The Spindle Chair

by Shellie Arnold

  The first bump jarred her bones. Dodging all of the dips proved impossible. The burning sun speared through her windshield, penetrating her sunglasses and warming her skin despite the AC blasting in her face. A barnburner of a day, some would say, but pretty standard for late September.

  As she traveled the long lane, several years worth of untrimmed weeds scratched the sides of her car, and she took a deep breath, fortifying herself.

  “God, I know you have led me here. I’m about to meet Pierce’s father. Help me know what to say.”

  The weeds didn’t really stop. They crept into the yard and surrounded the most pitiful farm, or what remained of a farm, she had ever seen. The barn leaned, its doors hanging crooked as the structure settled toward the house. Someone had braced a shovel there, no doubt to keep the door open, make entering and exiting easier as the youth group hauled buckets and bags to a waiting dumpster. The rotting home with its sagging porch looked like it belonged in the dumpster, too.

  Her husband was born here. And John.

  Laurie parked behind John’s truck and took advantage of a few extra seconds of cool in the confines of her car. Gilbert, followed by John, came through the screened door and bounded down the steps. They caught sight of her and waved, then sauntered over.

  She exited the car. The stench of animal dung and rot assaulted her nostrils and made her stomach twinge.

  “Laurie, I know you brought food. Don’t lift anything. I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks, Gilbert. Backseat’s loaded.”

  She’d brought five dozen donuts, a cooler of drinks, and another of sandwiches, which Pierce had loaded for her before she left this morning.

  “I’m thinking maybe it’s a good thing the city fell through scheduling the dumpster before now. Not even teenagers could’ve handled this kind of work in July or August.”

  John approached and offered his hand.

  “I’d rather hug you,” she said. “If that’s okay.”

  “Well, yeah.” He lowered his voice. “Just can’t promise what kind of reception you’ll get from Dad. Okay?”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  John led her to the porch and called through the screened door. “Dad. Laurie’s here.”

  She stood beside a spindle chair and tried to keep her hands from fidgeting. How awful could this man be?

  She heard shuffling steps, then a man who looked as worn as the land around her eased out the door and gently pushed it closed with a squeak.

  His eyes were black, darker even than John’s. His skin leathery, the term “red man” came to mind. Prominent cheekbones manifested his obvious Native American heritage. If he’d been young, in another time, another place, she would have thought warrior. He stared at her, as if studying her face, then noticed her pregnant state. Tears bubbled at the corners of his eyes.

  “Dad, this is Laurie. Pierce’s wife.”

  He didn’t move, but she just couldn’t bring herself to settle for an impersonal handshake. She stepped to him, raised her palms to his shoulders and drew herself against him.

  His whole body seemed to sigh. He only allowed himself to be held a few seconds, but in those precious moments she felt his bony shoulders under her fingers and knew his over-burdened heart was as frail as his aging body. This man oozed sorrow, the kind that made young eyes bleak and old bones sag. The same grief her husband battled.

  She pulled back, made her gaze as gentle, as compassionate and non-threatening as she possibly could, and tried to hold his. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Bridges.”

  ***

  Laurie cried all the way home. The grief, the absolute agony Luther carried had set off all her empathetic radar. The story was just so sad she almost couldn’t bear to think about it as a whole. Still, she opened her heart to embrace it, to catalogue what she’d learned from John about Annabelle, her pregnancies and her death, because she knew Pierce needed that from her.

  Grief she thought she’d conquered bubbled up fresh and new. A week before she left for college, her parents had gone on a date, and she’d gone to bed. The incessant ringing of the doorbell, and a somber-faced policeman woke her hours later. Her parents were gone.

  Then she’d faced infertility. Most women didn’t think to appreciate their ability to have children until that ability was questioned. When Laurie learned of her infertility, she’d grieved from her core. She’d waited—until Pierce was gone to work and she was alone at their first apartment—then wailed and wept, wishing her mother was there to comfort her.

