War Room

by Chris Fabry

  “Would you please just tell us what’s going on at home?” Mandy said. “Your face says you’ve been through a tragedy.”

  Elizabeth sighed and spilled the story about Tony and their less-than-stellar conversations. Lisa sat a little closer to the edge of her chair and bore down on the truth that the main contention rested on the money Elizabeth wanted to give her sister.

  “I knew it,” Lisa said. “It always comes back to money.”

  “Oh, but it’s deeper than that,” Mandy said. “The money is a surface issue.”

  “We’ve gone around and around over this,” Elizabeth said. “My sister and her husband have gone through a tough time and I think they deserve the help.”

  “And what does Tony say?” Mandy said.

  “He says Cynthia married a bum.”

  “Is he a bum?” Lisa said. “Because there are bums out there.”

  “Let’s not bring your personal life into this,” Mandy said to Lisa, smiling at the jab.

  Lisa rolled her eyes and looked at Elizabeth. “So what did you do? You transferred the money to your sister’s account, right?”

  “No, I took it from savings to checking. I was going to write her a check, but the way Tony reacted, I think I need to transfer it back.”

  “And what are you supposed to do about your sister?” Mandy said.

  Elizabeth sighed. “I don’t know what to do. Darren is having a hard time finding a job. But Tony has judged him as unfit. And he thinks it’s my sister’s fault. Can you even believe that?”

  “Well, if my man said that to me, I’d be angry too,” Mandy said. “We don’t fight much anymore. After thirty-one years of stalemates, it just is not worth it.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t put up with it,” Lisa said. “His money became your money the minute he said, ‘I do.’ So I’d give it to my sister anyway.” She paused. “I don’t even like my sister.”

  Mandy looked up from her laptop. “Just be careful, Elizabeth. You do not want World War III to break out in your home.”

  “No, I don’t. But there are days, Mandy. There are days. . . .”

  Mandy gave her a sympathetic look.

  Elizabeth didn’t have the heart to tell them about what had happened in church and the sick feeling she had about Tony’s ogling the young lady who passed them. She pushed the memory down and told herself it was just one time. One little slip. There was no pattern there. She should just move on. Stop thinking about it.

  “It’s hard to submit to a man like that,” Elizabeth said.

  “You know what my mama used to say to me?” Mandy said. “She used to say that submission is sometimes learning to duck so God can hit your husband.”

  Elizabeth laughed, but the pain was still there. “It’s tough being a woman.”

  “You got that right,” Mandy said.

  Elizabeth looked at her watch. “I need to pick up Danielle and her friend at the community center. You guys okay without me?”

  “We’ll get along,” Mandy said. “The question is, what’s going to happen between you and Tony when he gets home?”

  Lindsay let Tony through the door that led to Dr. Morris’s office. He thanked her and watched her walk away. She had called ahead to a nurse who met him and led him to the samples closet.

  “You can just use the third shelf down,” she said when she unlocked the door. “Leave the door open and I’ll come back and get it later.”

  He found the samples closet full, but there was a space in front where the literature and his business card could go. He pulled the Predizim boxes out of the case and placed them on the shelf. If he had left them in the case, it would have been easy to see there were bottles missing, but this way no one could tell. And what doctor was going to check whether they had been given six bottles or eight?

  “You must be Mr. Jordan?” Dr. Morris said as Tony passed.

  Tony smiled and shook the older man’s hand. He had gray hair and was balding.

  “Dr. Morris, yes, I’m Tony Jordan. Brightwell Pharmaceuticals. We met last March.”

  “I remember. How are you?”

  “I’m doing fine. I saw your write-up on new stimulants and you showed interest in Predizim, so I just left you a case in the samples closet.”

  Dr. Morris smiled. “Oh, fantastic. I appreciate that.”

