The Returning

by Ann Tatlock

  “Mommy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Billy says angels watch over us night and day. Do you think they’re watching me right now?”

  “Well, yes. I’m sure they are. So you don’t need to worry. Now go to sleep.”

  Andrea pulled the door shut with a sigh. She knew Rebekah would wake Phoebe up when she came home from work, and Phoebe would end up on the floor by Billy’s bed again. She hoped Phoebe would soon outgrow her fears.

  She poured herself a cup of iced tea from the fridge and carried it to the overstuffed chair in the front room. She sat down heavily and put her feet up on the tattered hassock. She was tired, bone tired, but not quite ready to go upstairs to bed.

  She would drink her tea and revel in a few moments of quiet first. She loved the evening quiet, filled as it was with the night songs of crickets and cicadas and the occasional gentle lapping of waves on the shore. Here, by the open window, she could even feel a bit of cool breeze rising up from the lake.

  She drank deeply, put her head back, listened. From somewhere out there in the dark came the sound of Billy’s voice and John’s response. They weren’t on the glider outside the window; Andrea thought they must be sitting together on the porch steps.

  “So you want to come, Dad?” Billy asked.

  “Sure, Billy. Sure I do,” John answered.

  “You’ll like Pastor Gunther. He’s real nice.”

  “What time does the service start tomorrow morning?”

  “Ten o’clock. I get there early so I can get a seat right down in front.”

  “Right down in front, huh?”

  “Yeah. That’s okay, isn’t it, Dad?”

  “Sure. That’s okay. And then after church you go to your Sunday school class?”

  “They don’t have Sunday school in the summer. Just church.”

  Andrea thought maybe she should go on upstairs; she felt like she was eavesdropping. But she changed her mind when she heard John say, “So your mother and sisters don’t go to church with you, Billy?”

  “Naw. I’ve asked them, but they don’t want to go.”

  True. Billy had asked her numerous times, and she always said no. Rebekah would fight the whole way there, and both Rebekah and Phoebe would fidget throughout the service, making the hour miserable for all of them. It just wouldn’t be worth it.

  “Let me ask you something, Billy,” John said.

  “Sure, Dad.”

  “How long have you been going to church?”

  Billy was quiet a moment. Then he said, “I don’t know. Maybe about two years.”

  “And you just started going by yourself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Weren’t you scared?”

  “Scared of what?”

  “I don’t know. Just going out and being with a bunch of strangers, I guess.”

  “Naw, I wasn’t scared.”

  “Well, that’s good, then. But I’m wondering why you started going.”

  “To learn about God.”

  “But, we never—I mean, before I had to go away, we never went to church, never talked about God. Who told you?”

  “What do you mean, Dad?”

  “Who told you God was there?”

  “He did.”

  “He?”

  “God. God told me just the same as He tells everyone.”

  “He did?”

  “Sure. Didn’t he tell you, Dad?”

  “Well, I had a lot of long talks with a man we called Pastor Pete. He was the one who kind of . . . helped me to understand it all.”

  In the ensuing silence Andrea could imagine Billy frowning, trying to make sense of what his father had said.

  Finally Billy asked, “What didn’t you understand, Dad?”

  “Well, everything. I didn’t even really know for sure that God existed.”

  “But, Dad,” Billy protested, “that’s easy. We wouldn’t be here if He weren’t there. Everyone knows that.”

  “Not everyone, Billy. For some people, it isn’t easy at all. For some people, there’s just too much to figure out—so much that they can never stop wondering and just settle on believing.”

  A long pause followed. Then Billy said, “You know what I think, Dad?”

  “What, Billy?”

  “I think they’re making it too hard.”

  “You may be right about that, son.”

  Another pause, then, “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Think we should ask Mom again, see if she wants to go with us now that you’re here?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Andrea’s heart sank, though she wasn’t surprised by John’s answer.

  “Why not, Dad?”

  “Well, it’d be nice if we all went together as a family, and maybe someday we can. But for now, let’s not push it.”

