Preacher Sam

by Cassondra Windwalker

  “What do you want me to do?” Sam decided being direct was the best course.

  “We can’t open the letter. But we’re worried. It’s not right for Paige and Harper to be orphans. They need their father. Maybe there’s something you can do, if we give it to you,” Adam said slowly.

  “You want me to read it?”

  “We’re not asking you to do that,” Lenore inserted hastily. “We’re just giving it to you for safe-keeping.”

  Sam wasn’t a genius or anything, but he thought he could read between-the-lines pretty clearly. He wasn’t sure he felt comfortable with the prospect of reading it himself. Amanda must have had a compelling reason for the directive she’d issued to these people she trusted most in the world. More than even her own husband? Sam shook his head.

  He accepted the proffered letter, sliding its length into the Bible he’d brought along by rote.

  “What about Paige and Harper?” He was glad Adam had mentioned their names. He felt terrible for having forgotten them.

  “Talk to Clay,” Adam urged. “We already told you we aren’t that close. Just different kinds of people, you know? And he was gone so often. But he seemed to love his children. And they need him. They’re lost right now. We’ll always be here for them, no matter what, but little girls need their dad.”

  Sam nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. But I have to be honest with you. I’ve talked to Clay a couple of times already and gotten nowhere. I don’t know that he and I are the same kind of people, either.”

  “But you were his preacher,” Adam said, and Sam could see that that distinction meant something more to them than was true for most people in modern culture. So they definitely were believers, then, of one stripe or another.

  He hated to go there, but he hated worse to risk any kind of dishonesty. “Amy did tell you what happened with me and the church, didn’t she?”

  Lenore flushed slightly, but she didn’t drop her eyes as she spoke. “Yes, she sure did. She told us you sinned and you repented and you were trying to work things out. That’s all anyone can do.”

  “Well, I’m still repenting, as best I can, but I can’t claim to have worked anything out.”

  Adam shrugged. “Sometimes we don’t get to. Sometimes a blight comes, and there’s no saving the crop. All we can do is ready the soil and plant again next year.”

  Always anticipating judgment, Sam was continually surprised by the kindness and tolerance of others. “Thank you,” he said, humbled. “I appreciate that thought. I’ll do everything I can for you and your daughter. Is there anything else you need right now, any help with the girls?”

  Lenore stood, recognizing that he was on his way out. Her husband stood too and put his arm around her thin shoulders. “No, but we sure appreciate it. Our own church has reached out, and that Mr. Ffaukes has been very kind, too.”

  That Mr. Ffaukes. Sam smiled. Never underestimate the insular character of Indiana.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Pedal to the metal. Sam punched it to get back to the café so he wouldn’t leave Dani scrambling for two days in a row. He was struggling to make sense of everything the Jensens had told him, but he wasn’t sure what sense could be made. Violence was irrationality at its zenith, and grief its own kind of madness. Trying to understand what drove one person to kill another, or what sort of reaction cold be considered healthy in a husband whose wife had been murdered, felt as likely as deciphering the Oracle at Delphi.

  With determined effort, Sam shoved the whole mess out of his mind. He didn’t have time to deal with it tonight. Or tomorrow, for that matter. He’d promised to run the café for Dani the next two nights, and he needed to at least drag himself out of bed for the breakfast rush tomorrow. Monday, though—Monday he would face this head-on. In the meantime, maybe the respite from actively trying to understand all this would give his mind the chance to sort things out subconsciously. That was an actual psychological technique, right? He was sure some head shrink somewhere would tell him he was on the right track.

