by Judith Pella
Only one thing marred this pleasant time. Zack was frequently plagued with pangs of conscience. He couldn’t count how many times he was on the verge of telling Calvin the truth about himself, but he never found the nerve to do it. He knew that he feared not punishment for his crime but rather Calvin’s disappointment in him.
So when that small voice said, “Confess,” a stronger voice said, “No!”
Because of his foot, which was swollen and sore for a few days, he was not expected to work at the mill, to ride his circuit, or to make visitations. He spent all day at the Newcombs’ trying to help around the farm as much as possible, but Ada would scold him every time he did something she considered to be too much. She let him carry laundry or churn butter or do other household tasks, which, of course, put him in close contact with Ellie and Maggie. He shouldn’t have been as pleased about this as he was, and he didn’t want to enjoy them as much as he did, each for a different reason.
One afternoon Zack was particularly restless. Ada and Maggie had gone to bring some food to Mrs. Donnelly. And Geor-gie, with school now out for summer break, had gone with his mother to help with chores at the Donnellys’. Calvin was working at the mill. Ellie had gone out to work in the garden. Zack thought it a bit odd that no one feared leaving him alone with Ellie. The town’s burning desire to marry off the minister had faded a bit, no doubt dimmed by recent events. And he thought Ada was probably starting to think of him more as a member of the family than as a marriage candidate for her daughter.
Zack had been instructed to elevate his foot for an hour because it was starting to fester and swell again. But after a half hour he simply could not stand the solitude another moment. His thoughts had returned to the funeral and the unsettling feeling that Scripture had given him. He put on his boots—a larger pair had been found for him—and hobbled outside, using a cane that had belonged to Ada’s father.
Zack wasn’t surprised that his aimless wandering ended up at the garden. He stood quietly and watched Ellie before she noticed him. She was kneeling in the dirt, canvas gloves on her hands, straw bonnet on her head, wearing a green calico dress. She was plucking weeds around the vines of green beans that stood nearly two feet tall on the stakes they were tied to. He could tell she was deep in thought and had not heard him approach. He didn’t want to disturb her, nor did he want to interrupt watching her while she was relaxed, absorbed in her work, and obviously enjoying herself. When she knew he was around, she always became guarded and awkward.
When he shifted his weight to take some pressure off his injured foot, he snapped a twig, and she looked up.
“Hi,” he said and limped closer.
“Hi, Reverend,” she said. “I wish the plants grew as well as the weeds.” With her gloved hand she wiped away a trickle of sweat from her brow.
“The plants are looking quite good,” he replied. “At least the corn was knee-high by the Fourth of July.”
“Yes, it is looking quite good.”
He went over to the garden wall, but before settling down he asked, “Do you mind if I rest for a few minutes?”
“I’m ready for a rest, too.” She rose lithely and, taking off her gloves, came to the wall. “Can I join you?”
“I was hoping you would.I’m’m getting what sailors call ‘cabin fever.’ ”
“But you can’t let your foot dangle like that. Just a minute . . .” She jumped up and fetched the bushel she’d been tossing weeds into, dumped it out, and carried it back. “This should do.” She overturned the bushel and put his foot up on it for him.
“I can’t believe such a small cut is causing so much trouble,” he said.
“It wasn’t small,” she replied. “Mama thinks there may still be glass in it. She thinks if it doesn’t get better in a few days we should take you to the doctor in St. Helens. He may have to put in a stitch or two.”
“I have never been to a doctor in my life.”
“Well, let’s not worry about that until the time comes.” She paused before adding, “It must be hard to be idle. I imagine you are worried about your circuit.”
He didn’t know how to respond to that. The fact was he had considered playing up his injury just to have an excuse to get out of the circuit. Without the wise Dr. Markus, Zack was going to be pretty lost in the pulpit. But he waited too long to reply.
“Is something wrong, Reverend?” she asked.
“I suppose after all that has happened, I don’t feel competent to mount a pulpit—”
“What?”
