Son of a Preacher Man

by Karen M Cox

  “You did keep your head when it mattered most. It was a tough night for all of us.”

  “I pray that the little Quinlan gal is all right.”

  “Me too.”

  “Should we pray together? For where two or more are gathered in His name, there He is also.”

  I sat up and nodded. Dad led us in a fervent prayer for Lily and her family, and for Doc, and for the good Lord to heal her.

  “How’s your foot?”

  “It may swell a bit. I think I might have strained a ligament, but wrapping it helped.”

  “It’s excruciating to watch one’s child in pain or danger, but I’m proud of you, Billy Ray. You saved that girl’s life tonight. I’m sure of it.”

  I shrugged, not sure how to answer.

  “How proud your mother would be, too, if she were here.”

  I looked up at him, surprised. Mama was rarely discussed between us—at least, not at any length.

  “When you went into the water tonight, I was terrified. I’m sure you know why. But I called on the Lord to help you, and He answered by telling me to give you into His care. ‘Give him to me,’ I heard Him say, just like I heard Him say on the night you were born and the night before I left you with your aunt and started the traveling ministry. Back then, He told me, ‘You are the steward of this child, yet you should give him to me, and I will set him on the path he should go. I know the plans I have for him.’ But that’s been so hard for me to accept, especially after your mother died. See, Billy Ray, I wanted to keep you to myself: to be my son, my pride and joy. You are the last part of your mother I have on this Earth. But you don’t belong to me—you belong to God, and He reminded me of that tonight by letting me see how easily you could be snatched away.”

  I sat, stunned at Dad’s words and wondering what to say when the front door slammed, and Dr. Miller walked in.

  He greeted us with a nod and walked into his office. With a mighty sigh, he dropped his medical bag on the floor beside his desk. We watched as he came back into the room where we sat, waiting for news of Lily Quinlan.

  “I called an ambulance because of her head wound, and she’s on her way to the hospital in London. They’ll stitch her forehead and cast the arm that she broke when she fell into the creek. She must have hit one of the rocks under the surface as she went downstream. Probably has a concussion.” He sat down on one of the waiting room chairs and ran his hand through his rain-soaked hair. All three of us looked like drowned rats after being out in the storm. “She did come to for a bit, crying and calling for her mama.”

  “Did Frances go in the ambulance with her?” Dad asked.

  “No, she had to stay on account of the baby.”

  “The little gal must be awfully frightened to be all alone at the hospital.”

  “Tom rode with her. He’ll come back tomorrow with news. Gene Lucas is going to drive up and fetch him.” Doc looked over at me. “How’s your ankle, Billy Ray?”

  “It’s fine.”

  He walked over and put his hand out. “Just wanted to shake your hand, Son. Who knew, when you came here in June, that you’d end up being a hero?”

  “Indeed,” my father said in a pensive voice. “Who knew?”

  “Lizzie sang your praises the whole time I was there. If you hadn’t happened upon Lily’s favorite hiding place a few weeks ago, or remembered it earlier tonight, we might not have found her—not before she tried to make it back across the creek. Oh, and Tom Quinlan said to tell you he is ‘much obliged.’”

  Dad let out a noise that was a cross between a snort and a chuckle. Dr. Miller grinned. “Yes, Reverend, it’s an understatement, but the gratitude is there. You can see it in his eyes even if it doesn’t come out of his mouth.”

  “Well”—Dad stood and reached to help me stand up—“think I’ll take the town’s latest hero to get some rest. I’ll be back in a few minutes, Alvin.”

  “Yes, of course. Goodnight, Billy Ray.”

  “Goodnight.”

  He turned back as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. “Oh, and Billy Ray?”

  “Yes sir?”

  He grinned just like Charlie. “Take tomorrow off.”

  I smiled back. “Thank you, sir.”

  While we drove to Adalia Street, Dad said nothing else about Mama, giving me to God, or his weakness, as he called it. I knew the look on his face, although I didn’t see it often. He was struggling to come to grips with something—struggling to accept. I was silent, so he could be in peace all the way to the boarding house.

