A Place Called Hope: A Novel

by Philip Gulley

  “God, no,” Addison said, horrified at the prospect of his mother showing up at school. “I’ll take care of it. Promise me you won’t say anything.”

  Sam’s heart ached for his son. He’d always tried to protect his children from cruelty and ignorance. Now this. It always came to this. Small-minded bullies, spewing out the garbage they heard at home, making life miserable for good and decent people.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said. “Not sorry I did a kindness for two women who needed a kindness, but sorry the fallout spilled over onto you.”

  “Can I ask who they are?” Barbara said.

  “Evan Farlow, and his cousin Landon.”

  “Isn’t Evan the son of Myron Farlow?” Barbara asked Sam.

  “Yeah. Myron was the same way when he was a kid. Meaner than a box of snakes.”

  “I know Evan,” Barbara said. “He wanted to check out the sex book from the library.” She was quickly losing all sense of confidentiality.

  “Addison, no matter where you live, you’re going to meet people who aren’t kind,” Sam said. “You can’t let them wear you down. Go back to school, hold your head up, and ignore them. You have lots of friends. Stick with them.”

  “Yeah, well, some of them didn’t like you marrying two women, either,” Addison said.

  “That’s okay,” Sam said. “People can disagree with one another, and still be friends.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be friends with them anymore.”

  “Don’t be hasty. This is a new thing for some people. Give them time to sort it out,” Sam advised.

  Barbara went upstairs while Sam and Addison sat at the kitchen table eating Cocoa Puffs, which made them both feel better.

  “Nothing like a little partially hydrogenated vegetable oil and artificial flavoring to set things right,” Addison said, reading the box.

  “They do have a way of curing what ails you,” Sam said, in happy agreement.

  26

  It had been so long since Sam had interviewed for a job, he’d forgotten the protocol. He couldn’t remember whether he was to call them, or they were to call him. He was a nervous wreck waiting to hear from Ruby Hopper.

  “I wonder if she’s misplaced my phone number,” Sam told Barbara. “Maybe I should call her.”

  “Don’t do that. Ruby Hopper said she would be in touch with you. Give them time. I’m sure they haven’t forgotten you. You know how Quakers are. It takes them forever to make a decision on a pastor.”

  “Dale Hinshaw and Fern Hampton found a new pastor in ten minutes,” Sam said.

  “That’s because they’re idiots,” Barbara said. “And it’s not going to last. He’ll be gone by this time next year. I’m actually glad Hope is making this move carefully. It’s a big step, for them and for us.”

  A week after the interview, late one evening, Ruby Hopper finally phoned. “I’m sorry it’s taken us so long to respond,” she told Sam. “The truth is, we’ve run into a bit of a snag and aren’t sure how to resolve it.”

  “Perhaps I can help,” Sam said.

  “It’s about your criminal record. I mentioned to you we’d be doing a background check.”

  “Yes, I remember you saying that.”

  “It seems you’ve been charged with resisting arrest,” Ruby said. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, but it has several of the people here concerned.”

  “There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Sam explained. “One of the elders at Harmony Meeting phoned the police after I neglected to return my key to the meetinghouse. When the police came to talk with me, I was a bit abrupt and the officer arrested me. It was a big misunderstanding.”

  “The papers we were sent said you were under investigation by Homeland Security,” Ruby said. “What can you tell us about that?”

  “As I said, it was all a mistake. The police officer was a bit exuberant.”

  “It says in the report you called him a bald-headed fascist.”

  “Did I? I might have, but I don’t remember that.”

  “Some on the committee are concerned it shows a lack of judgment,” Ruby said.

  “It was not one of my finer moments,” Sam said. “I had told the elders I had lost my key to the meetinghouse, but one of the elders apparently didn’t believe me.”

  “I called my cousin Miriam and she told me as much, and said it amounted to nothing. But you can see why it might give us pause.”

