Collins eyed Zaccheus closely. 'Now that the reverend's given you a well-intentioned buildup, why don't you tell me in your own words what you think I can do for you, young man.'
Zaccheus took a deep breath and glanced sideways at Reverend Flatts, who smiled encouragingly. Zaccheus turned back to Mack Collins. 'I need a loan,' he said simply.
'Oh-ho,' Collins leaned forward. 'And the purpose for which you need this loan?'
Zaccheus told him and Collins listened intently, his face expressionless. 'Mr. Howe. You have neither a bank account nor, as I see it, any viable income in the foreseeable future. Tell me. How do you intend to repay such a loan?''
'I am willing to stop my studies and work at anything until it's repaid,' Zaccheus vowed quietly. 'You can trust my word, Mr. Collins.'
Collins' face creased into a frown. 'A successful banker never trusts anyone. Certainly not a young man who has not proved himself.'
Zaccheus stared at him. 'What does that mean?'
Collins unfolded his pale hands and ticked several points off on his long, thin fingers. 'It means, quite simply, that you have to be solvent in order to borrow money. You must be able to prove that you can repay it. Or own property. Or you must have satisfactorily repaid loans made to you in the past, that is to say—'
'But . . . but I haven't had any need to borrow money before!' Zaccheus sputtered.
Collins nodded. 'Quite true. But banking is a peculiar industry, one with its own rules and regulations which have been developed through trial and error. Without a trustworthy credit history . . .'He held out his hands and shrugged helplessly.
Zaccheus frowned. 'How do I get a credit history, sir?'
'By getting a loan.'
'And if I've never had one?'
'Then it's very difficult. In that case, I would require substantial collateral.'
Zaccheus frowned thoughtfully. 'You mean you'd lend me the money if you held something valuable of mine until it was repaid?'
'I would consider it,' Mack Collins said carefully.
Zaccheus had a sudden idea. 'What if I got my father to agree to put up our farm as collateral?'
Collins shook his head. 'I'm afraid that's no good,' he said flatly.
'Why not?' Zaccheus blurted desperately. 'The farm's worth some money!'
Collins shook his head again. 'Not as collateral.' He paused. 'I suppose you haven't heard?'
'Heard? Heard what?'
The banker's businesslike voice became gentler. 'Your father, Mr. Nathaniel Howe, is mortgaged to the hilt,' he said quietly.
'I don't believe it!' A look of shock burned its way across Zaccheus' face.
'I'm sorry that you've had to hear it from me,' Collins said sincerely. 'I assumed you knew. A year and a half ago, Mr. Howe mortgaged the farm and he hasn't been able to keep up with the payments. Even worse, in my estimation, he hasn't been working the land to generate any income.'
Zaccheus sat there in stunned defeat. His ears were ringing from the shock. His father had mortgaged the farm? Nathaniel? The same Nathaniel who had never, as far as he knew, set foot in a bank? To whom nothing was as sacred as a man's outright-owned piece of land?
'He must have had to mortgage the farm because of my ma's health,' Zaccheus said quietly. 'He's got to take care of her. There are doctor's bills.'
'And the mortgage payments?' Collins pressed. 'Why doesn't he take care of those?'
'Because,' Zaccheus said bitterly, 'he obviously doesn't have the money.'
'He's got a month,' Mack Collins said softly, 'before the bank forecloses. After that, the bank will own the farm. I'm sorry, but we have no choice.'
'A month!' The bank reeled around Zaccheus, a merry-go-round gone out of control. 'Does that mean that you're turning me down, Mr. Collins?'
'Yes, it does.'
Zaccheus whirled in Reverend Flatts's direction, his blue eyes pleading. 'Please, Reverend! You've got to help!'
'Mack,' Reverend Flatts said slowly, 'what if I cosign a loan for Zaccheus?'
Collins frowned. 'Well, that depends on how much he needs.'
Reverend Flatts looked questioningly at Zaccheus. 'Well?'
