Texas Born

by Gould, Judith

  Nathaniel suddenly scraped back his chair and jumped to his feet. He crossed the creaky floorboards and flung open the front door. 'Sue Ellen!' he called out gruffly.

  It wasn't long before his wife appeared, her lined face weary, her eyes dull as she nervously wiped her red, raw hands on her dirty apron.

  'The rev'end's hungry!'

  Sue Ellen nodded and managed a timid smile as she squeezed past her husband into the cabin.

  'Really, you don't need to go to any trouble for me, ma'am,' the reverend protested unsteadily. The very thought of food made him that much queasier. He watched Sue Ellen reaching for a grease-coated iron skillet, and winced.

  'You visit us, you eat with us,' Nathaniel growled stubbornly. 'My boy, he's eaten enough meals at your house. Now you'll eat here.'

  Reverend Flatts nodded unhappily and tried to form a smile. He was white-faced and ill, but it was important that he share the offered hospitality, no matter how much it revolted him. 'I'm . . . much obliged,' he said softly.

  'Zack!' Nathaniel roared out the door.

  The chopping and splintering noises stopped instantly. A moment later Zaccheus appeared at the door. He looked nervous, at once ashamed but willing. 'Pa?'

  'Kill us the fattest chicken we got. You know the one.

  Zaccheus nodded. 'Yes, Pa,' he said hesitantly.

  'And git a move on, boy!'

  'Yes, Pa.' Zaccheus' eyes met the reverend's. He was ashamed of the poverty and the dirt which his mother, much as she tried, just couldn't begin to cope with. What made it all so much worse was that he had dined so often at the Flattses', and was only too aware of the trouble Arabella went through when she prepared a meal. Everything in the Flattses' house was succulent and beautifully served. Here there was no gleaming china which had been passed down through the generations; everything was cracked and chipped and dull with years of use. Zaccheus spun around and left immediately.

  The immediacy of his departure was not lost on Nathaniel. His shoulders slumped and he seemed suddenly to age as he stared after his son with a terrible sense of misgiving and loss. He realized at once that what he had so often feared had come true. Zaccheus respected the reverend far more than he would ever respect his own father. Worse, Nathaniel knew that there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't read. He couldn't write. Abstract thought was lost on him. The things which were important to Zaccheus were the things with which the reverend, but not he, was endowed.

  He had lost his only son.

  With a loud clatter Sue Ellen slid the iron skillet onto the stove and then went outside carrying a wooden bucket. At the well she filled it with water and brought it inside. She poured a huge pot full and carefully stoked the big iron stove with wood. Then she twisted a piece of newspaper into a kind of stick, scratched a match against the wall, and lit the paper. With it she poked inside the stove until the wood began to burn. Then she grabbed a basket and headed outside again. For a moment she stopped in the front yard and regarded her son. Zaccheus was holding a bowl of chicken feed in one hand and was spraying it all around him with the other. 'Here, chick-chick-chick-chick- chick,' he cooed softly.

  Smiling and shaking her head, Sue Ellen quickly strode toward the other side of the cabin, where the kitchen garden was located.

  After slaughtering the chicken, Zaccheus made himself scarce. He knew that the reverend and his father wanted to discuss his future in private. Still, he couldn't help wondering how he was faring.

  'Oh, God,' he prayed silently, 'make my father see the light.'

  It was only after he had uttered these soundless words that he realized what he had done.

  For the first time in his life, he had said a prayer.

  Reverend Flatts belched noisily, no longer bothering to stifle the noises or cup his hand over his mouth. He grabbed hold of the edge of the table and hung on. It was funny what drink could do to you, he was thinking. The cabin walls were positively reeling madly around him, like some carnival ride gone berserk. He felt hot and sticky too. The glowing stove let off so much heat, and the chicken, frying in the pan of splattering grease, made him ever more nauseous.

  Nathaniel placed his bony elbows on the table and leaned suspiciously across it. He looked deep into the reverend's eyes. 'Zaccheus is the only boy we got. We need 'im here. Tell me why I ought to let him go off and leave his family 'n his farm.'