  When she lost the baby, she’d suffered loss again. To her, the miscarriage was a death just like losing her parents. And she’d had to cry it out, over and over. Holding the grief inside would have suffocated her.

  Was that what had happened to Luther? Had he never grieved, never let it out, and now it crippled his body and his mind?

  Returning home, Laurie pulled into their driveway and dried her face. Pierce, their home, Daniel and Kay, her unborn daughter—she had a lot to be thankful for. God really did give beauty for ashes.

  She found Pierce in the nursery, talking on his cell and pacing by the trio of windows.

  “No, Angus, no, you don’t need to come over here, I don’t care how good you feel. I’m just measuring and wanted your advice. Floor to ceiling shelving is what Laurie wants, and I want to do it right. But if the baby’s a climber—”

  She stood, yet unnoticed, in the doorway and listened to him try to get in a word.

  He scratched his head. “A laser-level. I’ll have to get one of those.”

  Which meant another two-hour trip to the hardware store. She almost laughed. At least Benson’s had vending machines, if she got hungry.

  “A table saw? That’d be great. Yeah, Gilbert can leave it by the back door. No, she won’t mind.”

  Obviously, the conversation would continue for a while.

  She went to the kitchen, poured a big glass of iced tea, debated between leftover meatloaf and ordering a pizza. The latter won, no contest. A large, thick-crust pizza with extra cheese, pepperoni, ham, and green peppers. She calculated thirty minutes until delivery, practically drooling on herself as she dialed and placed the order.

  Ice cream. Ice cream would tide her over while she waited on the pizza.

  Tomorrow she would reach the thirty-four week mark. During the sonogram, John had measured the baby and confirmed her due date. November 2 was so close. All the more reason to let Pierce know what she had learned today. Maybe it would ease his mind.

  ***

  “Thanks, Angus. I’ll let you know. Sure. Bye.”

  Pierce heard Laurie puttering in the kitchen. The freezer door slammed, which probably meant she was getting ice cream.

  If it were just the two of them, just them and their baby, no other concerns or complications, his would be the happiest life. He could love her and enjoy their time together.

  You have been loving her.

  He could look forward to their baby.

  You are.

  He could work on projects and get excited about being a father.

  You are.

  Yes, he realized, he was.

  He smiled as he measured again. If they added thick moldings like Angus suggested, the final product would indeed blend with the home’s original architecture.

  Maybe he should build identical shelf and toy box units in both extra bedrooms. He and Laurie might have another baby one day. Two children. Siblings who could laugh together, run and play like—like he’d thought he and his brother would.

  John. Laurie had seen him today. And the farm. And his father.

  He heard the doorbell ring, heard Laurie answer. He slid the tape measure into his pocket and retreated to the kitchen. Panic trailed him. Black, ominous. Picking up speed and brushing the hair on his neck. In his mind he was running to escape the terror that had always overtaken him.

  Then he heard Laurie’s sweet voice. “Hope, I just can’t wait for you to be here.” He rounded the c
orner to the dining room, caught her before she sat. He pressed a kiss to her belly, then tickled her sides.

  “Pierce.” She jerked, stifled a giggle. “Don’t tickle me.”

  “I just want to hear you laugh.”

  “Why?” A giggle escaped, then she really laughed. “Stop. Please stop.”

  He stood and held her. “Somehow it changes me. It changes everything. Making you laugh heals something in me,” he said.

  She pulled back to look at him. “You’re serious.”

  He kissed her nose. “As serious as you are about pizza. A large?”

  “I’m starving,” she said.

  “Guess I’m hungry, too.” He sat, opened the box, served her a slice. “So, how’d it go?”

  At first she hesitated. Then she told him how proud she was of the youth group for working together to help someone in need. She talked about Gilbert, who had been so sure they could finish all the requested work in a day, and the look on his face when he realized he was greatly mistaken.