Zaccheus' brain began to spin. Eight hundred dollars was what he needed, but half that amount would ensure getting his mother into the clinic, at least for a while. Still, four hundred dollars . . . Something told him to reduce even that. 'Two hundred,' he said quickly.
Collins shook his head. 'I'm afraid not. Fifty, a hundred. No more.' He glanced at Reverend Flatts. 'You're overextended too, Reverend. I know, I know.' He held up a trembling hand and smiled grimly. 'The Lord will provide. But I'm afraid that what holds true in heaven doesn't always hold true on earth.'
'But, Mack!' Reverend Flatts whispered. 'A life is at stake here! I'll personally guarantee the loan!'
Collins shook his head again. He was a member of Flatts's congregation, but he was a banker first and a churchgoer second. 'Reverend, I let the church mortgage the parsonage when the church needed a new roof-'
'Yes, yes, I know,' Reverend Flatts said testily.
'You've already told me. I've overextended my credit.'
'Not that I don't trust you,' Collins said smoothly. 'It was my trust in you that led me to give you a loan in the first place.'
Reverend Flatts sighed. 'I know that, Mack.'
Zaccheus sat there numbly. He didn't know Reverend Flatts had had to borrow the money for the new church roof. Now, why hadn't he thought of it before? Muddy Lake was, after all, a poor congregation.
Well, one thing was for certain. As far as a loan was concerned, there wouldn't be one. He got wearily to his feet.
As soon as they got outside, Reverend Flatts shook his head. 'I'm sorry, son. I tried. I don't know what else we can do.'
'The way I figure it,' Zaccheus said slowly, 'is this. If help isn't available here on earth, perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . it will be forthcoming from heaven.'
12
In Reverend Flatts's study, Zaccheus nibbled on the end of the pen and gazed dully at the blank sheet of paper on the desk in front of him. Composing the letter was a far more difficult task than he had imagined. Ever since he could remember, Nathaniel had instilled in him a fierce sense of pride and independence, and it had become ingrained in his bones. Asking for help was something which simply wasn't done. A Howe never went begging.
You 're not begging, Zaccheus told himself fiercely. You 're asking for a loan that you'll repay.
Phoebe came in with a steaming cup of coffee, set it down in front of him, and withdrew quietly, closing the door softly behind her.
Zaccheus hesitated, not knowing how to begin. But slowly he began to write:
Dear Reverend Astin,
It was very kind of you to make the arrangements for me to visit my family. You cannot know how I appreciate it, and I will never forget your kindness or how much I am in your debt. My mother is far more ill than I imagined.
You told me I should stay with her as long as I deem it necessary, and I appreciate that too. In view of all you've done for me, I am loath to ask for more help, but in this I have no choice.
My dear mother is suffering from tuberculosis, and I don't think I need to go into the nature of that illness. However, the doctor here believes it is possible for her to improve if she is sent to a sanatorium in Asheville, North Carolina. Unfortunately, it is an expensive undertaking, one which my family and I are unable to provide. I know it is asking for a lot, but I humbly beseech you to find it in your heart to allow the college to lend us the sum of eight hundred dollars in order that my mother's health might be restored. I would, of course, gladly undertake any job after college hours—or if necessary put a moratorium on my studies—to repay it speedily.
I repeat, I am loath to beg for help, but you, Reverend Astin, are the sole person I can think of to turn to.
Thank you.
Very respectfully,
Your brother in the Lord,
Zaccheus Howe
&
nbsp; Zaccheus read the letter through, folded it carefully, found an envelope, and slipped it inside. He sealed the flap firmly shut.
Then he stared at it for a long time before he went off to mail it.
Nine days had passed since Zaccheus had mailed his letter. Phoebe parted the lace parlor curtains and saw him sitting outside on the front porch steps, his back to her as he waited for Mr. Peabody, the postman. He had given Reverend Astin the Flattses' return address, since mail delivery in town was more prompt than out in the rural areas.
She let the curtains drop back in place, smoothed a hand over her hair, and went outside. 'Zaccheus,' she said softly, coming up behind him.