  “You need some help to get to the door?”

  “I’ll be all right.” I dug for my key. It was a miracle I still had the thing, but there it was, lodged in the front pocket of my jeans. Slowly, I made my way up to the boarding house. Dad waited until I got the door unlocked. Then I turned, lifting my hand in farewell, and he drove off, the rumble of the 1949 Oldsmobile fading into the now quiet recesses of the night.

  I walked into my room and turned on a lamp. I knew sleep wouldn’t come for quite a while, so I flopped on my bed and opened the novel I’d picked up last week from the library. Dr. Zhivago had looked interesting on the shelf—and the librarian said it was about a physician—but honestly, the story was just depressing. After a few minutes, I tossed it into a chair and lay there on the bed, wondering if I should get up and dig L’Amour out of my box of books, when I heard a rap on the window.

  I considered ignoring the knock, but then I decided Marlene Miller would never venture out in this weather. She had already spent most of the evening complaining about looking for Lily in the rain.

  I raised the blind, and there stood Lizzie, her curls damp and a man’s shirt clinging to her, although the rain had gentled considerably over the last hour or so. I lifted the window.

  “Lizzie! What are you doing outside in this?”

  She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “I came to check on you. How’s your ankle?”

  “It’s fine.” We stood looking at each other for a second, and then I shook my head to clear the fog. “Umm—you should come in. It’s wetter than sop out there.”

  Before I could tell her that I’d open the front door, she’d put both hands on the windowsill and hoisted herself up, swinging her legs into the room.

  “I thought you’d never ask. I know it’s not proper, but…” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I can’t sleep. It’s so strange, lying in bed and no Lily beside me.” She gave me a wan smile. “She kicks, you know. She moves all the time, even in her sleep, and I can’t settle down when the bed is so still.” Her voice started to wobble, and as I pulled her tight, her arms went around and held me close. She rested her head on my chest, and then the tears came.

  Sob after sob emanated from right below my chin, and we stood there for a good five minutes, while I rubbed her back and let her cling to me. When she stepped back and wiped her eyes, I took her hand and led her to the bed, the only place in my room where two people could sit together. I drew her into my lap, and she sat there with her head on my shoulder, hiccupping. The sobs gradually grew farther and farther apart. Still, neither of us said anything. What we’d been through that night was too raw for words, and I wondered if we would ever be able to talk about it.

  Finally, though, I managed a query. “How is she?”

  “She was crying when she left in the ambulance, wanting Mama. But Mama’s not fit to travel, and the baby can’t go into the hospital anyhow. And Mama can’t be away from the baby while she’s nursing her.”

  “Doc told me your father went with Lily.”

  She nodded. “The medic said her crying and talking was a good sign that her head’s not muddled too much. But that arm will hurt something fierce. We got our work cut out for us when she comes home. How we gonna keep her out of trees and away from the creek?”

  I smiled and stroked her face with the backs of my fingers. “You’ll manage. She’ll do anything for you.”

  “You mean she’ll do anythin
g for you. When she came to, she kept telling Doc, ‘Billy Ray saved me from the water. Billy Ray caught me. Billy Ray this and Billy Ray that…’”

  I blushed and ducked my head, a sheepish grin on my face.

  She leaned over and said softly in my ear, “You couldn’t be any more her hero if you’d rode in on a white horse and plucked her right from the rock.” Her lips found my cheek, my jaw, my mouth. And then we both caught fire. All the pent-up emotions—fear, anxiety, anger, pain, despair—rushing between us as we devoured each other with lips and hands. Before I knew it, I was lying on the bed with Lizzie pulled tight on top of me. Her legs were open, one on each side of my hips. She pressed herself against me, and I thought I was going to lose my mind. Then she sat up, still moving against me, eyes closed, lips parted, her arms folded over her head. She bit her lip and made the most incredible noise in the back of her throat, which I answered with a wild, untamed sound of my own.