“I have questions.”
“You mean, like a crisis of faith?”
“Yes, that’s it.” Even as he realized this was the perfect answer to his sermon problem, he also realized these words were true in another way. They were probably the truest words he had spoken since coming to Maintown.
“I suppose it doesn’t help having everyone telling you that none of this is your fault.”
“I know you mean well, but it doesn’t help. Why would God let these things happen? You are all good people. You don’t deserve any of this. I have never met finer folks than the Copelands, yet they have lost everything.”
“Things happen. I t is life—not your fault, not God’s fault, either, Reverend.”
“Would you not call me that!” he said more sharply than he’d intended. The title had begun to sting him a little more sharply every time it was used.
“We’ve been over this, Rev—well, we have discussed this before.”
“Is there nothing else you can call me?” he implored. “I know.
Call me Zack,” he added impulsively.
“What are you talking about?”
“Call me Zack or Zacchaeus.”
“Why that?” she asked with a dubious chuckle.
“I always liked that name.”
“I like it, too.” Then she went on in a singsong tone, “Zac-chaeus was a wee little man, a wee little man was he. He climbed up into a sycamore tree, for the Lord he wanted to see. . . .” She trailed away, a little embarrassed.
“I didn’t know there was a song.” He’d had no idea that his odd given name belonged to anyone except his grandfather. He’d hated the name Zacchaeus and had shortened it to Zack even before he had left home.
“It’s just a song I learned when I was young. Mama would tell us the story from the Bible, and we sang the song.”
“It’s from the Bible?”
“Of course. You know, the story of the man who couldn’t see Jesus over the crowds, so he climbed the tree . . . you remember?”
“Ellie, pretend for a minute that I’m’m not a minister and that I don’t know a thing about the Bible,” Zack said, feeling suddenly reckless. Maybe it was like a thief returning to the scene of the crime because down deep he wanted to be caught. “I want to hear it as if for the first time. Tell me the story.”
Appearing bemused by the odd turn of the conversation, she went on, “Well, Zacchaeus was a short man, and he couldn’t see Jesus because of the large crowd of people. So he climbed up into a tree. When Jesus walked by, he looked up at him and told him to come down, for he was going to Zacchaeus’s house today. This surprised everyone because Zacchaeus was a publican—”
“A publican?” he asked.
“You know—” When he gave her a censorious look, she finished without further question. “He was a tax collector, not a popular person back then and regarded by all as a sinner.”
“Then what happened?”
“Zacchaeus was thrilled to have Jesus in his home. His heart was touched and he repented of his evil ways, giving half of his wealth to the poor and restoring to those he had cheated in his taxing. And Jesus forgave him.”
“Just like that, Jesus forgave this man who was obviously a lowlife type?”
“Of course, Reverend. That’s what God’s love is all about, isn’t it?I’m’m not certain of the exact reference, but I know it says in the Bible that Christ came not to call the righteous but to call sinners to repent
ance. But, Reverend, you know all this.”
There was distress in her tone. I t would be quite vexing to someone like her if her minister fell from faith. He winced inwardly as she used Reverend again, though seeing her distress he didn’t have the heart to correct her. Suddenly he had never appreciated his own name more and longed to hear it from the lips of others. Even Zacchaeus would have been preferred over that title of Reverend or the name stolen from a dead man.
“Yes, of course,” he lied. “But even a minister needs to be reminded of these things now and again.”
She took his hand in hers and turned her gaze so that he had no choice but to look into her eyes. After only a moment he was desperate to look away. He could not bear that look of caring and genuine tenderness. Yet at the same time he was so mesmerized by the depth of those blue eyes that he felt glued in place.
Then she said, “I would pray with you . . . William.”
Hearing her say that name sickened him. I t was worse than when she called him Reverend, because she was now doing it to please him, despite that it made her uncomfortable.
A voice in his mind cried, Run! Run! Run!
