“Good luck with that,” he said.
When she left, the reporters on the sidewalk approached, retreated.
He turned to his father, who still avoided looking up. “That article you’re reading had better be about how to turn lead into gold,” Jack said.
Tom could not maintain his deadpan expression. “If you thought I was going to get in the middle of that,” he said, closing his magazine, “you are crazy.” He checked his watch. “It’s five. Want to go out and meet the press?”
“Oh yes,” Jack said. He did a quick check of the store while his dad paid Manny, counted down his drawer, and shrugged on his jacket.
“Jack!” came the shouts when they emerged onto the sidewalk. “Reverend Chisholm!”
Jack waved. He didn’t smile. While Tom locked the door, he turned to the proffered mics, to the cameras, and simply said, “Happy New Year.”
Then he and Tom walked to the car.
They shouted after him. He heard one of the reporters cursing, although whether she was angry at him or the universe was difficult to say.
In the car, he told his father that he was meeting Father Frank at seven. “We’re talking about my sermon,” Jack said.
“At Buddy’s?” his father said.
“Exactly,” Jack said. “No one will suspect.”
“You want me to come with?” Tom asked.
“How do you feel?”
Tom took a self-inventory. “Tired,” he said. “Trip took a lot out of me.” That much was true. Jack had to wake his father that morning, and fix a less than satisfactory pan of eggs while Tom dressed.
“You get some rest,” Jack said. “I’ll go over after dinner.”
“Have you called Bill back to tell him you’re going to preach?”
“Wow,” Jack said. “No. I guess I thought maybe you—or Mrs. Calhoun—”
“You should call him,” Tom said. “That’s only right.”
“Ugh,” Jack said. But once they got home he did, while his father heated up some of the casserole from Sunday.
The phone rang four times, then someone picked up. “Bill Hall.”
“Bill,” Jack said. “It’s Jack.”
Dead silence.
“Jack Chisholm.”
And more of it.
“I, uh, I was just calling to tell you I could say a few words Sunday. If that’s what you want.”
“It’s not what I want,” Bill said, finally entering the conversation.
“Okay,” Jack said.
“Just so we’re clear,” Bill said.
“Okay.”
“I was asked to call you. That’s the only reason I did.”
“Well,” Jack said. “I think you have made that abundantly clear.”
And—silence.
Was Bill thinking about all the times Jack had failed him? Was he remembering their deer hunts, their swimming hole? Was he remembering pulling people off of him as Jack rolled in agony in the state finals? “I’ll see you Sunday,” Jack said finally. He had already said “I’m sorry,” and there were too many other things to say to even know where to start.
The other line went dead, and Jack stood still, the phone keening in his ear.
“Everything okay?” Tom asked after a moment.
“Nah,” Jack said. “It’s not.” He set his phone down. “Maybe it won’t ever be.”
Tom shrugged. “And maybe it will. Come on. Dinner’s warm.”
At the table, Jack asked Tom if he could take some time on Thursday and Friday afternoons to think about what he was going to say on Sunday. “I’ll make deliveries Saturday,” he said. “Talk Sunday.”
After church, he was already planning to work with Mr. Gonzalez and whoever else might be led to show up and build a wheelchair ramp for Mrs. Gutierrez. But before Sunday, he needed some time to pray, to reflect, to sit with the reading from Matthew—the wise men, old bad King Herod.
What on earth did he have to say to anyone, let alone about this particular thing?
As the week went on, he still wasn’t calling it preaching, was sticking with the “a few words” model that seemed to take the pressure off everyone. He wasn’t a preacher anymore. That had gone sour. He would say a few words. That’s all.
“Are you afraid to preach, boyo?” Father Frank asked him at Buddy’s as they looked at the readings together—Frank sipping his ginger ale, Jack drinking an icy mug of Shiner Bock. “Is that what it comes down to?”
Jack nodded, first slowly, then vigorously. “I am terrified down to my very boots.”
Frank looked longingly at Jack’s beer, shook his head. “Then why, pray tell, are you getting up there?”
That was the question. Jack started ticking things off on his fingers. “My father loves that church. My mother loved it, although I could not tell you why. The songs, I think. The old hymns.” He finished his beer.
“You want another, Jack?” Shayla asked. She was polishing a lot of glasses these days. Five members of the press sat at the bar, three in the booths, all of them shooting daggers at Jack for refusing to talk to them during the day—and coming into their only safe place at night.
“No thanks, Shayla,” he said. “I’m making an early night of it.”
Frank pressed on. “Your parents are not a sufficient reason to take this on,” Frank said. “Why are you really preaching Sunday?”
“Hey,” a cameraman said. He was about three sheets to the wind, but still capable of overhearing much. “Are you preaching Sunday, Jack Chisholm?” He weaved a little on his stool. “In a church?”
“Jack is preaching at Saint Paul’s Lutheran Church this coming Sunday,” Father Frank said. “Tell your friends.”
The cameraman leaned over and told his reporter. His reporter slid off her stool and went over to the booths filled with newsies. All of them took out their phones and started making calls.
Jack watched this with growing horror.
