Prophet

by Frank Peretti

  And then the floor was opened for fond memories, meaningful recollections, and there were plenty.

  “An honorable man, who wanted to leave his children an honorable world.”

  “He had such patience. He could listen to your problems for hours . . .”

  “I think he was a modern-day prophet. He spoke in love, but he always spoke the Truth.”

  John was sitting in the front pew with his mother. Sitting near him, as well as interspersed throughout the room, was the rest of the Barrett family. Uncle Roger, Dad’s younger brother, was there with his wife Marie and their four children, all grown, with their own families taking up several pews. Dad’s sister Alice was there with her husband, Robert, and their three children and their families. Mom’s siblings, Doris, Elizabeth, and Forrester, occupied some more pews with their spouses and families. The whole church sanctuary seemed interlaced with Barretts, Barretts-in-law, and shirt-tail Barretts.

  Seated right next to John was Mom Barrett, Lillian Eve, Dad Barrett’s sweetheart for forty-six years, John’s ever-present, ever-patient friend and counselor throughout his childhood and, to be honest, ever since as well. She was grieving, of course, but John knew she’d done her weeping at home over the past few days so she could be strong today, for her family. Now, in a pastel blue dress—not black—her face angelic under hair of spun glass, she silently journeyed through years and years of her own precious memories, her visage hauntingly serene.

  The tears kept recurring in John’s eyes until finally, in a delayed decision, he let them come, let them spill over and run down his face. He pulled out his handkerchief to dab them away. Dad, I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry.

  He felt—he couldn’t think it clearly yet—that for the past twenty-plus years he had missed something. These friends, this precious family, knew his father better than he had. Their memories were a rich, enduring treasure of joy, admiration, and love. They really knew the man.

  His own recollections? The rowboat project was his most recent fond memory. His most vivid memory? His “lunch” with Dad, where pleasant words were few and lunch stayed in the paper bags uneaten—that and his bitter words, “My worst enemy, my greatest liability, is my own father . . . They slapped me in the face with you. If anyone didn’t know you were my father before this, they probably know now.”

  It was like being impoverished in the midst of great wealth. The lives and circumstances of these relatives, friends, and strangers were not ideal. None of them were rich in a material sense. None of them “had it all” or ever would, but wealth was here: families, children, love, faith, an enduring spiritual heritage, and because of these, the ability to express deep joy and steadfast hope, even through tears of sorrow.

  In the center of them all, John sat alone. Separate. Disconnected.

  He glanced across the room and a few pews back. Yes, he had a family too . . . once. A wife and a son. They were sitting over there right now, on the other side of the church, apart from him, from the family, far away, a sort of monument to the missing side of his life, to the great failure the vast viewing public never saw, never knew about. Ruth was as gorgeous as ever, once a fashion model and now a fashion designer in Los Angeles. That beautiful face still had the same radiance, but like the radiance from a distant star, it had no warmth.

  And then there was Carl, John’s nineteen-year-old son, a stranger who’d grown up with his mother and hardly known his father. John had to use some imagination to even recognize him. He’d changed, and that was an understatement. His face was ghostly pale, and his hair, jet black, was shaggy atop his head with an unruly lock falling across his forehead and sometimes over one eye, then cut in sharp stair steps down the sides and back. A gold chain linked a ring in his ear with a ring in his nostril. Everything he wore was black.

  Even as John looked, he didn’t want to look. The sight hurt him. Their even being here hurt him. Why had they come? Just so they could sit far across the room from him? And how could he proudly introduce them to his family—“Hi, I’d like you to meet my pride and joy, my son, whom I haven’t seen in years, don’t know, and whose appearance I have no explanation for”?

  But Carl was weeping. John had to look almost to the point of staring at the contradictory image. Here was what appeared to be a bizarre, defiant rebel, an almost gruesome, morally lost character with a heart of stone, and yet Carl was weeping openly, unabashedly. The kid was heartbroken, and John had to wonder why. Carl hardly knew his own father; why would he be so grieved over his grandfather?