  Reverend Flatts pushed his empty mason jar toward Nathaniel and smiled meekly. Nathaniel grabbed the jug and filled the jar to the brim. The reverend took a long pull at his replenished liquor and burped contentedly. He sat back and folded his plump red hands over his ample belly. Funny, too, that the concoction no longer burned down his throat. 'It's for his sake. He's a smart kid. He's got a lot to offer people,' he said laboriously, vaguely aware that his words were slurred. He frowned deeply, concentrating on the pronunciation of every word, but it didn't help. 'He'll get a lot in return. He's special.'

  Nathaniel smiled thinly. 'What do I git outta it?' he asked quietly.

  'You?' The reverend frowned. 'N-nothing.'

  Nathaniel nodded slowly. At least the reverend wasn't going to try to bullshit him with that 'you're-going-to-be-blessed' routine, he thought. 'An' Zaccheus? What's my boy git?'

  'An education. Hard work.' The reverend swallowed and let out a sigh of relief. 'Zaccheus won't have to worry about where his next meal is coming from,' he said.

  Nathaniel nodded again. For a moment he looked defeated. Then he raised his head with pride. 'Tell me one thing, Rev'end. Will my boy make a good preacher?'

  Reverend Flatts drained his jar and set it down with a bang. He scraped it forward, toward Nathaniel. 'More.'

  'You're sure?' Nathaniel asked with a wry grin.

  'I'm sure.' Reverend Flatts nodded emphatically. He watched his jar closely as Nathaniel filled it. Then he pulled it toward him, spilling half of it on the table. 'I can't answer whether Zaccheus'll make a good preacher, Mr. Howe. That's up . . .' Reverend Flatts burped noisily again. '. . . up to Zaccheus.'

  'All right,' Nathaniel said. 'You got him, Rev'end. You and your Lord. My son's yours.'

  The words barely registered. Reverend Flatts jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over backward in the process, and lunged desperately to the door. As he stumbled outside, he grabbed hold of the porch post with both hands and took a series of deep breaths. But it was too late. He threw up all over himself. Then his eyes rolled backward in their sockets, the pupils seeming to disappear under his eyelids until only the whites showed. He fell heavily, unaware that Nathaniel had come up behind him.

  Nathaniel caught the reverend and lowered him gently to the porch boards. He shook his head and chuckled to himself. Reverend Flatts had passed out.

  The reverend never did get to eat the chicken, but six months later Zaccheus was on a train headed for Center Hall College in Tigerville, Virginia.

  7

  'Zaccheus Howe?'

  Zaccheus spun around and found himself face-to- face with a breathless pockmarked freshman. 'Yes?'

  'Reverend Astin wants to see you,' the freshman whispered in a hushed, reverential voice.

  'Thank you,' Zaccheus said, but his thanks were obviously lost; the freshman's fleet feet were already carrying him off on another important errand across the campus.

  Zaccheus frowned as he hurried toward the imposing administration building. He wondered what could have occasioned the president of the college wanting to see him. In the two years since he had arrived at Center Hall College in Tigerville, he had caught only occasional glimpses of the imposing leonine Reverend Astin. True, he heard the prominent minister's sermons in the campus chapel every other Sunday, and he had twice watched the senior class graduation ceremonies on the Great Lawn, listening to Reverend Satin's inspiring words of wisdom and admonishment before sending a flock of newly ordained ministers out into a sinful world. But in two years Zaccheus had yet to meet the man personally.

  Nervously Zaccheus licked the palm o
f his hand and patted the back of his head to ensure that his stray cowlick was smoothed down. Then he stopped, laid down his books, and straightened his tie. He, Zaccheus Howe, was finally going to meet Reverend Astin, one of Methodism's—indeed, America's—foremost ministers. And once again he wondered what could have prompted such an important summons.

  He made a shortcut across the rolling campus lawns to the administration building, a splendid ivy-clad mock-Tudor castle whose steeply sloping blue slate roofs bristled with chimneys and dormers. As usual, Zaccheus couldn't help but admire the splendid surroundings. It was a far, far cry from the world of Muddy Lake, Missouri.

  The campus was set in an undulating park of manicured lawns shaded by venerable oak trees and a smattering of magnolias, dogwoods, and azaleas, which were now in full bloom.