  So, this was lust—true, tempting, drag-you-down-to-the-gates-of-Hell lust. I understood the power of it now. But this was much more dangerous than lust, I realized, because hidden in my heart and driving me onward was my love for her. I knew in that instant I would follow her anywhere, give her anything—promise her anything. I couldn’t disengage myself, couldn’t even move, except for meeting those hip movements of hers with my own.

  “My skin’s on fire,” she said in a hoarse whisper, and her hands eased down her neck and over her breasts, her waist, to the place between her legs. I watched her in fascination, helpless to do anything as she reached down for my hands and put them on her thighs, guiding them up her hips to her waist, under her shirt.

  “Touch me. Make me forget it all.”

  Yes, forget, my mind answered her. Forget, forget, forget. I tried to keep the memories at bay by chanting that word in my thoughts—memories like the cold fingers of the water and the bright spots behind my eyelids as I held my breath.

  Forget, forget!

  I watched my hands as if they belonged to someone else. They moved up her body to her breasts, cupped and kneaded the fabric-covered softness in my hands. Lizzie was my light in the dark, and I clung to that light while I pushed away a long-faded image of a car, overturned, the door hanging open. I gasped for air.

  I’m alive! The words burst inside my head.

  All too late, I realized what was happening to my body, too late to stop it. “Oh God, no,” I groaned. Lizzie’s eyes popped open, and their dark beauty was the last thing I saw before my own eyes slid shut and I was lost to oblivion. From far away I heard her voice cry out my name, and then I felt her weight on my chest. I was breathing hard and fast, as if I’d run for hours. She lifted up slightly and then rested heavily on me, still rocking back and forth in rhythmic, gentle waves.

  That’s when the reality of the last few minutes came roaring back, and mortification washed over me, a burning in my gut.

  “Lizzie.” I mumbled as I tried to push her off. “Let me up.”

  She hardly budged. “No, no, not yet.”

  “I have to get up.” I urged her again. “I—spent myself.”

  “Mmm,” she purred. “Of course, you did.” She rose up and stroked my face. “You looked amazing while you did it too.” She chuckled. “What did you call it? Spend? What an old-fashioned sounding word. I spent myself too, the girl version of it anyway.”

  I finally got her off me and sat on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands. Without speaking, I got up and pulled some clean clothes out of the drawer. Then I disappeared down the hall into the bathroom.

  What had I just done? Besides lead myself into complete and utter humiliation. How could I have lost control like that? When she touched herself, I was mesmerized, and that must have been the point of no return. I couldn’t do anything but watch her. The picture of her pleasuring herself would be burned on my retinas for the rest of my life. Girls did that? I felt my body respond again to the memory. “Good grief,” I muttered, washing up in the sink and changing my clothes.

  When I got back to the room, Lizzie was dressed in my university gym class sweatpants and a T-shirt. She had to roll down the waist and roll up the pants legs to make them fit, and the shirt was so big she had it knotted at her waist.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, looking down at the pants. “Mine were all wet from the rain and—”

  My face grew hot, and I looked away. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  I threw my clothes in the corner and turned my back to her. Then I felt her behind me, pulling on my arm.

  “But you are, aren’t you? Why?”

  “I shouldn’t have—”

  She tugged on my hand. “Hey, it’s my fault if it’s anyone’s—which I don’t think it is, by the way.” She led me to sit on the bed and knelt beside me, her chin on my shoulder, arms around me. I had to admit, it was comforting.

  “I kinda lost myself,” she said. “I dove into the wave before it could knock me over. I couldn’t help it. I was aching inside. I just wanted to forget about that ache, not hurt you or embarrass you.”

  “I know,” I whispered. “I wanted to forget too.”

  “Danger makes people aroused. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “It does. I guess it’s normal to want to create life after life’s been threatened.”

  Somehow, she made the most bizarre ideas sound completely logical.

