by Tricia Goyer
"So, have you been on the road long?" Denny took a sip of coffee.
Ben nodded. "I think this is my twenty-fifth show and I have, uh, about two dozen more."
"So, it's the midpoint."
"Yeah."
"And after that, are you going back to record more songs?"
"That's the plan. I'm supposed to be writing them as we go along, but too often I'm distracted. I like looking outside the bus window and seeing parts of the world I've never seen before." He didn't tell Denny that as he looked out the window he often thought of Indiana. They were only a few states away. He was closer to Marianna than he'd been in a long time. He took another bite of his pie. "Of course, my hope is that you'll come up with some new stuff and save my skin."
Denny chuckled. "Oh, I have a few more songs up my sleeve. I was hoping Roy would request some more. In fact that's the reason I came. It always helps me write better when I get to know the singer I'm writing for. So tell me, Ben, about that song. The one about the cabin. Were you writing about someone special? You never really said anything about her tonight."
"Yeah. I thought she was someone pretty special. I don't know what she thought about me. I hoped for a while that she liked me, but it never went anywhere."
"Do you think it will someday?"
"No, no it won't. We're too different. She moved away from where we both used to live, and I don't even know if I'll see her again." Pain pierced Ben's heart as he said those words.
He paused for a moment and tried to figure out what else to say—how to explain Marianna without mentioning that she was Amish. Marianna wasn't beautiful in comparison to supermodels or movie stars. She didn't wear fitted and stylish clothes. Her hair didn't fall in soft waves around her shoulders. But there was something about her he couldn't forget. Her gentle spirit, her inner beauty, her heart for God . . .
And her smile.
"She's just a simple woman—simple on the outside, but inside anything but," he finally said. "She has a sense of humor and loves to help people. She's an amazing cook . . ." He let his voice trail off.
Denny cocked an eyebrow. "So I have to ask. Why are you here talking with me instead of in that cabin of yours with her?"
Ben took a bite of his pie. "Well, mostly because she chose a different path. A different man. She left . . . and well, I didn't like sitting around there waiting and hoping that she'll come back."
Denny tapped his fork against the table, as if bothered by Ben's words. "And you didn't go after her?"
"No." Ben shook his head. "I've been praying about it . . . and well, I'm waiting for God to let me know when—if—the time is ever right."
"Maybe that's why I'm here." Denny grinned. "To prod you on."
"Are you saying that God sent you to tell me that?"
Denny shrugged. "Well, I haven't heard a loud voice from heaven, but I did feel a nudging to come and meet you. I liked what you shared tonight about what God did with your life. I have a similar story. In fact, I used to tour too. I played in that civic center many a times."
Ben studied the man's face. He wasn't sure why, exactly, but he knew he needed to pay attention. "So why aren't you still on the road? Your music is good. Really good. And your voice is too. I've heard the demos."
"God gave me a talent. I'll confess that. The thing is that just because I'm a singer doesn't mean I need a stage. He's shown me a different way."
Ben's throat tightened. Could that be possible for him? To find a place to settle? To not have to struggle with the traveling, the band, the women? Could he have a family and a home and still write and sing for God...and let God show him how to use his songs from there?
Goose bumps rose on his arms. God, is this message from You? If it is, I want it . . . I want what You have for me. I'm ready for it. Ready to surrender all.
"I want to hear more." Ben finished off his pie and then motioned to the waitress to bring him another piece. "I wanted to hear how God led you to songwriting, Denny. I gotta hear how you do it . . . how your songs make a difference without you being on stage."
"Sure. Of course."
Ben folded his hands and placed them on the table, wishing he could calm his pounding heart. "I also want to talk to you more about Marianna . . . you're the only one I've told her name to. I want to know if you think I should go to her . . . because suddenly something inside tells me it's time. Now's the time."