But he didn’t run. He wasn’t sure his legs would have carried him anyway. He sat there and let her pray, trying with what will he had left to shut out her sweet petition to God.
TWENTY - SIX
Shortly after Tom’s funeral the sheriff came to Maintown. He was not alone. The Methodist circuit minister, Joshua Barnett, accompanied him. While the sheriff went to the mill to speak with Calvin, the minister stayed at the house to visit with Zack, who began to feel like Daniel in the lions’ den, a Bible story he did happen to know.
Ada served them tea in the parlor, and Zack tried to get her and the girls to remain, but Ada declined.
“I’m sure you men would like some time to yourselves to talk about your work.” She and the girls left him alone with the minister.
Barnett had some books that he handed to Zack. “I heard about the fire and thought you might like some reference books to replace yours. I can spare these as long as you need them, my boy.” Barnett was a good twenty years older than Zack. He was tall and hefty but appeared fit, for the rigors of riding a circuit could not help but keep a man’s physique sound. His head was balding, and the hair that remained rimmed a large bald spot like a monk’s tonsure. I t was black, streaked liberally with gray. He wore wire-rimmed glasses over pleasant blue eyes and generally seemed a good-natured sort.
“Thank you very much,” Zack said, taking the books and seeing with a quick perusal that none were books of sermons. Maybe they would offer him some help anyway.
“I have been wanting to meet you, Reverend L ocklin,” Barnett said. “But you know how our work keeps us busy.I’m’m sorry it was this tragedy that finally got me to be neighborly.”
“I understand completely,” Zack replied. “I, too, have wanted to meet you and the other pastors. But, alas, time does get away from us.”
“How are you holding up, my boy? Many an older, more experienced man would be hard-pressed to find the inner resources to deal with such difficult events.”
“Well . . . ah . . . trusting God helps.” For some odd reason, when Zack had first come here, spouting religious verbiage had come more easily than it did lately. Now, when such words should flow after much usage, they had begun to stick in his throat. Today, however, he would have to put on his best performance, for if anyone was going to see through his ruse, it surely would be a man of God.
“Well, Reverend L ocklin, you must feel free to come to me if you need assistance.”
“That is kind of you, but you know what the Bible says— God helps those who help themselves.”
Barnett smiled quickly; then that was replaced by a perplexed expression. Zack feared he had somehow offended the man.
Finally Barnett said, “Many use that reference, but it is not truly in the Bible, of course.”
Zack grimaced. He was in trouble now. Surely the man didn’t expect him to have read and studied every word in the Bible. Zack decided to be frank. “I didn’t know that.”
“A common mistake of lay folk.”
Zack waited for the man to point an accusing finger. I nstead he went on in a patient tone.
“I am afraid I part with the commonly held notions about self-reliance. The Bible does say, ‘My grace is sufficient for thee, for my strength is made perfect in weakness.’ ”
Zack braced himself for what he’d feared most—a theological debate with a real man of God. Hoping to nip this in the bud, he nodded and said dismissively, “Yes, of course, Pastor.” Then he quickly added, “In any case, my losses were the least of any here, Reverend Barnett, but I do appreciate your offer.”
“May I change the subject, then?”
“Of course.” Zack swallowed. Now what? he thought, unable to feel any sense of reprieve.
“I must ask you about Robert Markus.”
Zack nearly dropped Ada’s fine teacup. Was that man going to ever haunt him?
“Ah, dear Pastor Markus,” Zack said, trying to mask his apprehension.
“You knew him well, then?” asked Barnett.
That little Run! Run! Run! alarm began sounding in Zack’s mind. The minister’s seemingly innocent question had the sound of a trap.
“I served in his church in Boston for a time,” Zack responded as evasively as he could.
“I had the honor of attending one of his tent meetings,” Barnett said, “in his younger days, before he went to Boston. You must know, of course, that he started out a Methodist.”
