Standing Strong

by Theresa Linden

  If he made it through the forty hours, would he have to tell Peter and Roland about this mishap?

  A story from the Little Flowers of St. Francis popped into his head. St. Francis sent Brother Bernard to Bologna. When he got there, the children assumed by his poor clothing that he was a madman, and they laughed at and mocked him. Instead of letting this bother him—it would’ve humiliated Keefe—Bernard embraced it and set off for the market place so more people could see him and make fun of him. They pushed him around, threw stones and dirt at him, and shouted mean things. Brother Bernard responded only with silence, the joy evident on his face. And he went back every day for more, until one man recognized that his behavior was only possible for a great saint. After this, everyone loved and honored him, and so he asked St. Francis if he could leave that town.

  Keefe thought for a moment, his gaze fixed on a little blue flame between bigger, brighter ones in the campfire. Could he ever do that? He had an opportunity for humility now, because of his failure.

  Pressing his cold lips together, he decided. Yes. He would tell Peter and Roland in detail how he’d blown it and almost had to give up. If he lasted the forty hours, he’d explain how they shouldn’t count it because he’d messed up and needed help. He wasn’t alone the entire time.

  The headlights of Jarret’s Chrysler 300 appeared in the distance, along with the sounds of music and of tires crunching closer. Jarret parked in the same spot and jumped out, this time shutting off the headlights. The light from the roaring campfire must’ve satisfied him. He cruised around the front of the car to the passenger side and brought out a duffel bag—which he slung over his shoulder. Then a sleeping bag, blanket, and pillow—which he stuffed under one arm, and a case of bottled water.

  “What’s all that about?” Keefe stood up. “I just wanted dry clothes.”

  Jarret dropped the case of water near Keefe’s canvas bag and let the strap of the duffel bag fall off his shoulder. “What, are you gonna drink—river water? Who knows what’s in it?”

  Keefe took the duffel bag and squatted as he unzipped it. “Well, I don’t need the sleeping bag. I can be uncomfortable for two nights.” He pulled a clean pair of jeans from the bottom of the bag.

  “Why?” Jarret undid the ties and flopped the sleeping bag out on the ground near the campfire. He tossed the pillow and folded blanket onto it and then stood hands on hips, staring at Keefe for the answer.

  “It’s the challenge of it. I’m supposed to be out here for forty hours with nothing but the clothes on my back and a loaf of bread.”

  “Whatever.” Jarret made himself comfortable on the sleeping bag, stretching out on his side and propping his head up with his hand.

  “Thanks for the clothes anyway. You sure got back here fast,” Keefe said, wanting to lift Jarret’s mood. Did it bother Jarret that Keefe wouldn’t go home or accept all his help?

  “Yeah, I was barreling down the road, praying Officer O’Brien wasn’t on duty.”

  “You know police officers by name?”

  “Just him. He gave me my first ticket two months ago. Then I met up with him last week.”

  “I didn’t know that. Another ticket?”

  Jarret shook his head. “Thank God. I don’t need any more points on my license.”

  Feeling almost back to normal in dry clothes, Keefe sat on the ground and dug through the bag for his socks. In addition to jeans, Jarret had grabbed a t-shirt, a sweatshirt, his warmest jacket, hiking boots, and the old white socks with the little holes in the heels.

  “So why’d you come out here anyway? Thought you’d still have friends over.” Keefe wrestled a sock onto his foot, hoping that Jarret wouldn’t know how to answer that question, or that Jarret would say that he’d sensed something. Keefe could take that as a sign of sorts, couldn’t he? Maybe God had sent Jarret out here to rescue him.

  If Jarret had a real reason for the unexpected visit, it would most likely mean that Jarret had found himself in some desperate situation where he needed Keefe’s advice. That would tell Keefe that Jarret, with his new and weak faith, still needed him, that God wanted Keefe to mentor him for as long as it took for Jarret to stand on his own. That maybe he wasn’t called to the life of a Franciscan. At least not yet.

  Jarret gazed at the fire as he answered. “I messed up.”