  So here was something else John was missing. Carl, why are you crying? What’s that grief you’re feeling? Hey, I’m your old man—you can tell me.

  John looked forward, down toward the floor, toward the red-and-gold carpet, not wanting to look at faces or anything else. For so many years John had resigned himself to wondering about Carl and never knowing the answers. Carl, like Ruth, had become distant, faraway, a stranger. Ask him about the weather, about school, about LA, but don’t ask the big questions.

  So Dad was gone. In a way Carl was gone too. So much for belonging. So much for family. So much for wealth. O God, I can’t let this go on. Help me.

  UNCLE ROGER AND Aunt Marie’s house on 28th was one of those big, gabled, dormered structures built in the 1940s, when full-width, pillared front porches and bedroom dormers were popular and concrete was cheap. This was the big house John always remembered as the fun house, the hide-and-seek house, with all the cherrywood doors with the glass doorknobs that opened into rooms, halls, stairways, closets, and nooks in a teasing, mazelike sort of way. It was a perfect house for childhood chases in vast, meandering circles, through Aunt and Uncle’s bedroom, into the hall, into Cousin Tim’s room, through the bathroom, and back into Aunt and Uncle’s room again, then down the big stairway with the banister you could slide down but weren’t supposed to, down the hall, and through the kitchen and dining room where the moms and dads would finally yell at you and tell you not to run in the house.

  Today some of the third generation, the youngest children of the children of Roger, Alice, Doris, Elizabeth, and Forrester, were running through the big house and being told not to by John’s cousins. The squeals and laughter of the children made the gathering sound like Christmas or a wedding or a birthday, but today, of course, the adults were more subdued, keeping the conversation quiet and reserved, the laughter confined to gentle, social chuckles.

  Mom was the center of attention, but it was a delicate kind of attention. No big, heavy questions, nothing disturbing or burdensome. Just love, gentle embraces, and, for as much as Mom wanted to remember and reminisce, listening ears.

  “He was ready to go,” John heard her saying to her sisters Doris and Elizabeth and Dad’s brother Roger. “I don’t know how I know—but we’ve paid off all the debts. He made sure of that. And he was talking with our attorney just the other day. I think he wanted to set everything in order. I just know that somehow he knew.”

  In the dining room Lindsey and Mandy, Dad’s sister Alice’s daughters, shared the table with Chuck, Trish, Mark, and Ben, Mom’s sister Elizabeth’s children, and talked about something—who could tell what?—while Mom’s brother Forrester’s son Clay stood between the dining room and living room with Alice’s other daughter Candice and her daughter Susan, while Debbie the daughter of Burt and Linda who was the daughter of Dad’s brother Roger rounded up Bobby and Jason the twins to feed them and put them down for a nap, while Lindy and Dori, daughters of Mom’s sister Doris and her husband, Marv, sat in the living room visiting with Brent and Michelle, children of Mom’s brother Forrester, as well as Mary and Jeff, who was the son of Roger, Dad’s brother, and Jeff’s younger brother Tom and his wife, Stephanie, who was trying to get their young son Tyler to eat some turkey off a paper plate, sitting next to Eddie and Jerry, the sons of Mandy the daughter of Alice, and James, Roger and Marie’s youngest son who was still single, and all the cousins were talking with each other while they and some of the second cousins
were trying to get caught up while keeping up with their children who were still running through the house and slamming doors. And in the corner of the living room, with a faint, social smile on his face but no one to talk to, sat Carl.

  John had his turkey dinner on a paper plate and a cup of coffee and knew that if he moved quickly enough he could grab that one folding chair next to Carl and say something to the boy. Everybody else in this house had a family, kids, stories about the kids, messes to clean up or behavior to correct, pride to show off, grandchildren to introduce, sons and daughters to encourage in pursuing their dreams, and doggone it, John had a family too . . . of sorts. It was sitting in that corner looking repulsive and, apart from answering polite social questions—“Whose boy are you? Where are you living now? Haven’t seen you lately; you get up this way often?”—was not really conversing with anyone.

