A State of Grace

by Traci DePree

  “Fair enough,” Paul said, his hands in surrender pose. “You know I trust your judgment.”

  “I’ll tell you when she’s ready for the big guns.”

  “That’s not a very nice way to put it,” he protested.

  “I actually thought you’d like the he-man image.”

  Paul flexed his arm muscles and lifted an eyebrow. Then he turned and said, “Have fun, honey. I need to get down to the church.”

  Soon Kate was back to dreaming and planning. And praying for Patricia and Marissa Harris.

  AFTER A QUICK SHOWER and shave, Paul headed to the church. By the time he’d walked to the otherwise vacant lot, it was 9:47. The church secretary’s ancient red Datsun was in the spot closest to the door.

  When he came in the side door that led directly to the church offices, stomping the snow from his shoes, Millie Lovelace raised her gray head and eyed him suspiciously. She had tight curls from a perm gone awry, and her face seemed more wrinkled than her sixty years seemed to justify. Whenever she came near, Paul was always certain he could smell the faint scent of cigarettes, though he’d never seen her partaking. He wondered if her husband or sons were smokers.

  She pointed to the clock on the wall and said, after clearing her throat, “I was here at nine o’clock.” The implication was unmistakable.

  “I’m glad to know the church secretary is on the ball,” Paul said with a wink. Millie blushed and sputtered.

  “You know I’m only here till noon. I have to get to my job at the SuperMart in Pine Ridge this afternoon. I can’t be sticking around to tie up your loose ends because you meander into the office whenever it suits your fancy.”

  “Understood,” Paul said.

  He walked past her desk and into his office, which was directly behind hers, pulling off his winter coat as he went. He’d had the walls painted a warm cocoa color to give the room an intimate feel, and a bookcase filled with all manner of study books covered the wall behind a large oak desk. Though he had a study at home, where he often worked on his sermons, he used this office to conduct most of the church business.

  Paul clicked on a green banker’s lamp, then another brass table lamp at the end of the desk. He opened the miniblinds for the window overlooking the parking lot, then he turned on the computer, and it hummed to life. It seemed particularly cold in his office this morning, so after placing his coat in the closet, he put on the cardigan he kept on the hook behind his door. Then he returned to the outer office, where Millie was on the phone.

  “If you ask me, he needs to learn what his priorities are,” she was saying when her eyes met Paul’s. She cleared her throat again and blushed. Paul walked to the coffeepot and reached for his ceramic mug with “East Tennessee State” in big letters on its side. “Renee,” she went on. “I need to go.”

  Paul heard the phone click and Millie straighten in her vinyl office chair. He turned to face her.

  “Renee Lambert?” he asked.

  She nodded, and he let the topic go. He’d learned long ago that it was often better not to know what people were saying, though he had a pretty good idea anyway.

  Then he took a long sip of his hot coffee. “So, what’s on our docket for this week?” He leaned against the low filing cabinet that sat opposite her desk. The copier hummed next to him. He set his mug on top of it and rubbed his palms together to warm them.

  Millie paged through the paper calendar she kept for him. She’d refused to put the information on the computer despite Paul’s argument that he could access the information from home and help keep it updated. She’d merely replied, “You never know who will get into your information if you put it out there for everyone to see.”

  “It would be private.”

  She shook her head. “The only way to be sure such things are private is if you don’t put them there in the first place.” Then she’d held up the calendar and said, “Sometimes the old ways are the best, Pastor Hanlon.”

  He’d smiled and let her have her way. Hers was a small world, and if he could help her feel secure in it by writing his daily appointments into a calendar and doling them out like candy at a dentist’s office, then he could accommodate that. Though who she thought was so desperate to know his comings and goings, he couldn’t guess.

  “You have a board meeting tonight...and your nursing-home visit is tomorrow in Pine Ridge. Joe Tucker called to say he has firewood for anyone in the church who might need some.”

  Paul picked up his coffee and took another sip. “Oh, that’s nice of him.”

  “Fifty dollars a cord,” she added.