  “Yes, I understand. It would concern me, too.”

  “I’m grateful for the clarification,” Ruby said. “I’ll share what you’ve told me with the committee.”

  “I’d be happy to come up there and tell them myself, if you think it would help.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Ruby said. “It seems pretty straightforward. I’ll be back in touch with you by tomorrow or the next day. I’m almost certain it will be good news. We were very impressed with you and Barbara.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’m looking forward to hearing from you again.”

  Sam hung up the phone, then went in search of Barbara to tell her the news.

  “Did I actually call the policeman a bald-headed fascist?” he asked her.

  “Apparently, among other things,” Barbara said. “When I came to pick you up, he mentioned a few of them. You kind of lost it that day.”

  “I think it was fourteen years of pent-up hostility all coming out at once.”

  “I hope you’ve apologized to that young man.”

  “Not yet. But I will. Tomorrow. I promise.”

  He did it the first thing the next morning, right after breakfast. Walked the four blocks to the town hall, and into the police room, found it empty, so went to the Coffee Cup, and found the officer sitting at the counter, still bald, drinking coffee and eating a cinnamon roll. Sam apologized for losing his temper, paid for the officer’s coffee and pastry, and promised that if he were ever arrested again, he would go quietly and not call anyone names.

  He stopped by the Unitarian church to visit with Matt, and told him about his interview at Hope Meeting and their fascination with pie.

  “It’s a weird thing about Quakers,” Sam mused. “The meeting here in town is all about chicken and noodles, and this new meeting is all worked up about pies. I’ve never seen anything like it. Are Unitarians that way?”

  “We have a lot of vegans and vegetarians,” Matt said. “The pitch-in dinners here are god-awful. Thirty tofu dishes, and not one piece of fried chicken anywhere. You know I grew up Southern Baptist?”

  “Yes, I remember you telling me that.”

  Matt sighed wistfully. “Now there was a group of folks who knew how to have a pitch-in. Fried chicken, pot roast, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, apple pie, green beans, baked beans, soup beans. Sometimes I regret leaving them.”

  “So why did you?”

  “They kind of helped me along. I was pastoring a church and appointed a woman to be a deacon. Asked her after church one Sunday and was fired before the day was out.”

  They commiserated over their various terminations, then Sam took his leave, walking around town. With the increased prospect of leaving his hometown, he was feeling kinder toward it, more willing to forgive its shortcomings. He was even starting to feel an odd sympathy for Dale Hinshaw, suspecting the pastoral tenure of Paul Fletcher would be both brief and nasty, and Dale would be blamed. Not that he didn’t deserve blame, but Sam felt bad for him nonetheless. It was easy to feel charitable toward someone he no longer had to see on a regular basis.

  He stopped at the library and checked out a murder mystery.

  “Ooh, that’s a good one,” Janet Woodrum commented. “Lots of gore. A rather peculiar choice for a Quaker pastor.”

  “A currently unemployed Quaker pastor,” Sam said, “and therefore free to read whatever he wishes. I might even check out the sex book after Matt returns it.”

  “Which he might not do for some time. Considering how popular that book is, I m
ay need to order another copy.”

  “Speaking of Matt, are you and he getting married?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “I think maybe you should ask him to marry you,” Sam suggested. “Women do that these days, you know.”

  “Just last week you told me not to marry a minister. You said it was no kind of life.”

  “Did I say that? I don’t recall saying that. Why would I have said that?”

  “I believe you told me ministers were too nosy and didn’t mind their own business.”

  “Well, there you go,” Sam said. “Consider yourself warned.”

  “Oh, before I forget. Barbara mentioned your interview at Hope Friends. I grew up very near that church. In fact, the Girl Scout group I belonged to met there.”

  “Talk about a small world.”

  “My parents still live there,” Janet added. “Dad just retired. He was a doctor. My mom still works. She’s a principal at one of the local elementary schools.”