Startled, he turned around swiftly and his eyes consumed her. She was wearing an ankle-length peacock- blue dress with a high white lace collar which sheathed her swanlike neck in delicate arabesques all the way up to her chin. She'd strung the sterling chain with the pansy charm outside the lace; against it the delicate filigree was set off to perfection.
'Waiting for Mr. Peabody?' she asked.
He nodded wordlessly.
She tucked the dress under herself and sat down beside him on the front steps, her arms hugging her knees. For a while they sat without speaking. Then she eyed him sideways, a shrewd light gleaming iridescently in her large black pupils. 'You're not going to become a minister once it's time for you to be ordained, are you?' she asked quietly.
He felt a peculiar sensation spread through him, as if someone had made an incision in his skin, peeled it back, and peered deep into his soul. Slowly he turned to face her. 'What makes you say that?' he asked sharply.
'Oh . . .' She shrugged her narrow shoulders eloquently. 'I . . . I don't know.' She regarded her pale hands studiously. 'It's just a feeling I have.'
She tried to draw more out of him, but he wouldn't discuss it any further. Still, for the moment she was satisfied.
He hadn't tried to deny it.
It was the thirteenth day since Zaccheus had mailed his letter.
'I'm sorry, Zaccheus,' Mr. Peabody, the postman, told him. 'There's nothing for you yet. Maybe it'll come tomorrow.''
'Yes, maybe tomorrow.' Zaccheus sighed painfully. Tomorrow. There was always tomorrow.
But if the money from Tigerville didn't arrive soon, his mother might not see many tomorrows.
Seventeen days after Zaccheus mailed his letter, Mr. Peabody came running up the street, his black cracked leather shoulder bag bouncing up and down behind him as he waved an envelope in one hand. 'Zaccheus!' he was shouting hoarsely. 'Zaccheus Howe!'
On the Flattses' front porch, Zaccheus suddenly sat up straight. Just when he had been ready to give up hearing from Reverend Astin, here was Mr. Peabody doing the unthinkable: actually interrupting his regularly scheduled rounds to run—run—to him with a letter!
So there is a God after all! Zaccheus thought with crazy relief.
He jumped to his feet, let out a 'Whoop!' and charged down the street to meet the postman halfway. The excitement was infectious. People stopped whatever they were doing and came out on their porches or leaned out of windows, mouths agape. Mr. Peabody had never been known to hurry before.
The front door of the Flattses' house opened and banged shut. Phoebe, a starched white apron tied around her waist, stood on the porch, her face puzzled as she wiped her hands on a towel. Then, seeing Mr. Peabody at a run, she tossed the towel aside and raced after Zaccheus.
'Thanks, Mr. Peabody!' Zaccheus shouted with happiness. 'I love you! I love you!' He gave the stunned postman a bear hug, kissed both his cheeks noisily, and then snatched the letter out of his grasp.
Mr. Peabody scratched his head and shook it. 'Must be one important letter,' he muttered. 'I never got kissed before!'
Important! Zaccheus laughed and jumped into the air with relief, tears of happiness flowing from his eyes. It wasn't only important—it was a matter of life and death! The money inside—a check or money order, surely, since the envelope was so thin—would mean his mother's salvation! Her life would be prolonged. Her suffering eased.
Phoebe finally reached Zaccheus, faint from the exertion. She watched him fumbling with the envelope, caught it for him when he dropped it, and smiled as he tore it open.
Inside the envelope were two folded sheets of vellum stationery. He unfolded them and frowned. He had expected a check or money order, but there was neither. For a moment he looked down at the ground, afraid he' dropped it.
Well, perhaps it would follow under separate cover, he thought soberly. And eagerly he began to read.
My son in Christ,
It was with a grievous heart that I received your letter stating the precariousness of your mother's health, for neither did I realize that she was so seriously ill. I suggest that you take a leave of absence from your studies in order that you can be with her in her time of need. Be assured that my prayers— and those of the entire college—are with you and your dear mother. During services last Sunday, the entire congregation offered up a prayer. I am certain that our good Lord heard them, and the rest is now in his hands.