  Speaking of psychologists, he should have recommended that the Jensens find somebody for Paige and Harper to talk to. Just because he believed in the power of prayer and the grace of God didn’t mean he didn’t fully support mental health advocacy. After all, he took ibuprofen when he had a headache. Why not get help when your mind was sick? And those poor little girls had more to comprehend at their pitiful ages of six and eight than most people faced in a lifetime. The next time he spoke with their grandparents, he resolved, he’d have a couple names for them. The Jensens seemed progressive enough, but sometimes the older generations could be resistant to seeking help from psychologists. Sam had the feeling, though, that Lenore and Adam were overwhelmed and maybe even somewhat desperate at the prospect of raising two more young children at their time of life. Maybe they’d be glad of the suggestion, even if it wouldn’t have occurred to them on their own.

  It was only a few minutes past three when he pulled into the alley behind the shop. Dani had set Parker up with a board game on one of the café tables and was playing her turn whenever she had a chance to come out. An older man seated at a nearby table was taking advantage of her time away and giving Parker advice on outmaneuvering her every time she stepped away.

  “Look, you can buy a development card,” Sam overheard him urging Parker. “Maybe you’ll get a Victory Point. You only need two more points to beat her.”

  Sam laughed as he wiped down a recently-vacated table. “Don’t you feel guilty ganging up on a poor defenseless woman?”

  “Poor defenseless woman?” The old man guffawed. “Rare beasts, those. Don’t know that I’ve ever seen one.”

  Sam had to concede the point. He stacked up the dirty dishes and carried them back to the kitchen where Dani was putting fresh pastries in the oven.

  “Out!” he declared grandly. “Get out of here. This is my domain now. You’ve been working all day. Go do what you want. Take a walk. Take Parker to the library. Put on your pajamas and watch TV. But don’t step foot in the kitchen or the café again tonight.”

  She tossed him a grateful look over her shoulder as she set the timer for the cookies. “You don’t have to tell me twice. But I have to finish this game with Parker first. Then I promise I’ll walk away and not look back.”

  “About that game…I think you’re about to get your ass handed to you.”

  “What? Beaten by a seven-year-old? Again?”

  “In all fairness, I think your customers are ganging up on you.”

  “That sounds about right. Oh, well. I guess I’ll resign myself to my fate. Are you going to make the fresh display sandwiches?”

  Sam bit back a grin. “Yes, I will make the fresh display sandwiches. Now, get out of here before you really get on my nerves.”

  “All right, all right, I’m gone!” She threw up her hands and pulled off her apron, hanging it on the hook by the swinging door as she headed into the dining room to face her defeat at Parker’s hands.

  Sam shot a quick look after her just to make sure no customers had come in and then checked the menu board for the sandwiches of the day. Pastrami, Swiss, and horseradish on rye with bean sprouts, and chipotle chicken breast with pepper jack cheese and roasted red peppers on focaccia bread with garlic aioli.

  Aioli. Did nobody know that just meant flavored mayonnaise? Sam shrugged. His was but to build and sell.

  He threw the ingredients together on the weird square plates that Dani insisted were necessary for the display sandwiches, stood back, and evaluated hem for appropriate levels of prettiness. He thought they looked tasty enough. About that moment, he realized he hadn’t eaten all day. He made one more sandwich of each variety—for quality control purposes, of course—and inhaled them both in less than five minutes, washing them down with a bowl of Dani’s spicy New England chowder. Dani had a hard time not adding peppers to everything she cooked. Sam had no complaints about that; he had an iron stomach himself. But he figured sometimes the customers
were surprised. Still, they kept coming back.

  Wiping his mouth with a paper napkin, Sam shot another quick glance into the dining room. The older man who’d been helping Parker wreak devastation on his mother’s settlers in their board game was ambling toward the counter. Sam washed his hands quickly and headed back out.

  “How can I help you?”

  “Is it too late to get a loaf of focaccia to take home?”

  Sam grimaced. “I’m afraid we’re still figuring out these late hours. I have some dough back here, but it would take a while to actually bake it for you. I’m happy to do it, though, if you don’t mind waiting.”

