“What do I have to do?”
“Bring the checkbook down so I can post bail.”
Beth sat down in the chair, her knees no longer strong enough to hold her up. “Where?”
“City hall, around on the north side. There's parking right out there. You'll see a sign that says Police Station Detention Center. The officer on the desk will tell you what to do.”
“Garth, I…”
“Beth, just get down here.” His tone snapped at her out of the receiver.
“Yes, sir!” Beth let her annoyance ring through the words before slamming the receiver back in the cradle. The nerve of him, yelling at her like that. It wasn't as if she had to bail someone out of jail every day of the week. How should I know what to do? Serves you right. You can just sit there and… She clapped her palms to her cheeks. “How can I even think such things?” How can I go down there by myself Do we have enough money to get him out? “Please, Lord, I don't want to do this.” While her mind teemed with questions and pleas, she combed her hair, saw a stain on her blouse, changed into a T-shirt under a denim jumper, applied lipstick, and locked the door behind her. She reached for her purse to get out her car keys, only to find no purse on her shoulder.
“Oh, Lord, how can I be so stupid? Garth will kill me, and I don't blame him one bit.” If only they had put a key under a rock or something. If only she hadn't been in such a hurry. If only they knew the neighbors well enough to have asked one of them to keep a key.
“Why did I even answer the phone? If I had been over at Kit's quilting, I wouldn't be in this fix.” She sat down on the front porch step. “Now that is one of the more stupid things I've said in a long time.” She rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “Come on, Beth, think.”
Are there any windows open? Not trusting her memory, she walked around the house, checking all the windows. Those open were on the second floor. Big help.
“So, dummy, what are your choices?” Run away from home. Can't do that without car keys, although that had been something she'd thought about lately. Sit here and bawl That was so close to happening she had to keep blinking to thwart the tears. Ask the neighbors for help. What could they do, jimmy the locks? Why was it that in the movies they could open any door within ten seconds with a credit card? She'd tried it once, no luck. Sit here and bawl. Closer to becoming a reality every second.
Bash in a window. No, that would make Garth really mad. However, sitting in jail longer than necessary would most likely make him madder. Good thinking. Ha, serves him right. No, itdoesntyou wimp. At least he is standing for what he believes in while you hide under the covers. She surged to her feet, picked up one of the bricks that sat on an angled edge lining the front walk, and stomped back up the steps. The first time she tapped the glass only a ping sounded.
“Here goes nothing.” She stared at the lower left-hand pane. This house would be so easy to burgle with twelve panes in the front door like this. She smacked the lower left one a good one, and glass shattered into the shirred lace curtain and down to the floor. Taking a hint from a police show she'd seen one time, she removed each shard of glass still stuck in the frame and laid it carefully off to the side. When cleared, she reached in, pushed the curtain aside, and felt for the doorknob. At least she hadn't set the deadbolt. Of course, that was impossible without the keys. With the door now opened, she tried to sidestep the glass on the floor, thought about sweeping up the mess, grabbed her purse with the car keys off the counter, and headed back out the door. At least she could turn the deadbolt now.
Here I am worrying about the deadbolt when Garth is sitting in a jail cell waiting for me. By now he must be thinking I've gone bonkers or something and won't ever show up.
At least the car started. That would have been one thing too much. She checked her watch. Over an hour since Garth had called.
Don t go speeding. All I need is a speeding ticket right now. The officer would ask, (“Whatsyour hurry?” and I'd say, “I'm on my way to the station to bail my husband, a political activist, out of jail “By the time she parked in the parking lot, her hands were so sweaty they slipped on the steering wheel, her heart was doing cartwheels, and her feet wore size twenty concrete boots. She sucked in a deep breath, locked the car door with the keys so she couldn't leave them inside, and started for the door, ten miles away. Never had a parking lot been so huge, nor a street so wide, nor three steps so high. Since the building must have been built at the turn of the century—the last one—the hall needed paint, the floor new covering, and at least they could put in bigger light bulbs. The officer behind the beat-up metal desk appeared about as old as his surroundings, and if he was happy about anything at all, he didn't notify his face.
“Help you, miss?”
“Uh, yes, my husband is here. He, uh, needs bail.”
“Name.” The man set his fingers on the keyboard in front of him. The phone rang. “ ‘Scuse me.” He answered the phone, typed some information into the computer. “That'll be officer Kennedy. I'll put you through to him.” He clicked a button on the phone, laid the receiver back in the cradle, and looked up to Beth.
“Name?”
“My name?”
“No, your husband's.”
“Reverend Garth Donnelly.”
“Ah, that pastor that got hauled in with the picketers.” His condescending tone told her exactly what he thought of such goings-on. “Shame it got violent.”
“Violent! Is Garth hurt?”
“I can't tell you anything about that. Take a seat over there, and someone will come for you.”
Beth sat down on a wooden bench and leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes so she wouldn't have to look at the older man sitting at the other end of the bench. Turned violent? What could have happened? Garth had been involved in other protests, and she knew he always made sure everything was legal. After all, demonstrating for what you believed in was an American right.
