Thin Blue Smoke: A Novel About Music, Food, and Love

by Doug Worgul

  He sighed and looked at his hosts apologetically. Then he added one final point.

  “Besides, the passage in Luke that Rev. Jenkins used as his text this morning is really more about the Holy Spirit than it is about getting God to give us what we want.

  “‘If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!’

  “When we come to God in prayer, he answers us by giving us the Holy Spirit. By being with us in the person of the Holy Spirit. So the answer to our prayers is God himself.”

  Tyrell shook his head.

  “I won’t argue that. That’s certainly true. But I won’t concede that God doesn’t sometimes answer our specific prayers with the specific things we pray for. And that when we prosper in this world, when we enjoy the good things that life has to offer, those are blessings from our good God who wants us to enjoy his abundance.”

  Ferguson smiled. “Well, I prayed that I’d be well fed, and I was. And it was abundant. And it was a blessing.”

  Tyrell nodded. “And I prayed for some intellectually stimulating theological give and take with my guest the priest and author, and I got what I prayed for. And it was a blessing.”

  Tyrell and Ferguson shook hands. Peri and Wren raised their eyebrows at one another and breathed out.

  *

  Over coffee and pie there was more divisive discussion. This time regarding the relative merits of the Tennessee Titans and the Kansas City Chiefs. It was Wren who finally proposed the compromise around which formed a general consensus—that the Detroit Lions would never amount to anything.

  They were basking in the glow of their agreement and watching the girls play with their video games, when Ferguson’s cell phone rang. He took it from his pocket and flipped it open. He recognized the area code, but not the number.

  “This is Ferguson Glen,” he said.

  “It’s Liz Dardilly, Ferguson.”

  Ferguson looked at Periwinkle and wished that they were sitting together drinking coffee alone in a booth in her restaurant’s sunny yellow dining room. And that maybe she was reaching up to touch his face.

  “Hello, Liz,” he said.

  “Ferguson, it’s Angus—your father. The hospital just called me. Just now. Apparently, he fell at the house. The housekeeper found him. I don’t know the details yet. I’m on my way to the hospital now. I’m really sorry Ferguson, but your father has died.”

  Ferguson nodded. Peri searched his face.

  “Thank you, Liz,” he said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  He closed his phone and told Peri’s family that his father had died.

  Peri crossed the room and wrapped him in her arms. Tyrell took Wren’s hand.

  “Come children,” he said. Then he and Wren, Ruby, and Violet stood in a circle around Periwinkle and Ferguson. They held hands, and Tyrell prayed aloud for Ferguson and for Angus Glen’s soul.

  *

  On the way to Charlevoix, in the car they rented at the airport in Traverse City, Ferguson put his hand on Periwinkle Brown’s knee and sighed.

  “Thank you for coming with me. You didn’t have to do this.”

  “Of course I did,” Peri said.

  They drove north along the shore of Lake Michigan. The lake and the sky were cold and gray, but Peri was warm and cherry brown. She put her hand on Ferguson’s hand.

  They went first to the hospital where Liz Dardilly had insisted Angus Glen’s body be held until Ferguson arrived to see him and make arrangements. Liz and Ferguson embraced and Ferguson introduced Periwinkle.

  “Peri, please meet Mother Elizabeth Dardilly,” he smiled. “You could call her Mother Dardilly, or Mother Liz. Or Liz.”

  The women hugged as if they were long lost sisters. They went to the room where Angus was. Ferguson went in by himself.

  He stood by the bed and thought how his father’s body looked small.

  He remembered a winter afternoon and his father pulling him on a toboggan up to the top on the hill the kids called Turtleback. He had wanted his father to ride down on the toboggan with him, but his father said no. I pulled you up here so you could ride, he said.

  Ferguson put his hand on his father’s forehead. He made the sign of the cross, bent low, and kissed his father’s cheek.