  “Oh, no, don’t go to the trouble. It was just a thought. Maybe I’ll get in earlier next time.” He shuffled out with a wave. Sam shook his head. They’d been so focused on keeping up with the basics—the pastries and sandwiches, soup and hot coffee—that they hadn’t considered the need for a second full baking. Although, Sam guessed they still didn’t know whether that was a good idea or not. They couldn’t afford to bake bread just to have to discount it as day-old the next morning, so they needed to run out at some point. Dani was a stickler on the fresh thing. Sam figured he’d better start by keeping track of how many people wanted a loaf later in the day. And maybe he should at least prep a little extra to bake in the morning.

  The night passed quickly. There was no question that managing the bookshop and the café both was too much for one person. Eventually he needed to get serious about convincing Dani that hiring another set of hands would make money, not lose it. The benefit of being stretched too thin, though, was that he didn’t have time to think about anything else. Broad Ripple had a fair selection of bars and clubs, so foot traffic on a Saturday evening was constant. People wandered in to look at books while they waited for friends to meet them down the street, or dropped in for a coffee after dinner. A few regulars were delighted to find later hours at their breakfast or lunch haunt.

  The good thing about being a local shop and not a Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks or Barnes & Noble was that customers demonstrated far more patience than they did at a chain store. They knew he was the only one stocking, baking, serving, shelving, so they chatted companionably and waited without complaint if it took him a few minutes longer than it should. Most people, anyway. You couldn’t work any kind of retail without running into the occasional angry bear.

  But Sam was well aware that most angry bears were just wounded animals. He’d been known to growl himself from time to time.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  He hadn’t had a chance to do much prep work before closing, what with the steady stream of customers coming in for their last chance at a fresh cup of coffee. So between straightening all the shelves, cleaning up counting down the register, and mixing up the dough for the morning, it was midnight before Sam finished up at Meats & Reads.

  He knew it was too late to be heading to the gym, even for him, but he also knew the cost he’d pay if he didn’t. So he ran upstairs, changed into sweats and a t-shirt and a hooded jacket, grabbed his gym keycard, and headed out the back door. The air was uncomfortably cool—autumn in Indiana danced past in a flurry and left winter standing in her place before you knew it. Sam intended to run the path to the gym, though, so he knew uncomfortably cool now would be plenty warm enough soon.

  Nights in the city were never quiet, but being outdoors, out of the false lighting and the piped-in music, was still a relief. And, unlike some people, Sam found a certain comfort in the rhythm of the city. The flickering lights, the sound of cars and voices, all testified to the interconnectedness of humanity, their reliance and longing for each other, however consistently they violated the very bonds that held them close. The flaws of humanity were inescapable, but so was their persistence. Even fully aware that they were doomed to fail, they tried anyway. There was a nobility in that, Sam decided, and he figured God must think so, too.

  No Cotton tonight, Sam noted as he jogged up to the well-lit entrance. There was no way to predict when the other man would be around. For the thousandth time, Sam wondered where Cotton spent his nights. He imagined him curled up in a corner somewhere, wrapped in cardboard. Maybe he went to a shelter, but Sam didn’t think so. Even if he went, Sam couldn’t picture him making it through the night in one of those places. Cotton was too volatile, too unpredictable. Sam imagined those places would feel suffocating to Cotton, full of too many other people, with all their smells and noises and feelings.

  Sam was glad but not surprised to find he had the place to himself. As the winter drew nearer, he knew there’d be more patrons, even this late, so he’d enjoy the solitude as long as he could. At least the other folks who came in as late as he did had the same goal in mind—to work out as hard as possible with as little human interaction as necessary. The preeners and pumpers saved their performances for daylight hours.

  Sam pulled his battered mini notebook out of his pocket and opened it to the page where he’d recorded his last workout. He’d learned early on that he needed to write this stuff down. Not only could he not remember from day to day, he often got so lost in his own head while lifting that he couldn’t even remember what he was supposed to be doing right then. So he scribbled everything down. No-one else would be able to decipher it, and he definitely wasn’t going to be writing any training manuals, but his system worked for him.