“Of course.” Zack paused, waiting for the trap to snap shut on him. But it didn’t. Barnett just nodded in response.
Zack relaxed a little. He’d passed the hardest test of all with flying colors. But he didn’t let down his guard, especially when Ada invited Barnett to stay for lunch. There were only a few more difficult patches during the meal, but Ada saved him when she asked about folks she knew in Barnett’s church and got the conversation turned to news and gossip about locals. Barnett had to leave right after the midday meal because he had an evening service in St. Helens. Before going, he suggested that the local denominations get together later in the summer for a camp meeting. Zack heartily approved of the idea and offered his help in the planning, knowing that he’d be gone before it ever happened. Probably.
Maggie was nervous the entire time the sheriff was there and continued to worry even after he went to find Dad. Oddly, William seemed every bit as nervous as she was, though she had a feeling it had more to do with Reverend Barnett’s visit than the sheriff ’s. He had turned white when the man had introduced himself as a fellow minister. She wondered about that as she did her chores that afternoon but didn’t know what to make of it. She was more worried about her own problems.
Though the sheriff showed absolutely no interest at all in Maggie, she was in a cold sweat the entire time he remained at the house. She was certain if her parents knew she was withholding important information, they would be upset. She felt like a liar, though she had said nothing at all. Twice she almost blurted out what she knew to the sheriff but then thought of poor Tommy and how it could ruin his life. That sealed her silence. She prayed Tommy was long gone, then hoped it was okay to pray such a prayer if Tommy had indeed shot his father.
At supper Dad talked about the sheriff ’s visit. He’d taken off work at the mill in order to show the sheriff the place where they’d found Tom’s body. He also went with the man to question Mrs. Donnelly. None of this investigating had yielded anything new. The sheriff drew the obvious conclusion: Tommy had shot his father, probably accidentally, and had run away out of fear. The sheriff would send out a bulletin to other constables in the county to be on the lookout for Tommy and to take him into custody for questioning if they found him. No one was anxious to accuse a seventeen-year-old boy of murder.
Maggie should have been comforted that it appeared the matter would simply fade away. But still she could not
sleep that night or the next, haunted by terrible dreams when she did manage to nod off for brief moments. No wonder she was cranky and out of sorts the next couple of days. No wonder she reacted as she did when she looked out the kitchen window and saw William talking to Ellie in the garden.
She had seen the two of them together an awful lot since he had come to stay with them. What was going on? Had Ellie changed her mind yet again about William? And Mama seemed to be conspiring in their favor. She was letting Ellie shirk her chores while piling more and more work on Maggie.
If that wasn’t enough, Mama constantly sent Maggie up to Mrs. Donnelly’s house with food or merely to check on the woman. Most of the time there was someone from the Sewing Circle there to keep the grieving widow company and take care of the household chores, but Mama wanted Maggie to help with the outdoor chores—feeding the chickens, milking the cows, weeding the garden, things that Jane or Tommy would have normally done. Jane wasn’t doing any chores now. She merely sat in a rocking chair with sewing in her hands, never putting a single stitch into it. Sometimes the ladies would get her to talk for a bit, but usually after a few words she’d lapse into silence and stare into space.
Mama said Maggie’s presence might be a comfort to the woman because she’d been Tommy’s only friend. But Maggie feared the time would come when it might occur to Mrs. Don-nelly to ask her what she and her son had talked about. Maggie didn’t know if she’d be able to lie to Mrs. Donnelly, even though she thought the woman would be better off not knowing.
All this weighed on Maggie, and she knew it was petty to be thinking of romance at a time like this when people were suffering serious hurts. But she couldn’t help it. She felt terribly put upon. Whether on purpose or not, Mama was favoring Ellie, just because she was older and more of a lady. Ellie could just as easily feed the Donnelly chickens, though, of course, she didn’t even feed the Newcomb chickens these days. The only outside task she did was the gardening, and that was because she liked it. She did the sewing, the mending, the cooking, and the housecleaning.