  *

  Ferguson asked Mother Liz to officiate at Angus’s funeral, which she at first protested. Because Angus Glen had been a bishop after all, and an important, influential, figure in the church, surely it would be more appropriate for the current bishop of the diocese, or even the presiding bishop, to conduct the service. But Ferguson insisted and Liz relented.

  The current bishop of the diocese, and the presiding bishop, and many other church, business, and political dignitaries did attend the funeral. Ferguson thought maybe Bijou might show up, but she didn’t, and Ferguson didn’t know if he was sad about that or not.

  *

  It was late when they arrived at Angus Glen’s house after the service and reception afterward. They sat in the car in the driveway.

  “I don’t feel much like going in there,” Ferguson said.

  Peri put her hand up on the back of his neck and rubbed it.

  Ferguson sighed. “I think, if you don’t mind, we’ll stay in the boathouse tonight. There’s two bedrooms.”

  Peri leaned her head on his shoulder. “Whatever you say.”

  *

  Ferguson lay awake in his bed. The window blinds were open and the lights from the marina reflected on the ceiling. The boats knocked against their docks.

  I just wanted him to love me for who I was, he prayed. Why didn’t he see me and love me just for who I am?

  The silence of God and the lapping of the lake on the shore lulled him to sleep.

  He had a dream. It was night. Black and cold, out on the lake. He had fallen out of a boat and he was in deep water, trying to swim back to the boat, but his arms and legs wouldn’t move fast enough. There was a man in the boat whose face he couldn’t see. He would finally struggle up alongside of the boat and the man would row it a distance away. He felt a hand on his back.

  A warm strong hand on the skin of his back. The hand slid up under his arm and around his shoulder and held him tight and he understood that he was awake. He reached around behind him searching for more of the strength and warmth.

  “I love you, Ferguson Glen,” breathed a voice in his ear, a strong warm voice. “I love who you are.”

  Then he wept. Not for what he had lost, but for what he had found.

  *

  It was Periwinkle’s hands that woke him again in the morning, as she pressed herself against him, searching under his shirt and then his shorts for signs of life, which she found.

  He turned over to face her. She smiled a half smile, her eyelids half closed.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “We Anglicans don’t do confession,” said Ferguson. “But if you insist on doing penance for your transgressions, go thou and find a man whose soul has shriveled up inside of him and minister unto him. And then, after you’ve worked on his soul, minister unto anything else he has that may be shriveled up.”

  *

  Over coffee at a diner on Bridge Street, Ferguson said that he was going to have to reconsider his theological position on the question of blessings.

  “Maybe I’ve been wrong. Maybe sometimes you ask for an egg, and you get an egg.”

  Peri sipped her coffee and smiled. “Sometimes, Reverend. Sometimes.”

  They held hands as they walked back to Angus’s house. Ferguson showed Peri around the house, telling her the stories attached to personal objects that accessorized shelves and occasional tables.

  “That was the candy dish my mother put out every Christmas. She alwa
ys filled it with those horrible hard candy ribbon things.”

  “That was my grandfather’s slide rule and drafting compass. My mother’s father. he was an engineer and car designer for Fisher Body.”

  “That was my mother’s liquor cabinet—her favorite little corner of the world.”

  When they arrived at the door of Angus’s den, Ferguson sighed, went in and sat down at his father’s desk.

  Peri cocked her head slightly to one side. “Would you like to be alone?”

  Ferguson shook his head. “I’d like not to be alone.”

  He sat staring at the desk, wondering what Angus might have been working on or thinking about when he last sat there. Peri stood at the massive bookshelves browsing the volumes of histories, biographies, theological treatises, and spy thrillers.

  “What’s this?” she asked, holding up a small gold object.

  “That, my dear, is a 24-carot gold divot tool,” said Ferguson. “It’s a golf thing. You use it to repair holes you make in the grass when you swing your club.”

  “Was your father a big golfer?”

  Ferguson nodded. “My father was a Scotsman. All Scots are big golfers. They invented the game.”