  “It’s no problem. You’ll easily find them. It’s the third shelf, blue caps. What I need you to do, though, is just sign this receipt to show that I left them with you.” He held out his digital device and the doctor signed the screen with a finger. “Now, Dr. Morris, if you need any more, you just let me know and I’d be glad to bring some over.”

  “Thank you, Tony. We’ll try them out.”

  Tony shook hands with the man and smiled. “Sounds good. We’ll see you again.” He turned to leave and said over his shoulder, “And I’ll be looking forward to that next article.”

  The man laughed and thanked him, and Tony quickly walked to his car.

  Tony pulled into a scenic overlook and took a picture with his phone. The view was amazing, the rolling mountains and trees coalescing in perfect symmetry with the low-hanging clouds. It looked like a postcard. He spent so much time driving from point A to point B that he rarely stopped to actually appreciate the beauty of nature. He rarely slowed down, period.

  The view made him feel small, the way you feel when comparing yourself to something vast like the ocean. Perhaps that was why artists came to places like this, to record themselves in comparison with that which can’t truly be captured on canvas or through a lens.

  The pastor had talked about people’s lives being like a vapor, here today and gone tomorrow. And even though Tony was still young, there was a sense of the years passing by too quickly. Danielle had been a baby just last week, it seemed. Now she was ten. Tomorrow she’d be getting married.

  When they married, he and Elizabeth had both been happy, starting out on a journey together and moving in the same direction. But somehow, the journey had brought them to a place where neither was happy and he felt like they were moving in separate directions, pulled apart at the seams. Wasn’t life supposed to be about happiness? Wasn’t life too short to argue all the time? It was clear that they were at odds about so much, not just the situation with Elizabeth’s sister. Elizabeth picked at him over such little things, things that hadn’t bothered her early on but now seemed so big to her.

  He stared at his phone, then pulled out the business card Veronica Drake had given him. Seeing Lindsay at the medical center had reminded him how many fish there were in the sea, so to speak. And while he wouldn’t cheat on his wife, just dipping his toe in the water felt good, exciting.

  He looked out at the expanse before him. There was beauty in the world and he was missing it. If he didn’t take advantage of it, his window of opportunity would close. He dialed her number and heard it ring, then her voice mail answered. “This is Veronica Drake. Please leave a message.”

  He put a smile in his voice as he spoke. “Veronica, this is Tony Jordan. We met a few days ago after I met with Mr. Barnes. Hey, listen, I’ll be coming through town next week and I was wondering if you could recommend a couple of nice restaurants. Feel free to call me back at this number. Take care.”

  Tony ended the call and drove away, looking out at the beauty of the vista. In the distance, just pushing toward the range of mountains, were ominous, dark clouds.

  Miss Clara

  As soon as Clara met Elizabeth Jordan, she’d known this was the person God had brought. Elizabeth was beautiful, prim and proper, well-dressed, competent, and in control. She looked like she’d just stepped off the pages of Success Journal, if there was such a thing.

  But Clara could sense Elizabeth was wearing a mask. It was nothing people could see on the surface, but something deeper.

  God did not talk to Clara about people she met for the first time. In fact, people who played the “God told me” card annoyed her. She believed you got into trouble when God became y
our personal genie who wanted everything in life to turn out the way you wanted it to and spoke to you every moment of the day.

  She did believe, however, from the minute Elizabeth set foot in her house, that God had brought her for a reason. Clara didn’t know why or what was happening in her heart, her family, or her marriage. But she had enough faith to not have to know any of that.

  Clara added Elizabeth’s name to a list on the wall of her closet and asked God to help her see what Elizabeth needed most. “Lord, help me say the right amount. Not too much, not too little. Draw her to Yourself through me, if that’s Your will. And make me a faithful witness for You because, Lord, You have been faithful to me.”

  At the end of the prayer, Clara asked God to help her sell her house. She had almost forgotten that part. But she’d found that’s what God would do to her soul—He would take the things that felt so big and show what was really important.

  “O Lord, You know I have a big mouth. But You can use anything that’s surrendered to You.”