“Hey,” Jack said, turning on Father Frank. “You—you are a big fat blabbermouth man of God.” He raised a hand in the air, resisted the urge to slap Frank with it. “Why would you do that?”
Father Frank set down his glass. “Do you imagine you can do this thing casually, Jack? Just say a few words. No one will know or care?” He shook his head. “There is nothing casual about preaching.” He smiled ruefully. “Unless you rely on a catchphrase.”
“I didn’t want CNN to know about it,” Jack said. “I’m just trying to make amends. To—”
“It is an awesome responsibility to speak on behalf of God,” Father Frank said. “To bring the good news to a world full of pain. I want to know that you remember what you’re signing up for.”
“Frank, I have preached to more people—”
“You haven’t preached to these people,” Frank said. “Most of them are older, most of them are barely getting by, most of them are scared of the future. Not hopeful. Scared.” It sounded like he was getting into a preaching mood himself.
“I know,” Jack said. “Things around here haven’t changed that much—”
Frank laid a hand on Jack’s arm to silence him. He fixed Jack with a gaze that burned. “I’m begging you, Jack. Make them feel better. Not worse.” He took his hand away, patted the bar in front of him, and Shayla began pouring him another ginger ale. “Preach the good news, Jack. Not that we are unloved and unlovable. Jesus sat down to dinner with everyone who wanted to be there. It is amazing grace, not universal disgrace.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to preach,” Jack said hotly. “Especially now that CNN is coming.” He tried to glare at Frank, but couldn’t seem to make it stick.
They had talked about the gospel reading, about Herod and the wise men, about the moment Jesus was revealed to those who sought him through a torturous journey.
Jack had preached from this passage before—to talk about Herod, about sin, about power misplaced. He was sure he had that sermon somewhere on his iPad.
But Frank was saying that h
e needed to preach something new, something fresh, something that would be true in this place.
“I don’t know what I’m going to preach,” he repeated. “But I am going to preach.”
“All right, then,” Father Frank said. “I don’t suppose you’d mind if I came and listened?”
“Right,” Jack said. “Because my stress level won’t already be sky-high? Maybe Brother Raymond can bring his folks over.” He dropped his head to the bar. A little too hard. It hurt. “What am I going to do?” he muttered.
“Find the good news,” Frank said. “And tell the truth.”
“Can those things even sit in the same room?” Jack asked. He raised his head. Rubbed it. “Listen—Frank. I’m grateful for your time.” He looked around the room, made sure nobody was listening. “And we’ve got a construction party Sunday after church. I’m going to miss the Seattle game.”
“This will be more fun,” Frank said. “Better for your soul.”
Jack shrugged. The last one had turned out pretty well.
Jack worked at the store Thursday and Friday mornings. In the afternoons, he got in the truck and drove down to the old swimming hole, where Live Oak Creek was five or six feet deep in spots. The water was clear and green and surrounded by tall trees. This time of year, the branches were bare except for the gray pompoms growing on the branches, feeding on the tree. Club moss, Jack thought they were.
Friday was sunny and windy, with the temperature climbing up into the seventies. It was just about as perfect a January day as one could ask for in Texas. The water rippled as the wind blew, and the sun pierced down to the bottom of the pool. Jack opened his journal, took off his boots and white socks, sat on the bank. When he began to sweat, he dropped his feet experimentally into the water.
“Arrggh,” Jack shouted. Ice-cold needles seemed to pierce his feet. He yanked them from the water, began drying them off, although it didn’t help.
“It did get down to thirty-three last night,” a female voice said from behind him.
Maybe if he didn’t turn around, she would go away. “Are you always going to just appear out of thin air, Kathy?” he asked.
“I’m like Batman that way,” she said. “It’s a useful trait for a reporter.”
“Batman disappears,” Jack said. “See how that works for you.”
“Hey,” she said. “This isn’t just your spot. I spent my teenage years hiding here while the good-looking girls were floating the river in teensy bikinis or whatever it was they did for fun.”
He turned and looked at her with a suspicious eye. Anything to take his attention off his tingling feet. “You didn’t follow me down here?”
“Dude,” she said. “I’m really kind of upset that you’re here.” She settled herself onto the limestone shelf that people jumped off into the water, a respectful distance away. Two blue herons flapped their long wings, gliding low over the water and landing on the opposite side of the river, about twenty yards away. They could hear traffic on the river road, the whir of tires, and the rush of the wind in the cedar trees.
It was perfect. Had been perfect.
“Forget this,” Jack said, getting to his feet and gathering his journal and pen.
“What?” Kathy asked.
“Enjoy,” he said, bending into an expansive mockery of a bow. He turned to make for the truck, but she called his name.
“I’ll go,” she said. “You were here first. And I can see you’re still mad at me.” She shook her head. “At the very least, I owe you a little peace and quiet.” She got to her feet, walked purposefully toward her car, a tiny red Honda.
Against his will, he called out her name. She turned. “They let you get away with driving one of them there Jap cars in the heart of Texas?”
“I think it was built in Tennessee,” she said. She opened the door. “I’ll see you around, Jack.”