Her thumb had about created a scab on the back of the other by the time a woman came to get her. Her name tag said Officer Benson, and her face looked slightly familiar.
“Hi, Mrs. Donnelly, you can come with me now.”
Beth stood. “Do I know you?” How inane did that sound? “Please, I'm sorry…
“No, you don't know me, but I've seen you at church. I'm always in such a rush I dont stick around to meet people, even the new pastor and his wife. Sure sorry to be meeting you like this.”
Not half as sorry as I am. “Ah, can you tell me anything? The officer out there said something about violence. Is Garth injured?”
“No, he was lucky. Some idiot threw a rock through the window, and several people got cut by flying glass.”
Beth thought of the pile of glass at home. That ought to make Garth even happier.
Officer Benson slowed her pace and leaned closer to whisper in Beth's ear. “If you could talk him out of doing things like this, it would be good. The judge here in town is going to have fits three sides from Sunday over this. And since Pastor Garth is one of the organizers, it won't go well for him.”
Beth groaned. Please, God, help us.
“They're just lucky no one in the clinic was injured.” She opened a door and motioned Beth to go through.
Two hundred fifty dollars later, Garth started the engine and backed out of the parking space without a word. He checked both directions and pulled onto the street, accelerating, eyes straight ahead.
Beth kept sneaking glances at him. Was he angry? Of course he was. Angry at her? Angry at himself? At someone else? Trying to act as if this were an everyday occurrence? Most likely all of the above. She leaned her head against the headrest and closed her eyes. If he wanted her to ask the questions, he'd be waiting a long, long time. Right now an “I'm sorry” or “thank you” would go a long way. Instead he kept on driving. She knew Garth well enough to recognize his silence. He'd talk when he wouldn't explode.
When they turned into the driveway, she decided she'd better prepare him. “Garth,
I had to break a window in the front door because I locked the keys in the house.”
“Wonderful.” The sarcasm grated on the one nerve she had left. He stopped the car and turned off the ignition before turning to her. “But that's the least of our worries.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this could go to court.”
“Who threw the rock?”
“How did you know about that?” Garth asked.
“Officer Benson. Did you know she's a member of our church?”
“Yes. Several people on the police force are members.”
“So who threw the rock?”
He shook his head. “I have no idea. All our people knew how important it was to keep the peace. I know they are all innocent. This makes no sense at all.”
Beth looked down to her feet, almost expecting to see the muck sucking at her shoes.
“What if it was someone who wanted you to get in trouble?”
Garth stared at her. “Like framed?”
“Yes.”
Garth stared out the windshield. “Well, I'll be…” He turned to look at her. “You could be right.”
“Are you hungry?” She knew the question to be inane, but she didn't want to hear what Garth was going to say next. Court meant lawyers, and lawyers meant money and time, large sums of each. Neither of which they had. Publicity for the cause was good, notoriety was not.
“Sure.” He looked out where the western sky was pinking after a desultory sunset. “You want to go out?5‘
“No.” Not when were going to have to come up with who knows how much money. Not that we can squeeze much more out of our budget anyway. She opened her car door and got out. Now he would see the glass mess. If she'd known how long she was going to be sitting at the jail, just waiting, she would have swept up the glass before she left.
When the broken glass crunched under their soles, Garth clenched his jaw and shook his head, not looking at her as she scurried to get the broom and dust pan.
That night after a dinner of grilled-cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, she left Garth working in his study and returned to her quilt hoop. When the phone rang a bit later, she kept on stitching, knowing that Garth would pick it up in the study.
“For you,” he said, poking his head out the door.
“Oh. Who is it?”
“Shawna. She sounds even more hyper than normal.”
“Garth.” She playfully smacked him on the shoulder and went back into their bedroom to pick up the phone. At least he was talking again.
“So what's up?” she asked after the greetings.
“You'll never guess.”
“Just tell me. I'm not into guessing games tonight.”
“Are you sitting down?”
“On the bed.” I m pregnant.
Beth swallowed and forced her voice to sound natural. “How wonderful. Shawna, I am so happy for you. When is the baby due?” Put some life into your voice or she's going to be hurt.
“Well, I waited three months before telling anyone this time. Just couldn't go through having to tell them again we'd lost the baby.”
“I know.” She and Shawna had held each other up through hard times in the conception field. Then, when she and Garth made it through the danger time with their baby, they all rejoiced. Until he died.
“This time the doctor says we are out of the woods, and I'm about done with the all-day sickness, so I just had to tell you.”
“So you're due in January?”
“Right on. Late January. Oh, Beth, I can't wait.”
Beth could hear the tears in her friend's voice and forced back the ones in her own. “I really am so happy for you. Garth and I will be praying for you and the baby. You take it easy now, you hear? Do exactly what the doctor tells you.”
“Yes, Mother Beth. Oh, I wish you were here. It's so hard when your best friend is light-years away.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So now that I've told you my news, what is happening there?”
“Well, I just bailed Garth out of jail.” If I keep the news on other stuffy maybe I won't have to tell her about the depression.