  Then she reached for his hand, stroked her thumb over his.

  “I met your father, Pierce.”

  All morning he had known this was coming, and wasn’t that part of why he needed her, part of why he depended on her? She was his cushion, a way to soften the blows.

  She choked back tears. “Honey, I looked at that farm, a sad, lonely piece of ground, and I thought it looked just like your father. He’s a sad, broken man, Pierce. Like grief has hollowed him out and left only a shell.” She paused. “I felt sorry for him.”

  “What?” He shoved his chair back so hard it fell. He stalked from the dining room to the front door and back.

  “I’m sorry the idea of me having sympathy for him distresses you.”

  He stopped. No, Laurie was not the problem. She was not the enemy. Her compassion was part of why he loved her.

  She faced him. With silent tears streaming down her face she looked him square in the eyes. “I love you. I’m right here, and our baby’s coming soon.”

  She waited, watching him. But never, not once did she berate him or correct him. She simply sat there with love in her eyes.

  He hung his head.

  Pierce lifted his chair, placed it directly in front of her and sat, bending until his head rested on their child. She stroked his hair and let her tears fall unhindered onto his bowed head.

  “You feel how badly I hurt, don’t you?” he whispered.

  “Yes.” A pause. “And I learned some things that should make you feel better.”

  Did he want to know? Did he dare try to learn more, remember more?

  Then you will know the truth.

  “She loved you, Pierce. She loved you and your brother. And your father.”

  He tensed and she paused again.

  “You were early, too,” she said, lowering her voice. “Probably more than a month. You were born in less than two hours, and you were so little they weren’t sure you would live. She had bleeding problems after you were born, but eventually it stopped.

  “She—they—tried to be careful after that. So she didn’t get pregnant again. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Yes, he understood. His mother had almost died having him. And she probably shouldn’t have had any more children.

  “You’re a miracle three times over, Pierce. You were born, and you lived. And you are the answer to Daniel and Kay’s prayers.”

  “Did, um, did my father tell you all this?”

  “No. John’s pulled pieces of it out of him over time. He and I put our heads together before I came home today.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and held on. “She made him promise to keep me. To keep both of us. He sent both of us away, then he took John back.” He lifted his head, searched her face. “Tell me how that’s a miracle. Tell me how that’s God’s hand at work.”

  She took a deep breath. “I’m not saying what he did was right. I am saying you being alive is a miracle. And if he had kept you, if you stayed on that farm, it’s highly unlikely we would have met. You wouldn’t have had the childhood you did. You probably wouldn’t know God the way you do.”

  He didn’t want to make her mad. Didn’t mean to argue. But— “John turned out okay.”

  She continued stroking his hair. “John didn’t know he had a brother. He never had a mother, and he doesn’t know God.” She kissed his cheek. “And, honey, you’re not John.” She took a weary breath. “Pierce, the house.”

  “Dilapidated?”

  “Worse. It was pitiful. The barn …”

  “That thing’s still standing?” He’d been as scared of its dark corners as he was of the outhouse.

  “Barely. There’s one more thing you need to know.”

  Pierce gritted his teeth and stood. “Does my father still have pigs?”

  “That’s what I need to tell you.”

  He shook his head. “No. No more today. I can’t take it.”

  She closed the pizza box. “Okay. All right. What do you need from me?”

  He looked at her tear-stained countenance, her sweet, round face growing more round from the pregnancy. She looked tired. And all morning she had been out in the sauna-like heat.

  “I need you to go take a shower, then let me rub your feet.”

  “But—”

  “No arguments. I’ll clean up. Go.”

  He shooed her away with kisses and pats. He swept crumbs into his hand and thought of the dust on the farm. He pushed his chair under the table, and thought of his mother’s chair, the one missing a spindle. He glanced around the tidy kitchen with its sparkling counters, its toaster placed just so, and thought of the mess Mrs. Taylor cleaned up the morning his father buried his mother.