Ben's heartbeat quickened as his cab approached the civic center. Denny's house was in the opposite direction and he still had a long drive tonight. Ben told Denny he didn't mind catching his own ride. Ben smiled and his head bobbed along to the jazz music the taxi driver played on the radio. In fact from the way he felt inside—the new hope he had—he almost could have walked on air back to the bus.
Yet Ben's euphoric feeling sank as the taxi drove closer. He gripped the door handle, afraid to open it.
A police car was parked in front of the bus and a policeman stood outside the door, talking to their bus driver.
"What did the guys do this time?" He paid the taxi driver and then strode up the bus.
"Hey, officer, is there a problem?"
"You Ben Stone?"
"Yeah?" A cold sensation traveled down his body. "Oh man, no one's hurt are they? I told those guys to watch themselves."
The officer shook his head. "It's nothing like that. I'm here because there's a warrant out for your arrest."
"My arrest?" Ben took a step backward. "I'm sorry, there must be a mistake."
The officer shook his head and pulled a print out from his pocket. "It says right here that five years ago you were acquitted for the death of Jason Robinson. The deal was you didn't have to spend any time in jail as long as you continued to write letters to teens."
"Yeah, that's right. I've been done that. I've done it every week since I walked out of jail."
"I don't think so, son. Your parole officer's the one who put out the warrant. Seems the letters have been stopped for over a month."
Ben turned to the bus driver. "Frank, can you tell them? I've written the letters. In fact I gave them to you to mail. You can vouch for me—"
Frank lowered his head, and Ben's stomach sank to his knees.
"Man, I'm sorry." Frank turned and took two steps to the dash. He opened a compartment and pulled out a small stack of mail. Returning, he handed it to Ben. "I've been meaning to find a post office, but you know how Roy is about sticking to a schedule."
Ben stared at the letters in Frank's hands, then he took them and turned to the officer. "You can see what the misunderstanding is, officer. I'm really sorry about this. I'll make sure they make it into the mail tomorrow."
The officer shook his head. "That's not going to work, Mr. Stone. I'm not the judge and jury here. I'll take those letters for evidence, but I'm afraid I'll have to take you in. It'll be up to the judge in L.A. to decide."
"So . . . I'm under arrest?" Ben swallowed hard. Roy's fury filled his mind. It had been a simple mistake . . .
"I'm so sorry. I can testify." Frank looked from Ben to the officer and back to Ben again. "I'm so sorry."
The officer lifted a hand. "I'd be happy to take your statement, but right now I need to ask Mr. Stone to follow me to my car."
Ben sat in the small interview room of the Los Angeles jail staring at a two-way mirror. Did anyone watch from the other side?
When he'd first been driven away in the police car panic overtook him. What about the tour? All the fans who'd already purchase tickets? The media?
Sure enough, when he exited the L.A. airport in handcuffs, the media was waiting. Cameras flashed, questions shouted.
Ben scrunched down in his chair and lowered his face into his hands. "What have I done?" He'd set out to lead a quiet life in Montana, and he ended up on the road. He'd wanted to be part of a community, to build friendships and become a friend. Instead he stood on stage and spoke to crowds. His deepest conversation lately had been with Denny. And then—just when he'd decided to
reach out to Marianna—this happened.
How could he go to her now?
"God, are You there?" he whispered into the still air of the room.
Ben didn't know when he'd get out. Didn't know where he'd go and what he'd do when he did. He studied his hands. They weren't the hardworking hands that he'd had in Montana. He didn't recognize them anymore. He didn't recognize himself either as he looked in the mirror. Maybe God didn't recognize him either, with his long hair and trendy clothes. What would Marianna think if she saw him like this—looking like a rock star and sitting in a jail cell? She wouldn't believe it. He couldn't believe it.
The door opened. Ben glanced up just in time to see Roy stride in. It wasn't hard to spot the disapproval on his face. He tossed an L.A. Times newspaper onto the table in front of Ben.
"Have you read today's headline?"
Ben shook his head. "This isn't the Holiday Inn. It's not like they serve me coffee and a paper in the morning."