  With one exception, the six Tudor-style buildings which comprised the campus were solid and clad in ivy, with arched Gothic windows and thick leaded glass. The exception stood in the exact center of the college, surrounded by the other buildings. It was the chapel, and it crouched there amid the kelly-green lawn, its proportions neoclassical and graceful, its redbrick walls rising majestically to scrape the fleeting clouds of the heavens.

  Zaccheus skirted a gardener cutting grass with a sickle. For an instant he stopped to watch the gleaming blade slicing through the green. It had been a little more than two years since he himself had wielded such a tool, and it served as a potent reminder. He couldn't help but marvel, momentarily, at how events had taken a turn. Inhaling the sweet perfume of the grass, he smiled and wondered if that fresh, earthy smell would ever fail to move him. Probably not, he thought. It was ingrained in his bones.

  He had loitered far too long. Now he hurried up the sweeping stone steps and took another deep breath outside the big double doors of the administration building—this breath was for courage—and shifted the books he carried under his arm. He pulled one of the doors open. It was heavy and creaked noisily.

  Inside the hall, it was dark and chilly. If the chapel was the spiritual symbol of the college which endowed it with purpose and importance, then it was the administration building which was the pragmatic nucleus of the campus.

  As such, it had a utilitarian air about it, but the church's influence was still apparent, Zaccheus noticed as he crossed the dim hallway to a refectory table, a simple cross resting in its center. Behind the table, to either side of the cross, sat two young sophomores, their faces pink and scrubbed and wholesome.

  Zaccheus stepped forward and cleared his throat. 'I'm here to see Reverend Astin,' he said nervously.

  The nearest student looked up at him. 'And you are . . .'

  'Zaccheus Howe.'

  The young man consulted a ledger; then he glanced at his partner. 'Please hold the fort, Brother Charles.'

  'Certainly, Brother Arthur,' the other student replied.

  Brother Arthur got to his feet and came around from behind the table. 'Follow me, please, Brother Zaccheus,' he said pleasantly. 'You may leave your books here.'

  Zaccheus put them down on the table and turned toward a staircase curving up to the second floor. Automatically he began to cross toward it.

  'Brother Zaccheus.'

  He stopped and turned around. The sophomore was heading in the opposite direction, toward another staircase.

  'It's this way.'

  Zaccheus followed him down a long corridor. Tall doors lined both walls. Then the corridor narrowed. At the end of it, his guide opened a small door. Zaccheus could see a flight of narrow stone steps spiraling down to what was surely the cellar. He looked questioningly at Brother Arthur.

  'Reverend Astin is a great believer in humility,' Brother Arthur explained virtuously. 'He lives what he preaches. His quarters are a small cell in the basement.'

  'Oh.'

  Brother Arthur ducked through the doorway and Zaccheus did likewise, and they descended the narrow spiral stairs, their heels echoing on the stone.

  The basement was dark and dank and moist with mildew. It was lit at intervals by bare low-wattage electric light bulbs. At the end of the long maze of corridors, the guide stopped and knocked at a door.

  'Yes?' The voice that filtered through was a deep baritone, rich and resonant.

  Brother Arthur pulled open the door. 'Brother Zaccheus is here to see you, Reverend Astin.'

  'Good. Send him in.'

  Brother Arthur stepped aside to let Zaccheus by. Zaccheus glanced at him and then slipped past him into the room. He heard the door close softly behind him. Slowly he turned around.

  The room was indeed a cell, much plainer even than the students' dormitories. Stone-walled and stone- floored, it was no larger than eight by twelve feet. Placed diagonally across one end was a small desk; along one wall was a neatly made narrow cot with a well-worn Bible resting on the pillow. Except for a small picture of Jesus in three-quarter profile, there was no other decoration. No carpet. No curtains at the single tiny window near the ceiling, which let a dim shaft of light into the Spartan quarters.

  Reverend Astin was seated behind the desk, a sheet of paper and an envelope in front of him. He looked up.

  The Reverend Thomas Astin looked twice as imposing in that small, simple room as he did in the pulpit of the chapel. No matter how squalid or splendid the surroundings, he dominated everything around him. He was without doubt the most handsome man Zaccheus had ever seen.