  Life was best at the point of surrender. It was there that she saw God do His special work. And it was that surrender Clara hoped to see in Elizabeth.

  That evening she called Clyde and they talked about the weather and Clyde’s work for the city and some big decision he had to make and what Sarah was into. At the end of the conversation she said, “Now what color carpet did you put into that garage apartment you made?”

  “Carpet?” Clyde said. “Why in the world would you want to know what color—?”

  “Because I want to know if my curtains are going to clash with the color scheme.”

  Clyde paused a moment. “Mama, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “I don’t know what you think I’m saying, but there was a Realtor at the house this morning and I’m supposed to sign some papers tomorrow.”

  Clyde cackled and called Sarah to the phone. “You have to tell her what you just told me. She’s not going to believe it unless it comes from you.”

  It was the happiest Clara had heard her son in a long time. And that made her feel warm all over.

  CHAPTER 5

  Walking into Clara’s house felt like coming home to Elizabeth, in a way. The two of them sat in the dining room as Clara waited for her coffee to finish percolating. The smell of the fresh brew permeated the house. The old woman sure loved her coffee.

  Elizabeth put a folder in front of Clara. “I ran a sales report from the area and wrote down a suggested asking price for the house.” She pushed the page across the table.

  Clara picked it up, adjusted her head to see the writing clearly, and gave an “Um-hmm.” Elizabeth let her read and waited. It was important not to rush people who were mulling contracts and legalese and especially the asking price. Everything was standard, but older people in particular had a harder time with change and feeling like someone was trying to fool them.

  “Well, what do you think?” Elizabeth said after a few moments.

  More sounds from the woman’s throat, but no words. Studying the page like a surgeon looking over a chest wound, Clara said, “What did you say your husband did for a living?”

  The question took Elizabeth aback. She thought the woman would ask something about the house, how fast she thought they could have an offer, how she’d come up with that price.

  Elizabeth quickly composed herself and answered, “Well, we actually haven’t talked about that, but he’s a sales rep for Brightwell Pharmaceuticals.”

  “Mmm-hmmm,” Clara said, still glued to the pages. “And where did you say you attended church?”

  “We occasionally attend Riverdale Community.”

  “Uh-huh,” Clara grunted positively, like she was pleased to hear it. She looked up. “So you would say you know the Lord?”

  Elizabeth felt confused. Was this a counseling session or were they trying to sell the woman’s house? But she smiled and put on a good face. “Yes, I would say I know the Lord.” When Clara didn’t respond, Elizabeth leaned forward. “Do you think the Lord is okay with this asking price?”

  Clara ignored the question and it almost sounded like she was humming some kind of holy tune to herself. “And you have children?”

  Elizabeth was both annoyed and amused by the questions. She’d been through a lot of these meetings, but this was the first time she’d been grilled by anyone about her spiritual and personal life before signing off on the asking price.

  “Miss Clara, my husband, Tony, and I have been married sixteen years. We have one daughter, her name is Danielle, and she’s ten. She enjoys pop music and ice cream and jumping rope.”

  The woman’s face lit from the glow of the new information. “Well, that’s good to know,” Clara said, nodding and smiling. Instead of being satisfied with the information and moving back to the contract, she doubled down on Elizabeth’s spiritual life. “Now you say you attend church occasionally. Is that because your pastor only preaches occasionally?”

  What had been amusing and a little cute coming from an older woman was moving toward offensive. Elizabeth took a breath and tried to choose her words carefully. She didn’t want the sale to sour, but she had to draw a line in the sand. She had to be clear.

  “Miss Clara, I really would like to help you sell your house. That’s why I’m here. As far as my faith is concerned, I believe in God, just like most people. He’s very important to me.”

  The woman dipped her head and with hands folded gave a pained grunt. “Ummm.” She rose from her chair, saying, “Let me get our coffee.”