  Andrea sat up a little straighter. If John wanted her to go to church, she would go. They could take Phoebe and leave Rebekah at home. She’d be fine alone for an hour.

  Andrea decided not to interrupt John and Billy tonight. She’d just plan on being dressed and ready in the morning when the two of them announced they were going to church. She couldn’t wait to see the look on Billy’s face. She only hoped John would be as pleased.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  By 9:52 A.M. on Sunday morning, John, Billy, Andrea, and Phoebe Sheldon were seated in the front pew, pulpit side, of Grace Chapel. John tugged at his collar and resisted the urge to fan himself with the church bulletin the way Andrea was doing down the row on the far side of Billy and Phoebe. The sanctuary was already warm in spite of the trio of ceiling fans whirling overhead, and John dreaded the thought of being stuck for an hour at the feet of a rambling preacher. For a moment he envied Rebekah, who had declined his invitation to join them by moaning and rolling over in bed.

  Beside him Billy sneezed loudly three times. John reached into his pocket, pulled out his handkerchief, and offered it to Billy.

  Billy raised a hand. “I got my own, Dad.” He sank down in the pew so he could more easily dig into his pocket.

  John watched as his son pulled out his own neatly folded handkerchief, snapped it open, and blew his nose. Then the boy crumpled it up in a ball and pushed it back into his pocket.

  From down the row Andrea smiled mildly at John, as though to say, See, you never know when you might need a handkerchief.

  John offered a small smile in return and then dropped his eyes to the bulletin dated Sunday, June 17. Father’s Day. At his place at the breakfast table that morning he’d found a card from Billy and Phoebe, homemade. Colored paper, ribbons, glitter, and the words “Hoppy Fatter’s Day.” He hadn’t even been able to speak for a full thirty seconds or he would have broken down in tears. He’d never seen anything quite so beautiful.

  He opened the bulletin and was glancing at the service notes when he felt Billy nudge him in the ribs. “Hey, Dad. Pastor Gunther’s going to talk about David and Goliath.”

  John nodded absently. “Yeah?” he murmured. He fidgeted, looked over his shoulder, scanned the dozen or so pews between himself and the church doors. He didn’t recognize a single face and didn’t find the one he was looking for.

  Turning forward again, he dropped his eyes to the black shine of his bargain-basement Oxfords. God, help me, he prayed silently. He knew it wasn’t much, only a fragment of the plea he should be offering to God, and he chastened himself for limping along on these three small words since coming home from prison.

  “I like the story of David and Goliath, don’t you, Dad?” Billy went on.

  “Sure, I guess so.”

  “I like it ’cause the little guy wins. All he’s got is that slingshot, but he goes out there against the giant and, wham-o, hits that monster right in the middle of the forehead. Goliath bites the dust without hardly knowing what hit him.”

  John chuckled quietly. “Yeah, I guess that’s about right.”

  Before they could say more, the quiet of the sanctuary was sh
attered by a sudden blast of organ music. In his peripheral vision he saw Phoebe and Andrea jump, startled awake after nearly succumbing to the drowsy warmth of the place. Andrea, he realized, had turned to look at him. He glanced at her, tried to return her smile, failed miserably. His gaze went back to the Oxfords, to a smudge on the otherwise polished right toe.

  He was annoyed with himself, annoyed with the thoughts that plagued him, annoyed at the interference that made a difficult task even harder. How did he expect to make a workable family unit out of five unlikely people when his mind was crowded with thoughts of Pamela?

  Hoppy Fatter’s Day. Billy had beamed, gathered him up in a huge bear hug, whispered, “You’re the best, Dad.” Even Phoebe had managed a shy, reluctant hug and couldn’t help smiling when he complimented her on her fine artwork. Andrea had stood by watching, taking it in, looking satisfied for once. The sight of her standing there in her apron made him think of the mother in Leave It to Beaver or Father Knows Best. How many women still wore aprons and puttered around the kitchen in early twenty-first-century America? Maybe he was lucky to have a wife who cooked and cleaned and cared for the kids and folded his handkerchiefs, all without complaint.