  Peri smiled. “You’re a Scotsman. Are you a big golfer?”

  Ferguson frowned and shook his head. “Nope.”

  Peri squinted at him. “Why not? Why don’t you golf?”

  Ferguson looked at the divot tool in Peri’s hand. “Because my father did.”

  Peri looked at Ferguson as if she was trying to see through his forehead into his brain to figure out how it worked. She turned back to the shelves. On the middle shelf, just opposite the desk, were copies of each of Ferguson’s books.

  “Hey, you,” she said. “Recognize these?”

  When Ferguson didn’t reply, she turned and saw that he had taken something from one of the bottom desk drawers and that the muscles in his face had gone slack and his eyes were closed. She went over to the desk.

  Whatever it was was wrapped in plaid woolen fabric—red and navy blue on a dark green background. The fabric was fastened with a round silver brooch, about five inches wide, simple and elegant, with a Celtic cross in the center. Pinned to the plaid was a note that said “For Ferguson.”

  Peri put her hand on Ferguson’s shoulder. His shoulder slumped under her touch.

  “This is the Mackintosh tartan. The Glens are part of the Mackintosh clan. My father was immensely proud of that. This is his fly plaid, which he wore when he dressed in his full Scottish regalia, you know, the kilt and all that. The fly plaid goes over your shoulder. And this is the brooch that pins the fly plaid in place so it doesn’t fly off. He always said that this brooch had been in the family for hundreds of years. Who knows if that’s true or not. That’s just what he always said.”

  He unwound the fly plaid. Inside was a Bible, bound in thick black leather, gilt-edged pages, dog-eared, and worn.

  “This is my great-grandfather’s Bible. He was the first priest in our long line of priests. He gave this Bible to my father at his ordination.”

  He gently rubbed the leather binding, then placed the Bible on the desk, reached back into the drawer and removed a bottle of Scotch. Taped to the bottle was another note. It said “Raise a glass for me when I’m dead, son.”

  Ferguson looked at the label on the bottle.

  “This is ancient stuff,” he said. “It’s from the Isle of Jura. Angus used to say it was St. Colomba himself who distilled it.”

  There was a crystal tumbler in the drawer and Ferguson poured an inch of the whiskey into the glass. He put his nose to the glass and breathed in the peaty, briny aroma. Periwinkle watched him swirl the gold liquid around in the glass.

  He looked up at her. Then passed the glass to her.

  “You do it,” he said.

  She took the glass from his hand, swirled the Scotch around in it as he had done, held it to her nose and drew in a deep breath.

  Then she drank it. All of it.

  38

  Goin’ to Kansas City

  Sixteen months into LaVerne’s prison sentence, his cellmate, Clyde, was transferred to another penal facility because of his repeated attempts to organize inmates to protest “political conditions” by stripping naked. Clyde was serving ten months for stealing five cases of Fritos from a delivery truck parked behind a Safeway in West Oakland. LaVerne was serving two years for disorderly conduct and resisting arrest during the incident at the Oakland Coliseum—a charge reduced from the original charge of assaulting an officer. Stealing snack foods had landed Clyde in jail twice before. The first time it was Slim Jims. The second time: Little Debbie snack cakes.

  To gain support for his proposed protest, Clyde began attending meetings held by some of the imprisoned Black Panthers and other militants. However, when they learned that his main grievance was the quality of the macaroni and cheese in the prison mess hall, they banished him from their meetings and wouldn’t even let him stand near them in the prison yard.

  “You see how easy The Man co-opts those so-called radicals,” Clyde bitterly complained to LaVerne. “They don’t understand that food is political. By keeping us unsatisfied in what we eat, they keep us from effectively organizing The Revolution. Besides, all I’m asking is that they add a little hamburger and some canned tomatoes to their basic recipe. Or else use better cheese. And by stripping naked and showing our physical bodies to the authorities, we show we can’t be controlled in our true selfs.”

  LaVerne did his best to ignore Clyde, who persisted.