  Just then the phone rang. Millie picked it up and said, “Faith Briar Church.” She paused while the person on the other end talked. “Yes, he’s here.” She nodded for Paul to step into his office, which he did, closing the door behind him. The phone buzzed, and Paul picked up the handset as he settled in his chair.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Pastor Hanlon? This is Eli Weston.” Eli ran the local antiques store. He was a good guy. Quiet. And though they’d discovered that he was the one who’d accidentally set the church on fire, he’d been forgiven. He’d confessed and done all he could to make restitution. Eli had done so much to help rebuild the church, and Paul had watched that very process bring healing to the young man’s broken heart.

  “Eli. How are you?” Paul asked.

  “Fine, fine,” Eli said.

  “Say, I wanted to thank you again for the beautiful trunk you gave us. Kate just loves it. She put her mother’s handmade quilts in it. It has a permanent spot at the foot of our bed. You know women...” Paul let his words drop away.

  “I’m glad to hear she likes it,” Eli said, then cleared his throat. “Um. I’m calling...well. I have a question to ask...” He sounded tentative, and Paul wondered why.

  “Go on,” Paul coaxed.

  “I have some neighbors, they’re brothers, actually—the Wilsons. They’re really going at it.”

  “You mean they’re fighting?” Paul sat up straighter in his chair.

  “Arguing very loudly is more like it. I thought about calling Deputy Spencer, but that’s not always so good for keeping peace in the neighborhood, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sure, I understand,” Paul said.

  “I was wondering...hoping you could come over and...”

  “And break up their fight?”

  “I remember how diplomatic you were with my situation with the fire and everything. How you helped me smooth things over with the church. Well...I hoped maybe you could help Jack and Carl resolve their issues. But if you don’t want to—”

  “No, no. That’s okay, Eli,” Paul assured him. “I hear what you’re saying. It’s totally understandable.”

  “I tried to talk to them, but they slammed the door in my face. And since then, the shouting has just gotten louder.”

  “Are you afraid they’ll get violent?”

  “No. I know these boys. They’ve been my neighbors for a long time. They’re both good guys. But you know brothers.”

  “Oh, I do,” Paul laughed. “My brother and I used to fight like cats and dogs when we were small.” He paused, thinking of his brother Charlie, who’d lost his life in Vietnam. He still missed the times they used to share, even the fights. Then he said, “I’ll be over in a few minutes, okay?”

  “Thanks, Paul.”

  Paul hung up the phone and rose to take off the cardigan and put on his winter coat. For some reason, the image of Mister Rogers came to mind, and he smiled. He bet Mister Rogers never went to break up fights in the middle of his day in the neighborhood.

  PAUL DROVE his blue Chevy pickup to Eli’s house and parked in front. The downstairs was the storefront for Weston’s Antiques, a business Eli had inherited from his grandfather, and upstairs was Eli’s living quarters. The two-story building was set back from the street. Rocking chairs in various sizes and colors lined the porch, and a white picket fence surrounded the yard. A large wooden Weston’s A
ntiques sign brought in the tourists year-round.

  Paul tugged the gearshift into park. As soon as he opened the door, he could hear loud voices coming from the house in back of the store, intermingled with the high-pitched yipping of a dog. He wondered how long the brothers had been arguing and why someone else hadn’t called the police. But other than Eli’s place and a few businesses, there weren’t any other homes nearby, and Paul expected that most people would be at work in the middle of a Tuesday morning anyway. He decided to powwow with Eli before attempting to talk to the brothers, so he made his way up the snowy brick walkway and entered Weston’s Antiques.

  The interior was dark, and it had that smell of age—not quite moth balls, but a bit musty. Antique collectibles filled every square foot of the place, with narrow rabbit trails here and there for walking. The walls were covered in pastoral scenes of sheep and meandering brooks all in shades of blue and green, as well as turn-of-the-century lithographs of stern-looking ancestors in stiff, unsmiling poses.

  Paul walked to the back of the store as Eli emerged from the hallway where his office was. He was drying his hands on a dishtowel and set it down on a 1950s baby buggy when he realized the pastor was there.