He dared to glance down at the paper. It was opened to the Entertainment section and an image of his face filled most of the page. "Every warm jail cell needs a good wife?" the headline read.
"Ha ha, very funny." Ben folded his arms in front of him.
Roy sat across from him. "What were you thinking, Ben?" He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "How hard is it to find a post office and drop the letters into a slot?" Ben saw more questions flint through Roy's eyes. Questions he didn't ask. Had word got back to Roy about other things—how he "testified" on the stage? Roy studied him as if trying to figure out who this stranger was.
"I messed up."
With the declaration, Roy's squared shoulders softened and the hard jut of Roy's chin lowered a notch. He ran a hand through his graying hair. "It's not the end of the world, I suppose."
Ben sighed. "So tell me the damage."
"Well, your tour's cancelled, but we expected that to happen. They got one of the old Backstreet Boys who's trying to resurrect his career to take your place. You know, Ben, you screwed up, but the law chose to make an example of you. They ran with it. If you would have been in Montana and missed some letters you might have gotten a phone call. They blew it out of the water because of your newfound fame." Roy cleared his throat. "So we're going to help them."
"Excuse me?"
"I've talked to the judge and we're setting up a press conference." Roy glanced in his watch. "Someone should be here in ten minutes to take you to the shower and give you a clean jail cell uniform." Roy pursed his lips and nodded. "Prison-cell orange is a good color on you."
Ben raised his hands. "Wait, wait, you want me to talk to the media about this? Won't it hurt my good-guy image you've worked so hard to build?"
"Actually no. I want you to tell the truth. I want you to tell everyone how you messed up and how you've changed. I've heard that you shared a little about it at yesterday's concert. You can do it again."
For the first time since he saw that cop car, the burden on Ben's shoulders lightened. "Really? You know I'm going to mention God."
Roy smiled. "Well, I heard lots of people last night give Him the thumbs up, so that might not be too bad."
Chapter Seventeen
Levi walked from the field to the house, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. The scent of soil clung to him but he didn't mind. It felt good to work hard and know that he was providing for his family.
He and Naomi's father, Mose Studer, had been putting seed in the ground. They'd been out since sunrise, and now it was nearly dark. Their only breaks the whole day had been dinner and supper, which Naomi's younger sister Charity had brought out to them in metal pails.
Levi walked into the house expecting to find Naomi in her room asleep. Instead she was sitting in the rocking chair. She rocked ever so softly with Samuel asleep against her chest. Her dress was damp near her collarbone, beneath the baby's open mouth. Naomi's long red hair was down as if she'd been brushing it out and hadn't had the chance yet to put it up in her sleeping kerchief. Naomi looked up and smiled at Levi as he entered.
He stopped short and sucked in a slow breath.
"What?" Her eyes widened. "Is something wrong?"
He neared her and pulled a simple dining room chair closer so they sat knee to knee. "No, nothing's wrong at all. I—I just don't think I've ever seen you look so beautiful."
Pink tinged her cheeks, causing her freckles to disappear. "I don't think—"
"Shhh . . . Levi lifted a finger and placed it to her lips. "Don't argue with me. I know yet what I'm talking about."
She nodded, smiled, and adjusted the baby so she was cradling him in her arms.
Levi reached out a finger to stroke his son's smooth skin, then realized his hands were still dirty. Soil clung to him. He should go get washed up, but he wasn't ready to leave them—not just yet. "Has Sam been good today?"
"Ja. Nothing to deserve a talkin' to yet."
They sat there in quiet comfortableness, content to marvel over the baby.
After having Samuel, Naomi had moved to the dawdi haus, too. She had taken his old room, Marianna had the guest room, and Levi slept on the couch. When he was able to sleep, that is. When he wasn't wide-awake and overwhelmed at being a father and, soon, a husband.
He stood. "Be right back."
After washing up and changing his clothes, Levi returned and reached toward Samuel. "May I?"