“Hey,” he called before she could get in the car. He took a step in her direction. “I am still mad at you.” He looked around, looked up at the big blue cloudless sky. “But there’s enough sky for both of us. I’m not even getting anything done. I just thought maybe some good thought would come to me here.”
“Really?” she said. She paused, her hand still on the car door. “You sure?”
“Come on,” he said. “Before I change my mind.”
She shut the door, began walking slowly back. “When I first got here,” she said, “I thought you were praying. Then, when you dipped your feet in, I thought you were cussing.”
“A man can pray and cuss at the same time,” he said.
She walked back over, considered how far away she needed to sit. He thought he’d make it easier. “Can I ask you something?”
She settled within conversation distance on the bank. “I guess,” she said, crossing her legs.
“Are you staying or leaving?”
She looked up through the branches of the tree above them. “What are those things?” she said. “They look like tribbles.”
He didn’t say anything.
“From the old Star Trek show,” she explained.
“I know what tribbles are.” He looked up at the branches with her. “I think those are club moss. They’re parasites.”
“Parasites,” she repeated. “Ugh.” The tree was covered with them.
They sat for a moment, the sun warm on his shoulders, the water lapping against the bank. Jack closed his eyes.
“It feels like I should be getting on with my life,” Kathy said. “Keeping this paper going—what is that about? Nobody buys papers anymore. It’s like releasing an album on eight-track tapes. It’s not even cool and retro. It’s just stupid.” She looked back up through the branches.
“Are you doing it for your father?”
She looked across the river at the herons, who were spreading their long wings in preparation for flight. “How would I know?” she said. She shrugged. “Maybe.”
The herons flapped a few times, separately, then in unison. Then they took flight, following the river. One arced away in a slow, lazy loop, then followed the other down and around the bend, out of sight.
“I think maybe it’s the people,” she said. “In some weird way it feels like I’m needed here.” She dipped a hand into the creek, shivered, pulled it back out, and shook it dry. “Even if what I’m doing is ridiculous, a hundred times less important than what I was doing.”
“I thought what I was doing was important,” Jack said.
“Jack,” she said. “You had an audience of millions.” She made it sound as though he had owned a horse-drawn carriage made of pure gold and equipped with a chocolate fountain. “And now—”
She broke off, took a quick glance to see his reaction.
“And now?” he said. He was interested.
She let it fly. “And now you’re going to preach to fifty people, half of whom won’t be able to turn up their hearing aids loud enough to hear you.”
“I’ll e-nun-ci-ate,” Jack said. He looked sideways at her. “So you heard.”
“Everybody heard,” she said.
“Everybody? Oh, I don’t like the sound of that.”
She sighed. “I am sorry, Jack. I thought—well, let’s just say it would be a good thing if you didn’t google yourself just now.”
“I got out of that habit three days into this adventure,” Jack said. He laughed. “I used to preach about how we didn’t feel bad enough about ourselves. I felt bad enough about myself in about thirty-five seconds on the Interwebs.”
“Saint Paul’s may have more than fifty people attending on Sunday.”
“No cameras,” he growled, looking at her.
“They’ll have to stay outside,” she said. “But I’d guess some press will be there. This is an angle. A story. The resurrection of the people’s pastor.”
“Oh, for—” He got to his feet, turned in a circle, glared down at her. “Don’t call me that. I’m not that. If I ever was. A pastor—”
It was like Father Frank
was in his head.
“A pastor watches over his sheep,” he said quietly. “I was—” He shook his head, dropped gracelessly back to the ground. “I don’t know what I was.”
“I hear they’re having a little social after. To welcome you.”
“Well, they’re going to have to relocate it,” Jack said. “We’re doing another building thing. Sam Rodriguez tells me we’re putting up a ramp.”
“For Alice,” Kathy said.
“That’s it,” he said. “I can’t lollygag around church. We have work to do.”
She smiled, looked around, leaned back on her hands. “I think maybe this is why I’m still here.”
“The creek?” Jack said.
She spread her hands. “It’s a small world,” she said. “After all.”
She got to her feet. He got to his.
She held out her hand, tentatively.
He looked at it.
Then he took it.
“What are you preaching Sunday?” she asked.
“Come and see,” he said.
She nodded, smiled. “Maybe I will.”
14.
On Sunday, a number of people came to see. The parking lot was full, cars were parked along the street, and Jack suspected that First Baptist had caught some of their overflow. Someone at Saint Paul’s would hear about that from Brother Raymond on Monday. Media were out on the lawn filing reports, and when Jack arrived, they descended on him in a rush.
“What are you doing—”
“Is this a new start—”
“Was that construction project—”
“Have you been asked to return to—”
He raised a hand, cut off their questions. “I’ve got to go preach,” he said. “Thanks for your interest.”
“What is your sermon about?” they asked. “What is—”
He raised a hand again. “Come and see.”
He pulled the heavy wooden door open and stepped into the narthex, the church’s foyer.
Bill Hall was waiting inside in a gray suit and a yellow tie. He looked as if he had been waiting for a while. He did not extend a hand when Jack approached.
“For a second,” he said, “I thought you weren’t coming.” He looked grimly at Jack. “Since that’s what you usually do.”
The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story Page 16