  Disappointment crept into Keefe’s soul. He sighed and yanked the ties of his hiking boot.

  “Had to take Nate to the hospital.”

  “What?” That didn’t sound good. “Party get wild?” Keefe finished tying his other boot.

  Jarret grabbed the folded blanket and tossed it to Keefe. Then he fidgeted with his ponytail fastener, let his hair loose, and dropped his head onto the pillow. “You could say that.” Then he proceeded to spell out all the details, more kids coming over than expected, all of them taking over the house, blaring the music, messing with the antiques, smoking... and the beer.

  “You ever think you should find new friends?”

  Jarret made an effort to look at Keefe, one brow raised. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Bad company corrupts good character.” He’d read that saying somewhere, maybe in the Bible.

  “Theirs or mine?” He grinned and laid his head back down. “I just won’t invite them over anymore. We can party at one of their houses.”

  “So you think Nate’s allergic to red food coloring? I’m surprised Papa didn’t drive him to the hospital.” He unfolded the blanket—an old wool one that Papa favored—and draped it around his shoulders, appreciating the cozy feel and extra warmth.

  “Papa doesn’t know.” Jarret twisted a lock of hair on the top of his head. “Well, maybe he knows now. I didn’t see him when I fetched your clothes. I made a point of avoiding him.” He grinned, giving his same old sneaky look. “So I don’t know if he came around while everyone was leaving. I hope they cleaned up. Bet they didn’t.”

  “You should tell him.”

  Jarret stared at the sky. “Yeaaaah, I know, but I’m sure he knows by now.”

  “Let him hear it from you anyway. Call him.”

  “You mean now?”

  “Why not?”

  Twisting to one side, Jarret drew his phone from his pocket. Then he sat up and rested an arm on his raised knee. “Here goes nothing,” he said, putting the phone to his ear. “Pick up, old man.” He sighed and glanced at Keefe. “He’s not picking up. See?” He turned the phone so Keefe could hear Papa’s recorded message, though Keefe couldn’t really make out the words.

  “So leave a message.”

  Jarret narrowed one eye to show his reluctance.

  Keefe motioned for him to do it.

  As if resigning himself to the consequences of his actions, Jarret took a breath. “So hey, Papa. You probably already know that the party broke up. I know it wasn’t supposed to be a party, just a few friends coming over. But it turned out to be a few more friends than I expected, like, uh, fifteen to twenty, and one of my friends had an allergic reaction to... well, food coloring, I guess. So I took him to the hospital. He’s fine. His parents took him home. I told everyone else to leave. Not sure if they did. But...” He dipped his head and shoved a hand into his hair. “But they brought beer and I don’t know what else.” He paused, not sure what to say next. “Sorry. I messed up.” He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the sleeping bag.

  Keefe smiled, proud of Jarret. “So are you wearing the scapular I gave you?”

  A guilty-looking grin stretched across Jarret’s face. “No, but it’s in my pocket.” He stuffed a hand into a front pocket of his jeans.

  “Why don’t you wear it?”

  “Maybe you need it more than I do tonight.” He tossed it to Keefe.

  He’d wanted to encourage Jarret to put it on, but a feeling of comfort overwhelmed him at the touch of the brown cloth. Past promises to Jesus and Mary flitted through his mind, so he put the scapular on over his head and stuffed it into his shirt. “For now. But you should wear one
too. It can remind you of who you want to be and that God is always there to help, especially through His mother.”

  “So I wear it and like magic I’m going to do the right thing.”

  Keefe swooshed his hand at Jarret, unwilling to reply to his lame response. Jarret didn’t understand yet. Maybe he could find something online to explain it better. For now, he appreciated having it with him for his forty hours.

  “So that girl texted me.”

  “What girl? The one from the bookstore?”

  He nodded.

  “What’d she want this time?”

  “Told me her name. But I didn’t text back.”

  “Going to?” Keefe hoped he’d say no. Had he straightened himself out and healed from the mess with his last girlfriend?