  “I thought I heard someone come in,” he said. “You got here quick.” Eli Weston was a large man with a husky build and a shock of blond hair that contrasted with his dark brown eyes. He had a gentle, almost shy smile that was partly hidden behind tortoise-shell glasses. “Thanks for coming, Paul.” He held out a hand, which Paul shook.

  “Don’t mention it,” Paul said.

  Eli crossed his arms over his barrel chest, while Paul scratched his head and asked, “So, do you know what the argument’s all about?”

  Eli shook his head. “I think it’s something about their dog. They’ve been fighting off and on all day. And that poor dog is beside herself.”

  Just then the sound of shouting grew louder, and a door slammed outside. The brothers had moved their fight into full view. Paul glanced out the side window at the two. They both looked to be in their early twenties, trim and good looking if it wasn’t for the torrent of loud accusations streaming from their mouths. The noise was muffled as it filtered through the store windows, but Paul and Eli could hear every word as clear as day. The blond boy was considerably taller than the other. He held a golden cocker spaniel in his clutches, while his smaller, dark-haired brother pointed and reached for the dog, whose teeth were bared in a snarl.

  Paul and Eli took that as their cue to head outside.

  They crunched across the snow, and when they reached the neighboring backyard, the brothers paused in mid-rant. The dog also turned to look and sent several yipping barks their way.

  “What’s going on here?” Paul said.

  “He’s stealing my dog!” the smaller brother said. His brown eyes flashed in anger.

  “Scout is not his dog,” the blond one said, turning back toward his brother. “He decided he wanted her when he opened my mail. Didn’t Ma ever tell you it was rude to open other people’s mail? He’s so annoying!”

  Eli cleared his throat, gaining the attention of both brothers. “Would you two like to go back inside and talk reasonably? What you’re doing obviously isn’t getting you anywhere.”

  “Eli, you know how stubborn Jack is!” The blond brother said to the antiques dealer.

  “Yeah, right,” the dark-haired one added. “Like Carl isn’t just as stubborn! Stubborn is his trademark.”

  “I think Pastor Hanlon can help, guys, really.” Eli held up his hands in an attempt to calm the brothers.

  “Who?” they said in unison.

  “Pastor Hanlon.” Eli nodded to Paul, who gave the brothers a little wave.

  Just then an elderly woman passed on the sidewalk. She stared at the boys as if to say, “Can’t you kids control yourselves?” and then continued on her way.

  Paul took the hint and said in a lower voice, “Perhaps Eli’s right. We should move this conversation back indoors.”

  The younger and smaller of the two, whom Paul had deduced was Jack, led them toward the ramshackle house they shared on the opposite side of the block from Eli’s store. Carl followed close behind. A lean-to of sorts served as the back entry. It was in such a state of disrepair that it looked as if it would crumble away from the house at any moment. Piles of old newspapers were stacked in the entryway, and coats in all shades of camouflage bulged from the hooks that lined its walls. The space smelled of old shoes and man-scented dankness. The rest of the house wasn’t much better. Ceiling tiles were missing overhead, and there wasn’t a spot on the kitchen counters that wasn’t filled with dirty dishes and moldy food. A gray Formica table in the center of the room harbored four chairs in the sea of mess.

  Carl set the dog on the floor. Scout immediately turned to inspect Paul and Eli, jumping up and yipping between sniffs. Jack filled a stainless-steel bowl with dog food from the fifty-pound bag of kibble that leaned against the small, old Frigidaire. Then he filled a similar bowl with water and placed both on the floor next to the table. The dog ran to her breakfast and chewed noisily, leaving particles of kibble trailing down her orange-colored beard.

  Carl cleared away bowls of day-old cereal and several boxes of Lucky Charms and Frosted Flakes from the table so they could sit down. The brothers sat on opposite sides, eyeing each other like playground bullies who wanted the same swing.

  “So,” Paul began. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “I already told you,” Jack said, tossing his dark hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head. “He’s stealing my dog.”