Zaccheus stopped reading. His heart was pounding furiously and his forehead pulsed as though it would explode. It was not prayers his mother needed so desperately, but eight hundred dollars so she could be sent to the clinic in Asheville. He skimmed the rest of the letter, his heart growing heavier with every word:
I fully understand your request for a loan of eight hundred dollars, and it is my sincerest wish that such a request were in my power to grant. Alas, we are all merely the Lord's humble servants, instruments of his will. A minister has the power to call upon God's help to heal the soul, to refresh the spirit. Unfortunately, many of the earthly needs which both the college and myself would like to help come true are outside our powers. We are not a banking institution, but a spiritual one. We do everything within our power to take care of our own—and as one of our future ministers, you are one of our own. That is why we undertook to provide you with a scholarship. You were highly recommended, and we are all proud of having you in our midst.
But even colleges need money. It is true that our kind benefactor, God rest his soul, left behind an endowment, but even we spiritual leaders are governed by the laws of the layman's earth. The money left to us—and there is never enough to do our job adequately—is stipulated by the trust to be used for education, maintaining the college, and scholarships. Not a penny may be used for any other emergency, no matter how exigent . . .
Zaccheus felt a cold seizure gripping him. The message, however convoluted, was clear: there would be no money forthcoming, at least not from Reverend Astin or his precious college. The letter, however kindly worded, was an intricate dance neatly skirting the issue, never saying 'no' outright, but making that message crystal clear nonetheless.
A low, mournful keening sound escaped Zaccheus' lips. What kind of church was it, he asked himself, that refused to help send a poor woman to a clinic so that her suffering might be alleviated? Since when were trusts and scholarships more important than human life?
He glanced scornfully at the letter. From the way it was worded, Reverend Astin—the much revered, much beloved Reverend Thomas Astin—did not sound so much a man of God as a politician.
Quickly, listlessly, Zaccheus skimmed the remainder of the letter, Phoebe, reading it over his shoulder, silently mouthing the words:
As spiritual leaders, we will do everything we can, even though our hands are tied financially. But forsake not hope, my son, in Jesus Christ the Lord, the son of God, because He is all-powerful. Did He not cure the leper? Did He not cast illness out of the sick? Did He not raise the dead to living? And does He not offer us all everlasting life? He is merciful, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, kind and loving, and, let me assure you, a single prayer uttered unto Him is worth a million pieces of silver.
Sincerely, I remain a simple servant of both God and man,
Yours truly in Christ,
Thomas V. Astin
There wa
s the sudden crunching of paper as Zaccheus balled the letter up. He tossed it to the side of the road. The tears which suddenly blurred his vision were tears of rage. He had seen, firsthand, the richness of Center Hall College, the splendor of the ivy-clad buildings, the lovingly tended, manicured, rolling green acres. That campus represented all the money in the world; yet to heal the sick, there was none. 'Zaccheus.' Phoebe, genuinely worried, placed a gentle arm around his waist. 'Come on, Zaccheus. We'll talk about it at home.'
Savagely he spun in her direction, his blue eyes flashing such virulent hatred that she recoiled. 'You asked me something the other day!' he hissed. 'Do you remember?'
She only stared at him, afraid that any words would only fuel his anger.
'You wanted to know if I'll ever be ordained,' he said grimly. 'Well, I'll give you my answer now. Never. Never for as long as I live!'
'Zaccheus?' she whined. The sun was catching the sterling chain around her neck, and the silver flashed like a mirror.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he reached out to touch the pansy charm. Phoebe, terrified that he would take his anger out on her, held her breath, but his touch was surprisingly gentle.
Mesmerized, he felt the sterling chain with the pansy charm between his fingers. There was a lot more than just sterling where that had come from.
13
Celesta Bensey's chin jutted proudly forward as she raised her head and stretched her thin, corded neck. She clasped her thin hands in front of her and surveyed the interior of her shop with a sharp, piercing gaze.
She felt extremely gratified. She could feel that everything was in order. If as much as one tiny item were out of place or missing, she would have sensed it instantly.
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