  “Nah.” With a sigh, Jarret got to his feet and stuffed his phone back into his pocket. “She goes to River Run High, so I’ll see her soon enough. She can tell me to my face what she thinks of me for ignoring her message.” He grabbed the pillow. “Sure you don’t want the sleeping bag or pillow?”

  “I’m sure.” Blanket sliding from his shoulders, Keefe got up and stuffed his wet clothes into the duffel bag while Jarret rolled up the sleeping bag. “Thanks for the help. I know I kind of blew it—”

  “Yeah, like three hours in.”

  Keefe shrugged, taking Jarret’s teasing in stride. “But I want to finish the forty hours. And thanks to you, I can.”

  “Want my phone?” Jarret stuffed the sleeping bag and pillow through the open passenger side window.

  “No. I’ll be fine. I won’t do anything stupid.” Keefe pushed the duffel bag through the open window.

  “Okay, see ya back at the fort.” Jarret got in behind the wheel and slammed the door. Music came on as he started the car, something with a hard beat, but it sounded to Keefe like a Christian song.

  Keefe watched him drive off, determination growing inside him. He could’ve easily given up, taken a ride home with Jarret. He could’ve easily accepted the comforts. But he was claiming this victory for himself. Forty hours. He could do this.

  CHAPTER 13

  The beams from the Chrysler’s headlights cut through the dark. They illuminated a long stretch of road, the weeds and blades of grass that edged it, and a few trees further back.

  Thoughts and images scrolled through Jarret’s mind like a social media feed, not in order of importance or chronologically, and none of them getting a “like”: Nate moaning and rocking in the front passenger seat of Jarret’s car, Kyle cracking open a beer can, Trent and Konner playing cards on the veranda, a trail of smoke rising off the cigarette Jarret puffed outside, Keefe shivering on the ground by a stack of firewood...

  Jarret wiped his forehead and ran his hand over his hair. Nate would be fine. He’d walked out of the hospital. Maybe he wouldn’t get too much heat for being at Jarret’s house.

  Jarret’s eyes narrowed and his grip tightened on the steering wheel. So, Nate wasn’t even allowed to come over? How many other kids weren’t allowed over? He wasn’t that bad. Granted, tonight was a mess. But the beer wasn’t his idea. Neither was the food coloring. He’d just wanted to play pool and hang out, to do something before school started. Maybe they should’ve gone out instead.

  “So hey, Papa. You probably already know the party broke up...” The message Jarret had left Papa played in his mind and made his stomach clench in knots. Part of him wished he hadn’t left a message. But he’d need to tell him anyway. Was Papa still up? Maybe he’d gone to bed early and hadn’t even heard the message. They could talk about it in the morning.

  A wave of exhaustion passed over Jarret, and he yawned. How would Keefe handle camping all alone under the stars? Jarret would’ve liked to have stayed with him. They could’ve talked themselves silly until the sun came up, like in the good old days.

  But he knew Keefe wanted—maybe needed—to go it alone. Maybe everyone reached that point as they grew up. A man had to make his own decisions, decide the type of person he wanted to be and where he wanted to go in life, and figure out how to get there. Would he need to blaze his own trail or take a familiar path?

  Jarret turned down Forest Road, where he could drive on auto pilot, and let his vision blur. Where was he headed? He should start thinking about life after high school. Did he want to go to college or learn a trade? What would he go to college for? What trade? Nothing called to him.

  Keefe seemed to have an idea for his future: join the Franciscans. And if he got his answer from God, he seemed more than willing to go all in. Jarret tried picturing Keefe in a long brown robe.

  What if God wanted that of him too?

  Jarret’s breath caught. Panic flashed in his mind and faded. Get real. God knew he wasn’t cut out for that. But how open was he to God’s will? Was he ready, willing, or able to make the changes needed to stay on the right path? What would he have to change? He didn’t want to give up his friends or his reputation. Maybe he could change his friends, help them see that there was more to life than parties, girls, and games. Nah. He couldn’t see himself talking about anything deep with them. He’d only gotten his toe wet in all this faith stuff. He knew little to nothing.

  Maybe Father Carston could help him with all this.

