybe.
Bill turned, took a step.
I would still run into a burning building for him, Jack thought.
“Billy,” he said. “You were my best friend in the world. It was stupid, but I wanted to close the door on all this.”
“You were on a rocket ride,” Bill said, letting out a big sigh, “toward the future.” He looked around the parking lot. “And yet here we stand today.”
He pointed a finger that skewered Jack’s heart. “I counted on you. Even if we were on different sides of the country, I told myself, if I need Jack, he’ll come. If I really need him, he’ll always come.”
Bill looked at Jack now with something close to hatred, his jaw rigid as he spoke. “When my Sarah took sick, I called your office. You didn’t come. When she died and I had to plan a funeral, I called your office. You didn’t even call me back.”
It was a punch in the gut that no belt buckle could deflect. “I didn’t know,” Jack said. “They screened my calls. I got so many.” He shook his head, took a deep breath. “It’s not an excuse. But I would have come if I’d known. I promise.”
The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story Page 9