  “I am not! Argh! You’re so infuriating.”

  “Since you live together,” Eli broke in, “can’t you just share the dog?”

  Both brothers looked at him with an expression that said he was insane.

  “I’m not understanding either,” Paul said with a shake of his head.

  “Whoever gets the dog gets the money,” Carl explained, then pointed at Jack. “He’s the thief.” He leaned down and scratched the dog on the head as she ate. Scout bared her teeth, though this time without a growl.

  “I thought he was trying to steal your dog,” Paul said to Jack.

  “It’s my dog and my money,” Carl corrected. “I entered Scout in one of those mail-in contests and won. I even wrote an essay on why she’s a great dog. But my brother here thinks he can claim anything he wants and just walk away with it.” He leaned toward Jack and spat the words, “Didn’t Mom teach you better than that?”

  “How much did you win?” Eli asked.

  “Five grand,” both brothers answered.

  Paul whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “You ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie. That’s why I’m not going to roll over and let him”—Carl nodded toward his brother—“take what’s rightfully mine! He always gets everything he wants. Spoiled brat. Well, not this time!” he insisted, his voice rising in intensity. Then he got up, stomped over to the kitchen counter, and shuffled through a pile of paperwork before returning with the official-looking letter from the How Now Dog Chow Company of Pine Ridge, just a few miles up the road from Copper Mill.

  He handed the letter to Paul and sat back down. Paul read it through. The document looked legitimate, and it contained details for prize acceptance, including a requirement that the winner pose with his or her dog in an ad campaign for the obscure dog-food company.

  “I don’t even know what planet you’re from!” Jack countered, “You know Scout’s mine. I can’t even fathom that you’d lie to a pastor about it!”

  “You’re the liar!”

  Paul and Eli exchanged frustrated looks.

  “Let’s take the volume down, boys,” Paul said. “You don’t want the neighbors calling the police, do you?”

  Both brothers crossed their arms over their chests and turned their chairs slightly away from each other.

  “Jack, Carl,” Eli said. Their gazes shifted to him. “I called Pastor Hanlon h
ere in hopes that he could help you resolve your differences. Could you at least listen to him?”

  Jack uncrossed his arms and sat back in his chair. Carl picked up the dog, who settled in his lap to sleep. He stroked Scout’s auburn coat.

  “I’ll take that as consent,” Paul said with a smile. He scooted his chair back a bit and began. “This seems pretty straightforward if you ask me. Just answer a few questions, okay?”

  Jack lifted a dark eyebrow as Paul turned to him.

  “How did you get the dog?” Paul asked.

  “He was a gift from my dad,” Jack said.

  “Yeah,” Carl added, “to me!”

  “Okay.” Paul raised his hands to signal a time-out. “Carl, you said you entered Scout in the contest. Do you have a copy of the essay you wrote?”

  Carl shook his head. “I sent the only copy in. I didn’t know he”—he pointed at Jack—“would try to steal the prize money.”

  “Just because he entered my dog in a contest doesn’t make the money his!”

  “Oh, come on, Jack!” Carl stood, still grasping the dog. His chair toppled to the ground with the motion. Scout raised her head and started barking again.

  “You know what?” Jack continued, pulling the dog from his brother’s grasp. “I’m out of here! I’m taking Scout, and we’re going to Aunt Susan’s.”

  “Not with my dog, you’re not!” Carl grabbed for the dog, but by now Scout was howling at the top of her lungs.

  Jack set Scout down, and she started running in circles, snarling at everyone.

  Paul reached down to try to calm the pooch but nearly got bitten as she lunged at him.

  “I think our job here is done,” Paul said, glancing at Eli, who was looking utterly confused. “Let’s go.”

  They rose from the table to leave. Scout was still howling and running around in circles, and the brothers were glaring at each other.

  Once outside, Eli said, “We didn’t solve a thing.”

  “No, we didn’t, did we?” Paul agreed.

  “So, what now?”

  Paul shrugged. “It looks like my quiet pastoral life is slipping into the Smoky Mountain mist.”