  Even as he thought of Andrea, he glanced over his shoulder again. When he realized what he was doing, he made fists of his hands, swore silently at himself, forced himself to look up at the pulpit and pay attention to here and now.

  “Fool,” he muttered.

  Billy leaned toward him. “What, Dad?”

  John shook his head. “Nothing, Billy. I just—” He stopped abruptly when a man wearing pastoral garb climbed into the pulpit. The pastor looked directly at John, nodded a greeting, and announced to the congregation, “Please open your hymnals to page two twenty-four.”

  As Billy flipped through a hymnal, John asked, “Who’s that?”

  Billy glanced up, then back at John. “That’s him, Dad. That’s Pastor Gunther.”

  “That’s Pastor Gunther?”

  Billy nodded. “Why, Dad? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  Nothing, except that Pastor Gunther was Larry, alcoholic and secretary of the Conesus Lake chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous.

  As though reading his thoughts, Pastor Larry Gunther looked down at John again, nodded and smiled, then broke into the first verse of “Jesus! What a Friend for Sinners.”

  John almost laughed—might have if he weren’t quite so baffled. Did the congregation know they played the flock of a besotted shepherd? Or rather, he corrected himself, a onetime imbiber, even if he’d been clean now for—how many years did he say? Twelve without a drink? But just two fingers of gin and the guy could be gone again, right back to drinking himself into the ground. He was that close to ruin, and what kind of pastor was that? Still, the congregation must know that about the man. How could they not?

  John had seldom been to church, save for the chapel services in the prison, but he followed the service by taking his cues from the bulletin. He stood when they were supposed to stand, sang when they were supposed to sing, followed along as a lay reader read the day’s Scripture from the Bible, sat when the congregation was supposed to sit. The one task he didn’t do well was listen to the sermon. He was too busy alternately puzzling over the pastor and pushing thoughts of Pamela from his mind.

  When the hour was over and the congregants filed out, John stalled for time by asking Billy his impression of the service and feigning interest in the boy’s answer. He waited until the sanctuary was nearly empty, save for the last few stragglers shaking the pastor’s hand and thanking him for a wonderful sermon. Finally John trailed his wife and kids down the aisle. He listened while an excited Billy introduced them all to the pastor, heard Andrea say, “Very glad to meet you,” heard Billy say, “This is my dad, Pastor Gunther. Remember, I told you he was coming home?”

  John knew then that Larry Gunther knew he’d come from prison, but in light of Larry’s own history, John didn’t feel quite as bad as he might have otherwise. Why should he cringe when the face he was staring into had the telltale web of broken vessels, the ruddy sunken cheeks of a one-time heavy drinker? He extended his hand and felt it received with a warm grasp.

  “Hello again, John.” Larry smiled placidly, but his eyes laughed merrily, as though he were amused.

  “Hello, Pastor Gunther.”

  The man shrugged, waved a hand. “It’s still Larry up here, the same as down in the basement.”

  “Oh? All right, Larry.”

  “I’m glad you could be here this morning.”

  “Thank you. I’m . . .”

  “Surprised to see me in the pulpit?”

  “Well, yes. To be honest.”

  “Tell me, John, have you ever read Graham Greene’s novel The Power and the Glory?”

  “I don’t remember. I’m not much of a reader.”

  “So you’re not familiar with the whiskey priest?”

  “No, I don’t guess so.”

  “Well, you see, as Greene put it, ‘He was aware of his own desperate inadequacy,’ ” Larry quoted. “Page eighty-two.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s what made him strong.”

  John frowned but at the same time offered an almost imperceptible nod of his head. “All right,” he said quietly.

  “See you Wednesday night?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Good. Till then, one day at a time, right?”

  “Sure thing, Larry. You too.” John wondered whether that was the proper thing to say to a pastor, but it was already said, and Larry was already walking away, unzipping his robe.