  John stepped from the dining room into the living room, carefully slipping between Clay, Candice, and Susan, who were still in the doorway. He caught Carl’s eye and said, “Hey!”

  Carl smiled at him.

  “Hey, John.” It was Roger, Dad’s brother. He looked a lot like Dad across the eyes, and the graying hairline was sure the same. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  “Sure . . .” They were still close to the huddle in the doorway. They moved into the center of the living room, surrounded on all sides by cousins and kids, and even had to step over a few of the smaller ones.

  Roger moved close and spoke in a quiet voice that would be lost anywhere else in the room. “It looks like your dad and mom were ready for this. That’s a real comfort.”

  “Mm-hm. Dad was thorough. He always liked everything in its place.”

  “I understand you’ll be overseeing the estate, making sure Lil’s taken care of.”

  John smiled. “Oh yeah. Mom and I already met with the attorney, and the papers all look good, and Mom’s got a real handle on it. She’ll need to get some accounts switched over, but that won’t be hard, and the way Dad budgeted everything out, she should be taken care of the rest of her life. Besides that, she’ll always have me around, if I can help it.”

  “That’s great, John. But listen, if there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

  “I’ve got something for you right now.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The plumbing warehouse is all Mom’s now, but we’ll have to get someone to run the business, do all the managing Dad used to do.”

  Roger nodded. “Right. I’ll get some feelers out.”

  “Buddy and Jimmie are manning the counter and keeping the place open, but the back office is dead in the water and falling behind.”

  “Mm. I’ve got a good man, semi-retired, who could fill in for a short time until we get someone permanent. I’ll call him on Monday.”

  “Great. Let me know.” John looked. Carl was still sitting there.

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Roger.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you have any feelings about the autopsy? Do you think . . . uh . . .”

  John shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t know, Roger. There could be any number of explanations.”

  “But . . . if some of John’s injuries didn’t come from the accident, then . . .”

  “Well, all the medical examiner said was that some of Dad’s injuries weren’t consistent with what the accident would have caused. But that isn’t a sure thing, and he hasn’t drawn any conclusions. So far the police haven’t said a thing.”

  “Mmm . . . just makes me wonder, that’s all.”

  John nodded. “I know what you mean. I just hope I’m seeing straight. The whole thing, Dad’s death, is just so unacceptable, so . . . pointless. I’m afraid maybe we’re trying to come up with a reason just so we can have one.”

  Roger gave a quiet, sad chuckle. “Yeah. I think that could be it.” He turned to the huddle in the doorway. “Clay, what’s this I hear about you moving up in the world?”

  John was free. Carl was still there. John let some youngsters scramble after a rubber ball while two mothers corrected, “Not in the house!” and then hurried over to that folding chair.

  “This seat taken?”

  “No.”

  John sat down, carefully placing his paper plate in his lap and his coffee on the windowsill. “So how’re you doing?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Did your mother leave already?”

  “No. She never came.”

  “Oh.”

  “She had to catch a plane back to LA, so she dropped me off. I’ve got all my stuff out on the porch.”

  John didn’t mean to make a puzzled face, but this did seem rather odd. “Hmm . . . well, I’m sorry I missed her. We didn’t say more than two words to each other at the memorial service.”

  Carl didn’t respond, but just looked into the center of the room. Now there was silence. Dead air. It made the broadcaster in John nervous.

  Say something, John. Anything.

  “I’ll be—” Carl and John said at the same time. Pause. John prompted, “Go ahead.”

  “I’ll be in town for a while.”

  John felt happy about that. It was good news. “Oh . . . no kidding. You . . . uh . . . you have friends here? Business? What?”

  Carl seemed a bit hesitant to answer. “Oh, both I guess. Got some painting I want to do . . . just . . . stuff.”