  He was tall and erect and slender, and held himself with inborn dignity. But it was his face, framed by that leonine head of hair, which arrested. His eyes were of the purest heavenly blue, warm and sincere. His aquiline nose and clean-shaven face with its strong square-boned jaw gave him a look of power.

  Yet generosity and goodwill flowed from this man and seemed to reach Zaccheus in waves, enveloping him, casting their spell, putting him instantly at ease.

  The feeling intensified when Reverend Astin rose to his feet and held out his hand to shake Zaccheus'. His grip was firm but friendly and sincere, the gesture elegant and at once eloquent.

  'Brother Zaccheus. Please sit down.' Reverend Astin motioned fluidly to the bed. Once Zaccheus was seated there, the reverend slowly sat back down behind his desk. For a long moment they looked at each other, one digesting the other. 'So we finally meet, Brother Zaccheus,' Reverend Astin said at last. 'Your teachers speak highly of you. In the two years since you have come here, you have consistently been at the head of your classes. It seems a pity that we cannot meet under anything but the most happy circumstances.'

  Zaccheus frowned. He did not know what the reverend meant by that, or how to respond, so he remained prudently silent.

  Reverend Astin folded his hands elegantly and seemed to study his cuticles. 'I have received a sad Western Union telegram,' he said slowly. He looked suddenly weary and soulful; his rich voice dropped an octave, and his eyes moistened. Even his shoulders seemed to slump. Then he looked up again and met Zaccheus' gaze. 'I never enjoy being the bearer of sad tidings, even though that, too, is part of my job.'

  Zaccheus stiffened. 'Has something happened?' he whispered. A terrible sense of foreboding overcame him. 'At home?'

  Reverend Astin nodded. 'It's your mother.'

  Zaccheus felt a chill. 'Is she . . . ?' He couldn't bring himself to say the word.

  Reverend Astin shook his head. 'No, she's alive,' he said soothingly. 'But she is apparently very ill.'

  Zaccheus slumped back, his emotions mixed. On the one hand, he was flooded with relief; on the other, he felt frightened and helpless. When he spoke, his voice trembled. 'How . . . bad is it?'

  'Not good, it seems, otherwise Reverend . . .' Reverend Astin quickly consulted the telegram before him. '. . . Reverend Flatts would not have requested your return home. It is his opinion that you should leave immediately.'

  Zaccheus swallowed. His throat felt parched. 'But I-'

  'Your examinations can be delayed.' Reverend Astin cupped his hand and coughed delicately. 'I realize you're not well-to-do, s
o I've already made arrangements for your travel. Here are railroad tickets.' He pushed an envelope across the desk. 'Also, you will find five dollars inside. For incidentals.'

  Zaccheus felt something he had never quite felt before—a strange, peaceful glow of love seemed to settle over him. A lump came up in his throat.

  'We will all be saying prayers for your mother,' Reverend Astin promised gently. 'Now, go and pack, Brother Zaccheus, and honor thy mother.' He scraped back his chair and rose, signaling that their meeting was over.

  Zaccheus took his cue. Unsteadily he got to his feet and reached for the reverend's proffered hand. He held it tightly. 'Thank you, Reverend Astin,' he said gratefully. 'You're . . . very kind. I . . . I don't know how I can ever repay you.'

  Reverend Astin patted Zaccheus' hand and smiled. 'Mothers are very precious, Brother Zaccheus. You just take care of her.''

  'I will,' Zaccheus promised him fervently.

  'You will find a carriage waiting in front of the dormitory.' Reverend Astin released Zaccheus' hand and consulted his pocket watch. 'If you hurry, you can still catch the train. You'll have to change in St. Louis.'

  The tears pushed their way out of the corners of Zaccheus' eyes.

  'Whatever happens,' Reverend Astin said slowly, 'is the will of God. Rest assured that he will be there with you. He will look after you and your mother. We are all his children.'

  Zaccheus stared at him.

  'God go with you,' Reverend Astin said.

  And Zaccheus was gone.

  8

  In St. Louis he had time to kill between trains. The station was near the center of town, and although he was ravenous with hunger, he decided it was a good opportunity to explore the city. Better that than eat. Food cost money, but sightseeing was cheap. He felt the five crisp one-dollar bills in his pocket. For him, five dollars represented a fortune, but still, it was all the money he owned.