  As they exited the church and moved down the wooden steps, John was aware of Andrea’s gaze. “What in the world was that all about, John?”

  He shrugged and loosened the knot in his tie. “Tell you the truth, Andrea,” he said, “I’m not completely sure myself. Though I suppose at some point I’m bound to find out.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Working the ticket booth was the worst job in the park, way off the charts on the boredom factor, as far as Rebekah was concerned. Take the money, count out the tickets, slide them under the glass along with the change. She’d rather work the arcade or one of the concession stands, though even those assignments were already getting old. Really, compared to what she could be doing with her time, this whole working thing was becoming one huge pain in the neck.

  The crowds were down today, as was usual for a Tuesday, or what was known in the trade as the midweek slump. Between the boredom and the heat, Rebekah was certain that if she shut her eyes for even a second, she’d be asleep. The small fan on the floor of the booth was turned up high, but it didn’t shoot out enough air to either keep her cool or keep her awake.

  Rebekah rubbed her temples and moaned in frustration, then reached for the can of Coke one of the carnival hands had just dropped off at the booth. Gary, she knew, had a thing for her, though he was a dozen years older and, in the opinion of everyone at the park, uglier than sin. His mountainous nose sprung up sharply from the valley of his lipless face, and dark horn-rimmed glasses distorted his small blinking eyes like mirrors in a fun house. The girls who worked at the park laughed and called him Gargoyle when they thought he couldn’t hear them, though sometimes he did.

  But that didn’t discourage Gary from dropping off cans of soda for Rebekah from time to time. He carried his offerings in a hand slick with grease so that Rebekah had to wipe the can with whatever paper napkin or rag she could find before opening it. She accepted the sodas because they were free, and because she knew that he knew she wouldn’t be caught dead with somebody like him. Besides, she was David Morgan’s girl. Everyone at the park knew that.

  She took a long, refreshing sip of the drink and then held the can to her forehead to let the cool of the aluminum seep into her skin. She thought of Gary’s greasy hand, but she was too hot to care. When she settled the Coke back on the ledge, she realized with a start that someone was standing at the
booth.

  “Twenty tickets,” the girl said, sliding a twenty-dollar bill under the glass.

  Rebekah silently counted out the tickets, then shoved them under the glass without lifting her eyes or saying a word. She knew very well what Jessica Faulkner looked like without having to look. She hated the sight of her. Hated the startling beauty that made the girl stand out like a Hollywood icon right here in Backwater Heights.

  Jessica accepted the tickets with an equally silent disdain and wandered off, followed by three girls Rebekah thought of as the parasites.

  As she watched them blend in with the crowd, another familiar face appeared beyond the glass. This face was less attractive, with close-set eyes and a too-large mouth, framed by flyaway hair the color of winter wheat. Lena Barrett sometimes threatened to grow dreadlocks. Rebekah thought it would suit her.

  “Hey, girl,” Lena said.

  “Hi, Lena. I was just thinking about you.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Rebekah sniffed. “Okay, whatever.” Lena was her best friend, but sometimes she was so strange it was annoying. “Listen, I just sold some tickets to Jessica Faulkner and her minions.”

  “Yeah, I know that too. That’s why I’m here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I followed her over here from the arcade. She’s been there for the past hour, playing pinball.”

  “So?”

  “So you know that’s where David’s working today. At least he was working when he wasn’t too distracted by other things.”

  Rebekah felt something cold crawl just beneath her skin. “So what are you saying, Lena?”

  “I’m saying, I think we need to be proactive here. Know what I mean?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Beka, listen. You want to keep David, don’t you?”

  “You think he likes Jessica?”

  “Does he like Jessica? Think about it, Beka. I mean, what guy doesn’t like Jessica? The problem is, does she like him?”

  Before Rebekah could answer, a man came up behind Lena and asked, “You buying tickets?”

  Lena looked startled a moment, then shook her head. “Oh, sorry, mister. No. You go ahead.”