  Jarret eased off the accelerator. Oh, yeah... He had an appointment tomorrow. He was supposed to meet Father Carston for spiritual direction. What was he going to tell Father? A week had passed since his last confession, and he had too much to talk about already. Is that what spiritual direction was about? Telling on yourself like in confession? There had to be more. Maybe Father could give him advice about what he needed to do to stand strong.

  Jarret turned down the long gravel driveway that led home, palmed the steering wheel, and let his mind rest.

  A moment later, he rounded a bend. The dark trees opened to their castle-like house. Floodlights made it glow and emphasized the rough stone exterior and jagged battlements. No light shown from the windows. No cars in the circular drive or near the garage.

  He exhaled, relieved that all his friends had left. But as he pulled up to the garage, he glimpsed something in his peripheral vision. And his heart skipped a beat.

  A porchlight illuminated a lone figure on the veranda steps. Papa. He sat slouched, with one leg stretched and the other bent, his Stetson hiding his face, and a trail of tobacco smoke rising from his pipe.

  Rather than park in the garage, Jarret pulled up to it, shut the Chrysler’s engine off, and got out. He shoved his keys into a pocket and inhaled a deep breath on his way over, psyching himself up. Papa must’ve gotten his message.

  “Hey, Papa.” Jarret stopped where the grass met the concrete and stuck his thumbs in his belt loops. “Got my message?”

  As Papa lifted his head, he tapped his cowboy hat up and squinted at Jarret, his expression unreadable. “Yup.”

  Jarret shifted, his heart hammering in his chest. “I, uh, I honestly didn’t expect so many kids to come over. Wasn’t planning on having a party, just a few friends playing games in the rec room.” Yeah, work that angle. He could throw the blame on all of them. He could pretend he didn’t know—

  “Don’t try to pass the buck, son.”

  “What? I...” The imaginary knots in his gut tightened. Lies and excuses always popped into his mind, but he wanted to be honest. Besides, he liked the peace in the house since they’d returned from Arizona and the feeling of Papa being proud of him. He wanted that back. “Okay, I – I guess I shoulda made everyone leave when I saw they’d brought beer. Shouldn’t have let them drink it over here.” Jarret toed the edge of the concrete, his heart still pounding. “You’re probably pretty ticked off, huh?”

  “Who’s the kid you took to the hospital?”

  “Oh. Nate. He’s fine. His parents came up, but I stayed until they let him go.” He debated for a second whether he should tell him what else he did. Then he just blurted it out. “Then I went out to see Keefe.”

  Papa gave a nod and took a p
uff off his pipe. “How’s Keefe?”

  “Uh, fine.” He decided against mentioning Keefe’s mishap in the stream. Keefe was safe now.

  Papa’s gaze shifted to some point in the distance. Smoke swirled from his mouth, and the silence stretched out. A man of few words, he was probably planning what he’d say next, trying to figure out what to do about it.

  “So...” The knots in his gut twisted. He’d let Papa down, and he wished he could make it right. He wasn’t letting him down again. Jarret stopped toeing the concrete and planted his foot. “I’m ready for my consequences. I bet there’s a mess inside that I should clean up.”

  “Nanny took care of most of it, throwing away evidence.” Papa cracked a smile.

  “Oh.”

  “All but the rec room. You can clean that up.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll pull my car into the garage and get started.” He took a step. He’d clean it up before bed instead of waiting—

  “Hold up.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I hope you don’t have plans for the weekend. I don’t want you going anywhere.”

  “Uh...” Jarret crossed his arms over his chest and snorted. “What, like I’m grounded?”

  “Yup.” Papa didn’t quite smile, but his eyes lit up. “Just like you’re grounded.”

  “But I...” Okay, he wanted to make things right, so he needed to accept this without an attitude. But what about his appointment with Father Carston tomorrow? Did he want to tell Papa about that? No way. He’d have to reschedule. And what about Mass on Sunday? Nah, Papa wouldn’t keep him from that.

  “You start school on Monday, but I don’t want you going anywhere else.”

  “What?!” His face twitched and eyes bugged. How old did Papa think he was? “For how long?”