Naomi nodded. "Ja, that would be nice. I never realized such a tiny little guy could get so heavy."
With slow movements and tender hands, he took the slumbering baby. Samuel's breathing quickened but his eyes remained closed.
Levi settled his son in his arms. "So, I was talking to your dat today."
"Ja, what did he say?" Naomi moved the laundry basket and found her sleeping kerchief. With precise movements she pinned it on her head.
"He said that we can get married now. If it's all right with my parents, we can go ahead and set a date."
"Really?" She turned and pink again flushed her freckled cheeks. Then she bit her lower lip with her perfect, white teeth. "Your parents, they won't have a problem with it, will they?"
"No. They wondered why we were waiting. Of course they don't know—" Levi halted his words, but he could tell from Naomi's face that she knew what he was going to say: "They don't know that Samuel is not my son."
The thing was, Levi felt like this boy was his. He knew he'd protect him with his life. He was ready to commit to Naomi. Ready to commit to Samuel too. As far as he was concerned, the boy would never know any father but him.
He'd see to that.
Ben followed the officer to the mini-stage they'd created in the police precinct and sat in a gray metal chair. Two dozen reporters fanned around them, their cameras set. He looked to Roy and then back to the crowd. They told him he could start when he was ready.
Ben began by telling of his first tour. He told of how hard fame had been on a young man. "I didn't quite go off the deep end, but it was close." He saw one of the female reporters in the front row smile. "Soon I found myself caught up with women and booze . . . and I partook plenty of both."
He shared about the party at his place and how when he went to bed Jason had been passed out on the couch. "When I went in the next morning his face was blue. When I ran to him he was cold. I tried to find his pulse. My buddy and I called 911, but it was too late. He was gone.
"For the last five years I've been writing letters to teens who've abused alcohol, telling them my story and asking them to reconsider their paths before they lost a friend or even their own lives. Some have written back.
"I regret to say that in the last month I've been on the road and I failed to get those letters sent. I just want my fans to know that I'm accepting my error and will pay the consequences, whatever they may be." His voice caught in his throat and tears moistened his eyes. All noise around the room stilled. A few of the male reporters looked away.
His foot tapped as he saw the cameras focused on his face. "I want to
take this time to talk to those out there who might have a problem like I had. If you're an underage drinker and think you're cool, know there is nothing cool about burying a friend. Jason missed out on getting married, having kids, buying a hot rod . . ."
He lifted his lips in the slightest smile. "Or maybe you're like me and you have a void inside and you're just trying to fill it. I felt like I was missing out on something. I thought the next can of beer or the next pretty girl would make everything better. They never did. They only made things worse. The only thing that can fill that void in your life is a relationship with Jesus Christ. He knows you better than anyone. He gave His life to take away your sin and—"
A reporter in the front row cleared his throat and then signaled to his cameraman to cut off the recording. The man turned off his camera and a few others did the same. Still, some stayed on him, so Ben continued, his voice rising in fervor.
"I messed up and if I were to ask around in this jail I bet a lot of others have messed up too."
Laughter sounded from some of the reporters.
"But I know one thing to be true. When I asked Jesus to fill me with His life, the only way He could do that was to remove all the old stuff that remained. I'm a different man than I was back then. Sure I mess up still, but at least I know where to go when I need it—to God."
He nodded, signaling that the interview was done. Ben looked to the officer next to him and started to stand, but the guard motioned for him to remain where he was.
"Mr. Stone, Mr. Stone!" Each reporter tried to call louder than the others.
He pointed to one in a rumpled brown suit. The man stood. "First, I have to say I'm thankful for you telling the truth and standing up for what you've done. You don't know how rare this is for someone too fess up to their mistakes. Second, I have to ask what the woman thinks of this?"
Ben cocked an eyebrow. "The woman?"
"You know, the one from the song," another reporter called out to him.
A small burst of laughter split Ben's lips. "Truthfully? I haven't communicated with her in a while, but I doubt she even knows."