  “Here.” She sat back, legs folded, took my hands and tugged so I was facing her. She kissed my hand and cuddled it against her face. “Are you all right, Billy Ray?”

  “I’m fine. I wrapped the ankle, and it—”

  “I wasn’t talking about the ankle. Are you all right? In here?” She touched my chest.

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to acknowledge what I suspected was truly bothering me.

  “That sure didn’t make us forget for long did it?” she said in a wry tone of voice.

  “I’ll never forget.”

  “No, I won’t either.”

  “I don’t mean tonight.”

  She tilted her head to ask an unspoken question.

  “The night my mother died…”

  Her eyes widened and filled with tears. “I’d forgotten. She drowned, didn’t she? Oh, Billy Ray!” She put her arms around my neck. “I’m so sorry.”

  I pushed her back. The story was coming out, like water rushing over a burst dam. I had never told anyone about that night, but I couldn’t stop myself now.

  “My mother was forever traveling around the county where we lived, taking sick people food, visiting invalids, giving clothes to the poor. My father used to say they were a team for the Lord. He made the sermons, and she tended the flock. He was proud of her, and that was probably one reason she did it, but it also made her happy to help people.

  “That night she had gone out to visit a family who lived way out in the county. Dad asked her to wait until the next day, but she didn’t want to for some reason—some other plans or maybe they needed something in particular. I don’t know.

  “It stormed after the sun went down, like it did tonight. Torrents of rain fell and fell from the sky. When she didn’t return, Dad borrowed the neighbor’s truck, and we went looking for her. He thought maybe she’d had a flat or something, and he was grousing good-naturedly about having to fix it in that awful weather. About a mile from the turn off to the family’s house, there was one of those old rickety one-lane bridges that crossed a river. A ways downstream we saw her car when the lightning flashed. The door was open, but she was gone.”

  I turned my hand over to grip Lizzie’s. A tear or two dropped on our entwined fingers, and dimly I realized they were from my eyes. I didn’t feel sad though, just numb.

  “They found her the next morning. The sheriff figured that she had tried to cross the bridge even though there was water on it, and the flooding carried her car off the bridge and into the river. When she tried to get out and wade to shore, the rushing water must have taken
her. Or perhaps she was injured and unconscious and fell out of the car.

  “My father was nearly crazy with grief. The morning before the funeral, he locked himself in the chapel with her casket, and for hours I could hear him in there—crying, yelling at her, alternately praying and calling to God, asking why He took her from us. I tried to get in there to him. I banged on the door, even tried to break in with my shoulder, but he just shouted at me to leave him be. I was terrified of what he might try, so I stayed right outside the door. I don’t know what I thought I could do, but I couldn’t bear to leave him. I’d never seen him be anything but strong until that day.”

  I looked up and saw tears running down Lizzie’s face. “How old were you?”

  “Eleven.”

  She cradled my hand in her two, silently urging me on with a calming empathy.

  “About an hour before the funeral was to start, he finally came out of the chapel. He embraced me, apologized for showing such ‘weakness’ as he called it, and said he had asked the Lord to forgive him for questioning His will. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘At least I still have you, Billy Ray, and I do thank God for that.’ After that, we rarely spoke about Mama, except in very general terms. We’d say, ‘Mama would have liked that song,’ or ‘Wasn’t it great when Mama made this for Sunday dinner?’ He didn’t want me to forget her, and it wasn’t like I couldn’t have talked to him about her. It was more that I was afraid I’d lose him to whatever demon took him that morning if I let him remember too much or too often.” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “Anyway, after that, I never strayed too far from what Dad wanted from me and for me. You see, he’d suffered so much already, and I didn’t want to cause him any more pain. Nothing mattered more to me than that—until he tried to convince me to leave Orchard Hill last month. I didn’t want to leave my job, or leave you, and for the first time, there was something that meant more to me than what he wanted. I’m starting to think I was supposed to be here tonight, so I could help you find Lily.” I shook my head, marveling for the first time at the truth behind the old cliché: “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”