  He wished like hell that Melanie hadn’t come here. What had once been a haven now seemed indelibly marked by her presence. Worse was the nagging idea, however unlikely, that she might reappear. Footsteps on the pavement, shadows on the door—it took all his willpower not to constantly check to see if she were coming in. If he concentrated hard enough, he could even imagine her scent had somehow permeated the smells of cold sweat and rubber and steel and antiseptic that filled every gym he’d ever been in.

  He was going to be exhausted when he got up in the morning to help Dani with the breakfast crowd, but at least he’d be able to sleep when he fell into bed tonight. He wondered about that sex addiction group Melanie had said Ffaukes was running. Sam didn’t like to think of himself as a sex addict. He’d never cheated on Melanie—never even wanted to, not in the sense that most people thought of cheating. But there was no question that pornography affected him as powerfully as any drug.

  It had started when he was much younger, long before he’d ever met Melanie. He’d known it wasn’t right, had felt vaguely guilty about the indulgence, but references to it in popular culture were so incessant and so flippant, it had honestly never occurred to him that there could be anything actually unhealthy about it. It had only been when he’d tried to stop that he’d discovered the hold it had on him.

  He knew all the reasons pornography was a cruel practice, could probably cite the statistics on sex trafficking and the results of the objectification of women better than most. He’d known at the time it would sicken Melanie if she found out. Not to mention that there would be no way he could convince her that his hunger for the stuff had absolutely nothing to do with any lack on her part. Melanie was gorgeous, sensual, and playful, completely lacking in the inhibitions many women—especially Christian women—still clung to. With her unusual height, she’d had the choice at a young age to either hate herself or embrace the body she’d been given, and she’d chosen the latter. Bigger, bolder, and lusher than any media representations of beauty, she was wilder and better, too. She was so real, so vivid, that sometimes Sam felt he could never be as alive as she was.

  There’d have been no way to explain to her that the time he spent secretly watching painfully-painted, grotesquely-shaped females performing impossible acrobatics on screen had absolutely no relation to the time he spent wrapped up in bed with her. No way to convince her that he didn’t secretly wish she looked more like some airbrushed actress taking orders from a director on where to put her mouth and how to use her hands.

  He’d been right about that, at least. Melanie hadn’t believed him for a minute. She’d been crushed, utterly co
nvicted that she was less than, that he watched porn because she wasn’t enough for him. No amount of reassurances could sway her, especially not when he went back to it over and over, in spite of all his promises to the contrary.

  He’d had so many lies and excuses he’d told himself. Sam’s muscles burned as he pushed through the reps. Looking back, his skin crawled as he saw himself through clear eyes. It was hard to believe, even now, that someone could deceive himself so completely, could kiss his wife and climb a pulpit and shake hands as if he weren’t the worst hypocrite of them all. But he had. It had felt like he’d been in a stupor, in a fog of deception and lust that would briefly lift when he’d sit down to listen to someone else’s troubles or study his Bible.

  Sam didn’t have an explanation for how he’d been able to function on such different planes. He hadn’t been faking it when he’d stood there preaching in front of the church. And he’d been completely, intensely, fascinated and compelled by his studies of theology and history during the hours he’d spent in his study at the building. He’d been sincerely concerned for the men and women who’d sat across his desk and shared their secrets or knelt with him on the threadbare carpet. Yet he’d been able to craft excuses in an instant, lie to Melanie in the second before he covered her mouth with his, able to open up his browser and look at pathetic, desperately lost young girls jerking on around the screen and see only his own lust.

  Tony didn’t understand how Sam could advocate forgiveness for the lost and still not forgive himself, but Tony didn’t know how disgusted Sam was with himself, how hard it was to face a mirror. It wasn’t just the things he’d done and said—his sins were crawling around inside his head, filling his thoughts and desires. And just when he’d think he was making progress, he’d fall asleep and dream about the scenes he used to watch. He’d wake up, suffused with longing and heat, and hate himself more than ever.