  Rattling pipes signaled the end of Laurie’s shower. Pierce got two thick towels from the hall closet, carried them to their bathroom, handed her one for her hair, and dried her back with the other. Loving her, taking care of her, was so much better than sulking and sinking into a dark, lonely pit of isolation. “Come lie down.”

  He rubbed her feet, her calves. When he worked on her hands, she sighed with pleasure and her voice came slow and sleepy. “How can my hands be tired? Don’t we need to go to Benson’s and buy a laser level?”

  He laughed. “Benson’s can wait.” He moved up her body to her scalp, massaged through her wet hair. She moaned as she had over the pizza.

  “But I need to tell you more.”

  “Another day. Shh. Go to sleep.”

  The idea of joining her, of lying beside her to comfort himself, tempted him. But the wheels of his brain—or was it his spirit?—kept turning. They urged him to research, to learn, verify, and understand.

  Then you will know the truth.

  He left her a note on the kitchen counter, jogged to his office at the church, and searched the Internet. Premature labor. Bleeding during labor. Placenta—placental abruption.

  Hearing Laurie use the terms was one thing, but he needed to understand them before he could discuss them with John. He printed pages of information, then hurried back through the woods and settled at the dining room table to study.

  He poured over the data, so much so the terms swirled through his mind during sleep and through the next morning as Julie Matthews and the choir sang about God’s amazing love.

  Laurie leaned toward him, and smiled. “Heaven must sound like this.”

  He should be celebrating. While reading last night, he’d discovered no legitimate reason to worry about Laurie. She was healthy, happy, and would most likely stay that way. But according to what he had learned, labor complications couldn’t be accurately predicted.

  He knew in his spirit what he needed to tell himself: God was in control. But his tortured mind argued, and that was the battle. Actively, consistently choosing to listen to his spirit rather than his mind.

  They ended with an a cappella chorus that brought the crowd to its feet. As one church body, choir and congregation raised their voices in worship, shaking the b
arn’s vaulted ceiling. When the hymn ended, all the participants erupted in thunderous, spontaneous praise to God. Worship surrounded Pierce. People clapped or raised their hands. Some stood. Some knelt. Others voiced their love for God with silent words, as the Holy Spirit personally interacted with each one.

  And Pierce watched. Watched as a hungry child, face pressed against a display window. The good stuff was on the other side, but he couldn’t reach it. He couldn’t join in. Even after the praise ended, the invisible barrier remained in place.

  He stood behind the pulpit as the congregation resettled themselves. Scanned the crowd twice, looked for his father or his brother, but he didn’t see either of them. He glanced at his parents, feeling guilt that he had looked for John and Luther first.

  He didn’t feel like preaching. Didn’t feel like encouraging and teaching others. My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.

  He didn’t really want to talk, at all.

  Pour out of yourself, Pierce. Simply share what I’m doing in you.

  “If you were here last week, you know I’m beginning a series on how miracles affect people’s lives. This week, I’d like to concentrate on Moses. After he learned his true identity, after he fled to the desert and got married. I want to begin with his burning bush experience.

  “I’ve heard people reference this story and say something like, I’m not going back to Egypt, implying once you’re out of something, it’s never right to revisit any part, at any time or for any reason. I disagree. God ordered Moses to return to Egypt. And I want you to notice two things. One, his return was the answer to many prayers. Two, he didn’t return with the same mission, the same mindset, or as the same man. He didn’t go into bondage, he returned as a deliverer.”

  Deacon Floyd raised his hand. “Pastor, would you repeat that? That was really good.”

  Across the room heads nodded. He heard papers rustle, pens click as they took notes.

  “I said, he didn’t return to go into bondage. He returned out of obedience. God sent him back to do a job. To deliver the Israelites from slavery, and to help them take the next step in their relationship with God. He went back with a new mission. He had left as a prince of Egypt, but returned as a spokesman for God.”