  It was beginning to sound like a television interview, John asking, Carl answering, the clock ticking.

  “So how is your mother?”

  “Fine.”

  “Still working at Wembley and Myerson?”

  “Promoted. Head of the department now. She’s doing all right.”

  “Well, that’s great. How about yourself? You heading back to school pretty soon?”

  “Not for a while. I need to get out and explore a bit.”

  “Mm . . . sure.” They both looked toward the center of the room for a moment, and John took the time to munch on some chicken and drink some coffee.

  “Well,” John said finally, “it’s good to see you again.”

  “It’s good to see you again,” Carl returned.

  It sounded like the conversation could end there, but John didn’t want it to. He got an idea. “Um . . . well, listen, if you’re going to be around for a while . . . why don’t you come by the station sometime? I can show you around, you can see where your old man works, and then we can go somewhere and grab some dinner.”

  Carl’s face brightened noticeably. “Yeah . . . All right.”

  “You going to be busy Monday?”

  “No, I’m open Monday.”

  “All right. Why don’t you come by the station about . . . oh, say, 5? I’ll show you around a bit and then you can watch me do the news. You have a way to get there?”

  “I think I can borrow a car.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll clear it with the front desk and then give you a call with the details. Where are you staying?”

  “Oh . . . a friend’s house.”

  “Got a number there so I can call you?”

  Carl hesitated. “Uh . . . no, not yet.”

  “Well, okay.” John pulled out his wallet and produced a business card. “Here’s my number at home and at work. Give me a call Monday morning and I can let you know what to do, where to park, all that stuff.”

  “Okay.”

  More dead air. The noise in the room was noise enough. Plenty of conversation, distraction, action. But what a lousy place to try to get some kind of conversation going with your son. Maybe Monday, at dinner. Then they’d be alone. They could work at it.

  “Well, okay then,” said John, getting up. “See you Monday.”

  “Monday,” said Carl, giving John a thumbs-up.

  John found that simple little gesture encouraging. Perhaps some ice had melted.

  CHAPTER 6

  CLICK. TWO BARE lightbulbs on the ceiling came to life, and Carl Barrett remained in the doorway of the building for a moment spel
lbound, almost afraid to go inside.

  “This was your grandfather’s workshop,” said Mom Barrett, still wearing the pale blue dress. It was Saturday night. The memorial service and afternoon get-together were over. Now, at the Barrett home, it was just Mom and Carl. “When he wasn’t working at the warehouse it seemed he was always out here, he and your father.”

  Carl, still in black, still wearing the chain across his cheek, went inside, walking slowly among the power tools that stood neatly arranged about the floor like a gray steel platoon: the band saw, the table saw, the power planer, the drill press, the radial arm saw, the power sander. The room smelled of sawdust and machine oil, wood and iron, paint and lacquer, but it was remarkably clean. The floors had been thoroughly swept, and though faint traces of sawdust were visible in the rafters, on the windowsills, and along the top edges of the tool racks, this place was no typical messy woodshop.

  “It wasn’t always this clean,” Mom said. “Close to it maybe, but Dad took a lot of time out here just getting the place spick-and-span, just like everything else he did in the last few days. Everything taken care of, everything in its place.”

  Carl looked down and watched his own feet taking steps across the worn boards. This was where Grandpa walked, he thought. This was where he worked. He placed his hand on the knob of the drill press, the finish worn off long ago by repeated use. This is your hand, Grandpa. He gave the crank a little turn and watched the drill’s chuck drop toward the table. He could imagine the rumble of the machine, the chips flying out of the drilled wood. My father used this machine too, he thought. This was part of his world.

  Along the entire far wall was a heavy-built, nicked, gouged, spilled-upon but kept clean workbench with heavy drawers beneath it and tools, tools, tools hanging on the wall above it, each one carefully traced on the wall with a black marker so the eye would immediately know if a tool was missing, not in its place. Right now no tool was missing. All had come home to stay.