  “So, do you think we should call it a ‘bare-in’ like a sit-in, or should we call it a ‘bare-out’ like a walk out?”

  LaVerne glared at Clyde. “First of all, there is no ‘we.’ Because I ain’t havin’ no part in your dumb-ass, bare-ass protest. There’s nothing political about macaroni and cheese. You got a food hang-up, man. Seriously. Getting yourself put in prison for stealing potato chips? Get real. At least those Panthers stand for something. They want to change the world. All you want to do is change the menu. You leave me out of it. I ain’t getting involved with nothin’ naked. Especially over macaroni and cheese.”

  LaVerne’s next cellmate was Josh Davidson, a 20-year old surfer from LaJolla who was serving a two year sentence for refusing induction into the army.

  At the hearing at which Josh’s application for conscientious objector status was reviewed, the head of the San Diego County draft board had called him a “spoiled snot-nosed rich punk who doesn’t want to get his pretty pink butt shot at.” All of which Josh admitted was true.

  “I am a spoiled rich punk who doesn’t want to get shot at,” he said. “But you left out the important part. That I don’t want to, and won’t, shoot at anyone else. I’m trying to follow Jesus. And he wouldn’t fight in the army. He says to love our enemies. I know that’s hard, but that’s what I’m trying to do.”

  The chairman of the draft board denied the application.

  Josh’s feelings about war in general and Vietnam in particular also resulted in a great deal of tension and hostility between him and his parents. His mother was embarrassed and avoided any discussion of her son with her friends. His father, the city’s preeminent plastic surgeon, was enraged, publicly and privately. In the months leading up to Josh’s imprisonment, he and his father rarely spoke to one another.

  When LaVerne asked him about this, Josh said, “You don’t really know what something’s worth until you know what you’re willing to pay for it. I have faith in what the Bible says, in what Jesus says. I guess the price for that faith is my relationship with my parents.”

  LaVerne knew about ruined relationships. Though Angela had come to visit him eight times, and Delbert three, his grandma Rose and his in-laws, the Reverend Dr. Clarence and Mrs. Alberta Newton, had not come. Delbert assured LaVerne that Rose was only sad and tired, and th
at her love for him was as strong as ever. He brought letters from her, and puffed rice candy.

  Angela gave no assurances of her parents’ love. She was blunt, in fact, in explaining that her parents had urged her to divorce him and to have nothing more to do with him.

  “They say they don’t want their grandson raised by someone like you,” she said. “I told them not to talk that way and that you’re a good man and a good father, but Daddy won’t hear it. He says he hopes he never lays eyes on you again.”

  Angela’s chin was set hard and her eyes were tired when she said this. She didn’t like the spot she was in—being leaned on for support by LaVerne and pulled away from him by her father.

  “I don’t blame your father for saying such things. He’s got a right to think that way after what I did. I wouldn’t blame you if you felt that way either. I just hope you don’t.”

  Behind the heavy glass divider that separated visitors from prisoners, LaVerne hung his head and stared at his hands.

  “Oh, shut up, LaVerne!” snapped Angela. “I’m sick of hearing that shit! I been coming out here to see your sorry ass every two months since you been here. I’ve spent half of the last eighteen months on a damn train coming and going. So just shut up! I’ve proved how I feel. But you need to start getting your shit together. You’re going to be out of here soon and you need a plan. You can’t be all sad sack and down in the dumps. You need to be thinking about your life and how you’re going to live it. And you best be figuring out how you’re going to make things right with the Rev. Dr. Clarence Newton, because I’m not going to spend the rest of my life standing between the two of you! You need to be thinking about Raymond! That’s what you need to be thinking about. So don’t you tell me even one more time how sorry you are. I’m sick of it.”

  LaVerne did as he was told and shut up about being sorry. But that left him without much to say. He had really only thought about one thing the entire time he’d been in jail, and that was how sorry he was.

  The next time Delbert came to visit, LaVerne told him what Angela had said.