“Jail? What did he do, rob a bank to give money to the poor?”
“No, he is not Robin Hood, no matter what he thinks. He was picketing an abortion clinic, and some idiot threw a rock through a window. A couple of people were injured by flying glass, so it was deemed a riot and they all got tossed in jail.”
“And you had to go bail him out?”
“Right.”
“Aw, Beth, I bet you were upset.”
“That's putting it mildly.” And I still am. I am embarrassed, angry, and resentful about the money going to pay bail rather than bilk.
“What are you going to do for money?”
“I don't know. Maybe I'll have to get a job.” Beth twisted a lock of hair around her finger.
“But Garth doesn't want you working outside your home.”
“I know, but perhaps that option went the way of the abortion clinic.”
“Maybe your church will help pay for it.”
“I don't know.”
She did know the next night when Garth came home from a meeting with the elders and deacons. She didn't need to ask. One look at the thunder cloud on Garth's face, and she knew the answer.
“They unilaterally reprimanded me for meddling in things not becoming a pastor of the Jefferson City Community Church. As if sticking up for the rights of the unborn was not the duty of every Christian walking this earth. They don't tolerate murder in the streets, but murder in the clinic is permissible.”
“Most likely they feel that way because it is legal.”
“So is drinking, but we don't encourage it.”
Don't bark at me. This isnt my fault.
“They knew when they hired me that I am an antiabortion activist. I did nothing to hide that, and I thought they agreed with me.”
“They most likely do in a more reserved way.”
“Yeah, as long as it costs them nothing. They don't want to get involved. Christians in name only. Say the right words but no money to back up the mouth.”
Beth watched her husband wear a path in the carpet. What would he say if or when he found out that his wife had done exactly what he was fighting so persistently and with such dedication?
“So what are we going to do for money to pay bills and buy gro-ceriesr
“I dont know, but I'm sure God does.” He stopped and stared out the window. “Guess we better hope our garden produces real well.”
Or I get a job. Perhaps I should hang out my shingle as a seamstress. That is one thing I do extremely well. How would I go about advertising? Or maybe my husband is going to have to stuff his pride in his pocket and ht his wife get a real job. I didnt train and work as a dental assistant for nothing. Besides, in not like I have a baby to care for.
THIRTY-THREE
The calendar never lies.
Kit stared at the calendar. Tezas first radiation treatment and Ryan coming home, both on the same day—the day after tomorrow. No word yet from Mark as to his plans. Lord, I wonder how long I'll be abk to stand this.
But at least they were e-mailing fairly regularly.
She thought back to the evening before. She'd been looking for more information for Aunt Teza when an instant message beeped onto the screen. It was Mark, the first time he'd done such a thing, the closest thing to a telephone conversation they'd had in a while. She'd replied immediately.
“Hey, how are you?” She clicked “send” and watched the red letters appear in the box.
“Good. Hows Teza?”
“Ready to start treatment.”
“Had there been any doubt?”
Had there ever. “She wanted to research all her options.”
“Options?”
“You know, like diet, supplements, treatments in Mexico, all kinds of stuff.”
“So what is she going to do?”
“Everything. Al
l that she can manage.”
“How bad is it?”
How I wish I knew. “Radiation and chemo are never easy.”
“Sorry, I know that. Why did she wait so long?”
“No symptoms. At least that's what she says.”
“Tell her I love her.”
“You tell her. She's online frequently.” She typed in Teza's e-mail address. She waited awhile until another blue line appeared.
“You mentioned something before about getting a job. Anything there?”
Why? Do you want me to get a job? “No, I've not had time to follow up on that.” Do I need to think about supporting my selfi
“Well, I need to go. I've got work to do. Take care of yourself.”
“You too. Love, me.” She waited for a response but none came. No chance to ask the questions that multiplied like a virus. She signed off the Internet, her enthusiasm for research gone with the blink of a cursor. She propped her chin on her hands and stared at the picture of Mark pinned to the bulletin board. He and Ryan, fishing poles and two small trout dangling on a line between them. There hadn't been enough for dinner for the three of them, so she'd fried them for Ryan's breakfast the next day.
They looked so much alike, same roundish faces, brown hair with a lick of curl. Mark's had receded noticeably, but with their hats on that hadn't shown. But they both had cleft chins, a male Cooper trait. They flashed goofy grins over the fish, all for her benefit she knew. She'd often told friends how the Coopers were the only people who had a salmon that had grown a full twelve inches or more after going in the freezer.
A knock at the door the next morning made her dust her hands on her apron to answer it.
“Whatchya doing?”
“Hey, Thomas, how are you?” She held open the screen door. Come on in.
“What are you baking?” He eyed the flour-whitened counter.
“Cherry pie. Ryan is coming home tomorrow.” She went back to rolling the bottom crust. The filling sat in a bowl all ready for two pies. “These are the cherries I got from Aunt Teza.”
“Oh. You think Ryan will play ball?”
“I'm sure he will.” She picked up the rolled dough and laid it carefully in the glass pie pan, then began rolling the next.
The Healing Quilt Page 26