  “Do your parents have a church home?” Sam asked, trying not to sound too eager at the prospect of a potential convert.

  “Is that all you ministers ever think about?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “As a matter of fact, they do have a church, but they’re not happy there.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Sam said. “Are they miserable enough to leave and go somewhere else, say for instance a Quaker meeting?”

  “I don’t know,” Janet said, “but I will certainly let them know you might be moving to their neighborhood.”

  Sam finished checking out his book, and walked home, elated. A brand-new murder mystery to read and two potential converts to a church he hadn’t yet begun to pastor. A doctor and a school principal. People with brains. It was shaping up to be a fine day.

  27

  Christmas came and went. No longer in charge of the annual progressive nativity scene, Sam was able to relax and enjoy the season. Uly Grant had hired him to help out at the hardware store for the Christmas rush, and had kept him on. Ruby Hopper phoned each week to report the progress of the search committee. They were nearing a decision, and were down to working out the details—salary, vacation, health-care benefits, and the like. With the economy back on track, Wilson Roberts had sold off his interest in his plumbing fixtures business and donated a chunk of money to the meeting, causing Sam to be deeply grateful for toilets and sinks.

  “I’ll never say another bad thing about toilets as long as I live,” he told Barbara.

  There was an ice storm in March, knocking out power to the town for three days. With no Internet or television, families were forced to talk with one another. On the second day, cell phones lost their charge; people who had canceled their landlines were in a disconnected daze. Paul Fletcher preached a sermon on the end times, believing the loss of electricity was a portent of Christ’s return, possibly within the next week or so. But the Son of Man didn’t get the memo, so peace and quiet descended instead, and people began to wonder why they wanted television, Internet, and cell phones in the first place.

  The last week of March, Addison Gardner departed from his customary gentleness long enough to punch Evan Farlow squarely on the nose, which earned him a three-day suspension. Sam took three days off from the hardware store and he and Addison drove to Gettysburg and stood on Little Round Top, where in 1863, Colonel Joshua Chamberlain and the men of the 20th Maine held fast against the rebels. In his mind’s eye, Sam saw young men scattered dead upon the hills and began to leak tears, thinking of Addison leaving in a few short months to join the army. He had signed up the month before, had been sworn in, and would be leaving home at the end of June for basic training. Sam had always believed in letting his sons choose their own paths, but the thought of his younger boy being in harm’s way was sometimes more than he could bear.

  Levi was well along in his second semester of college. Barbara’s folks, bless their hearts, had dug deep and helped, and Levi had gotten a job waiting tables on the weekends. He had switched his major from engineering to sociology, an interesting field of study, but no more lucrative than theology. Inmates making license plates earned more money than sociology majors. Sam figured his son would be financially better off in prison—three squares a day, free clothes, a cot to sleep on, and a little walking-around money. He tried not to think how much it was costing to subject his son to a lifetime of poverty. Sam had taken to playing the lottery, sneaking over to Cartersburg once a week and buying two dollars’ worth of tickets, all for naught.

  When he and Addison arrived home from Gettysburg, there was a message from Ruby Hopper on their answering machine, asking Sam to call her, which he promptly did.

  “Can you begin the first of July?” she asked, by way of greeting.

  “I certainly can,” said Sam. “Our younger son is leaving for the army at the end of June, and we want to spend as much time with him as we can, but I think I can be ready by July.”

  Ruby Hopper laughed. “We’ve been without a pastor so long, another month won’t matter. Why don’t you enjoy time with your son, use July to pack and move, and start here the first of August?”

  “That sounds perfect,” Sam said. “I must say I’m a little surprised you decided to call me as your pastor. When it took so long, I thought you’d decided to go with someone else.”

  “No, it was nearly unanimous.”

  Nearly unanimous. Sam wondered who didn’t want him.