  Elizabeth watched her move slowly past and wondered if that would be the end of the spiritual grilling.

  From the kitchen, Clara’s voice rose to carry through three rooms. “So if I asked you what your prayer life was like, would you say that it was hot or cold?”

  Why in the world would the woman want to know about Elizabeth’s prayer life? Clara kept stepping over the line Elizabeth had drawn. But she was sure Clara didn’t mean to offend. She was amiable and kind. It was certainly easier to work with her than with some of the other clients who were hyper and asked Elizabeth to cut her commission in order to make the sale. Instead of placating, Elizabeth decided to answer truthfully. Just go with the flow.

  Elizabeth spoke up so the older woman could hear, though she didn’t seem to have any problems with her hearing. “I don’t know that I would say it’s hot. I mean, we’re like most people. We have full schedules. We work. But I would consider myself a spiritual person. I’m not hot, but I’m not cold either. Just somewhere in the middle.”

  She felt proud of the answer. It was honest and forthright. She’d made clear that she was serious about spirituality—but not to the point of fanaticism. She hoped that would get the conversation going in the right direction.

  Clara returned to the table with two cups. “I’ve got cream and sugar if you need it.”

  “Oh no, thank you. I like it black.” Elizabeth took the cup as Clara sat. She took a sip and set the cup down again. “Miss Clara, you like your coffee room temperature?”

  The woman cradled the mug in front of her. “No, baby, mine’s hot.” She blew across her mug and took a satisfying sip.

  Elizabeth stared at her as if she were crazy, and then realized what the woman had done.

  Clara leaned in closer and looked straight into Elizabeth’s eyes. “Elizabeth, people drink their coffee hot or cold. But nobody likes it lukewarm. Not even the Lord.”

  Something ran through Elizabeth—a mix of embarrassment and humility, she guessed. She remembered something about a verse that said the Lord would spit you out of His mouth if you weren’t hot or cold. It was a good word picture, but still a bit disconcerting.

  “Point taken, Miss Clara. But why do you feel the need to examine my personal life?”

  “Because I’ve been where you are.” She said the words forcefully but kindly, like she knew what she was saying was hard but good. “And you don’t have to step on the same land mines that I did. That�
�s a waste of time.”

  Elizabeth felt the air go out of the room. What land mines had Clara stepped on? What did she know about Elizabeth’s life?

  Clara pointed at the paper. “And this asking price . . . is just fine.”

  She stood and moved toward the kitchen again. “Let me get you a hot cup of coffee.” She cackled as she walked. “I was a little sneaky the last time.”

  Elizabeth felt like she had whiplash. Clara had gone from her personal life back to the house without any signal. With the woman out of the room, Elizabeth had a chance to think. More curious now than hurt, she spoke up.

  “What land mines do you think I may step on?”

  “You tell me,” Clara said. “Now, if there was one thing in your life that you could make better, what would it be?”

  Such a good question. Like one of those things a seminar leader might throw out to a small group to get them talking, to get underneath the surface to something real.

  “Just one?” Elizabeth said, smiling. “I’d probably have to say my marriage. If there’s one thing we do well, it’s fight.”

  Clara returned to the room, put the hot coffee mug down, and sat. “No. I don’t think you do.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Just because you argue a lot doesn’t mean that you fight well. Every couple has some friction every now and then, but I’ll bet that you never feel like you’ve won after you’ve had an argument with your husband.”

  Clara was exactly right. No matter how certain Elizabeth was about some issue that came up, no matter how many zingers she got in at Tony’s expense, even if she felt like she was 100 percent right and he was 100 percent wrong, she never felt good after the argument. There was always a sense of loss after a confrontation. She sat back and thought about the argument over Cynthia and the money she’d moved to the checking account.

  “Can I ask you how much you pray for your husband?” Clara said.

  Prayed for Tony? She gave the woman a nervous look. In that moment she was unguarded and exposed, as if her whole life were being put under some Clara Williams microscope.