  “But it’s all settled now, and you’re going to be our new pastor. We have a few housekeeping details to take care of. We’d like you to select paint colors for the parsonage, so it can be painted before you move in. Perhaps you and Barbara would like to make one more visit, so you could walk through the parsonage.”

  “You’re going to paint the parsonage?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t we?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam said. “I just thought we would have to do that.”

  “No, you pick the colors you want, and we hire a painter. That’s our responsibility. And you’ll need to pick new carpet for the master bedroom. The kitchen has a stone floor, and all the other rooms have hickory floors. The master bedroom has carpet that probably needs to be replaced. Since you’ll be living there, you should select the color.”

  Sam was beginning to think this was an elaborate practical joke. A Quaker meeting letting their pastor pick paint colors? Not just slopping white paint on everything and saying, “Good enough.” Replacing the bedroom carpet before it was worn through? What kind of madness was this?

  28

  They drove to Hope the next day, before the meeting changed its mind. Hank Withers and Ruby Hopper met them at the parsonage.

  “It’s a beautiful house,” Hank Withers said, opening the door to let them in. “I should probably be more modest since I designed it, but the truth is the truth. I was at the top of my game with this one.”

  Hickory beams spanned the living room and kitchen. A stone fireplace dominated one wall.

  “Cut those beams from trees right here on the property,” he said. “And those stones for the fireplace came out of the creek on the east side of the property. Hauled ’em up here myself. Of course, I was younger then.”

  A large screened-in porch sat off the kitchen.

  “I worried the porch would make the kitchen dark, so I raised the kitchen ceiling and put in that row of windows above the roof of the porch. Gives you all kind of natural light in the kitchen,” Hank said.

  Sam and Barbara were too stunned to speak.

  “When we asked Hank to design it, we told him we wanted it to reflect Quaker simplicity,” Ruby Hopper said. “So he tried to keep it practical and use local materials as much as possible.”

  “The countertops are Bedford limestone,” Hank said. “I come in every year and seal them. Just takes a few hours. The floors are hickory. Again, from trees we removed when we built the meetinghouse and parsonage.”

  “It’s amazing,” Barbara sai
d. “I’ve never seen such a lovely home.”

  “The paint colors are fine,” Sam said. “We wouldn’t change a thing.”

  They walked into the master bedroom.

  “This carpet looks perfectly good,” Barbara said. “You don’t need to replace it.”

  “If you change your mind, you let us know,” Ruby said. “We want you to be happy.”

  They returned to the kitchen.

  “If you have your own appliances and prefer to use them, we can put these in storage,” Ruby said.

  “We’d just as soon not have to move ours up here, so if you don’t mind, we’ll use these,” Barbara said. “They look brand-new.”

  “A little over a year old,” Hank said.

  The Gardners’ stove had two broken burners, the oven burnt everything, and the freezer built up a three-inch coating of frost every couple of months, which Sam had to chop out with a hatchet.

  Sam and Barbara began measuring the rooms, to see what of their furniture could fit where. With the boys gone, there was no need to move all their belongings, so they had been planning a garage sale. Normally, Sam didn’t care for people snooping through their things, but he could endure it this one time if it meant less stuff he would have to pack, haul a hundred miles, and unpack.

  He stretched a tape measure across the living room, scribbled a figure in his notebook, then stuck his head in the fireplace and looked up the chimney.

  “Does the fireplace work?” he asked Hank.

  “Like a charm,” Hank said. “We have a chimney sweep come every fall to clean and inspect it. As for the firewood, we try to stay on top of the fallen trees on the meetinghouse property. We’ll cut it up and stack it for you. That’s the limb committee’s job.”

  “We’ll give you a list of local contractors you can phone if anything in the parsonage needs to be fixed,” Ruby Hopper added. “Plumber, electrician, painter, roofer, whatever help you might need. You just call them yourself, since you know your schedule. If you have any questions, you can ask Wanda Fink. She’s the clerk of the parsonage committee. She couldn’t be here today.”