by Rich Foster
She signed the lease papers and wrote out a deposit check. The agent handed over a set of keys and a receipt amidst a flurry of words. It was a relief to Grace’s ears when the woman drove away.
Grace wandered around behind her new home, across the lawn and along the bank of the creek. As she returned to the house, a gas mower started on the other side of a copse that separated her from the adjoining property. Curious as to whom her neighbors might be, she followed a short trail through the trees.
The neighboring yard’s grass was long, showing signs of several weeks neglect. A man who’s back was turned pushed a mower felling long swaths. At the far side he turned and came toward her. His face seemed familiar. Then she recognized him as Elijah James’s nephew.
Lucas noticed her standing among the trees. Her hand raised in a tentative wave. He turned off the mower.
“Morning Mrs. Leeds.”
“Good morning. And please, call me Grace.”
Lucas gave her a nod and a smile. She continued.
“I just rented the house next door. I didn’t realize it was next to Elijah’s. What brings you back so soon?”
“The board asked me to pastor the church. I agreed, at least for a while.”
“But aren’t you busy with a life elsewhere?”
“I just finished my twenty-years in the Army. When I returned home, I found out, I had also finished a relationship.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. We all suffer our losses in life.”
“I still choose to believe, that all things work together for good.”
Grace let her eyes drift over the yard, across the trees, and toward the blue sky.
“Well, as Proverbs says, there’s a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to be born, and a time to die. A time to kill, and a time to heal.” Her gaze returned to Lucas.
He sensed her inner disquiet.
“I hope you find your healing, Grace.”
“Thank you, I hope we all do.”
She gave him a small smile and retreated through the trees.
*
At Moses’ bar, baseball and time pushed the killings out of their conversation. The season was in full swing. The bar regulars had no time for sorting out the human psyche. Their eyes were glued to the games on the plasma TV. On the odd occasion when Goodman’s name came up, either in the news or as an aside in conversation, his existence was dismissed with a backward brush of the hand and the succinct judgment, such as, “What a twisted shit!” or some similar epithet.
He was not so summarily disposed of by the judicial system. The preliminary hearing began in a sweltering courtroom. The air conditioning was out. Electric fans made an effort to stir the humid air but failed. Beads of sweat formed on everyone’s brow and their collars became damp.
Robert tried Brent Carlson’s patience. One would think the man wanted to be executed, the attorney had thought. Goodman failed to be helpful in preparation. Brent was on his own, he only hoped his client would remain silent and not further antagonize the judge.
Judge Mannering dropped her gavel. Court convened. The Bailiff called the case. Before the outset she looked at the defendant and admonished him,
“Mr. Goodman, the court will not tolerate the outburst that you displayed the last time you were here. If you choose to be disruptive you will be gagged and restrained. Do I make myself clear counselor?”
“Yes your Honor,” Brent blurted out as he rose to his feet.
The Assistant District Attorney rose, close on Brent’s words. He was youngish and clad in a dark blue suit; he wore the blank anonymity of the legal class.
“If Your Honor would permit.”
Judge Mannering nodded to him.
“The State is withdrawing all charges against the defendant in regard to the death of Judge Adam Kellner and Katherine Kellner. It is the State’s intent to go to trial with the homicide charges against Mr. Robert Goodman only in regard to the killings at the New Life Redemption Church.”
Relief passed across Judge Mannering’s face. She was not privy as to why the D.A. dropped the case, but with Kellner off the table she no longer had to worry about Goodman insinuating she as a judge had a conflict of interest or it becoming a basis for appeal.
Elizabeth Mannering carried aspirations to be appointed to the State Supreme Court. The Goodman trial would be a high profile case. It could benefit her career. She no longer wanted to see a change of venue.
Much to the surprise of both the defense counsel and the court, the arraignment occurred with no interruptions from the defendant. He seemed to be indifferent to the legal process. A motions hearing was scheduled for the last week of August. Fifteen minutes after entering the court, Robert was led back to the holding cell.
He returned to the county jail in time for lunch and mail call. The guard handed him a letter. It was postmarked Red Lake. He opened it and smiled. He went back to his bunk and taped the note to the wall next to the other two. The notes were almost identical, all read, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” Robert found it pleasing to know someone was feeling the pain.
The following Sunday, Lucas was presented to the congregation. The attendance was significantly smaller than in the past. Guilt had purged their ranks.
Lucas shared a brief life history. He avoided the tragedy at the church. His sermon was on hope. At the end of the service he took his place by the church door to greet the members. During the previous week he studied the church’s photo directory, thus he surprised many families when he greeted them by name. Overall, he favorably impressed the members.
He was locking the door and ready to leave, when Walter Swanson stepped out of his car and walked back to the church.
“Reverend?”
“Yes, Sir?”
The “Sir” came naturally to Lucas.
“Are the things people talk to you about private? Is it like the Catholics and confession?”
“Theologically we differ, but yes the principle is the same. My conversations are held in confidence.”
“But could they make you talk in court?”
“I’m not sure what the law would say, Mister Swanson, but I would go to jail for contempt of court before I would break a trust.”
“That’s good enough for me. I might want to talk to you.”
“Okay. Drop by my office anytime.”
Walter shifted on his feet. He seemed to be burdened. He was about to speak but then shrugged. “I may do that, Reverend. Good-day.”
As Lucas walked along the highway toward his home, he thought about Walter Swanson and what was troubling him. He suspected it had to do with the bus inspection. Lucas had heard all the local gossip about the accident. What he wondered, as he strolled in the August sun, was if Walter was more troubled about man’s temporal law or God’s moral law?
The accident and killings had left a broad swath of emotional destruction in parts of Mason Forks. Guilt was smoldering away at the edges.
Lucas began to call on members of his new flock. Driving his uncle’s Bronco truck, because his Porsche seemed out of place in Mason Forks, he began with Calley Haskell. She had not been at church. He located her house and parked on the gravel shoulder.
The front porch was littered with toys, which he waded through to ring the bell. He could hear the wailing of a child. Someone else was beating on pots and pans. He waited. Then he rang the bell again. Unsure if it worked, he finally rapped on the front door.
A young girl opened the door. A cacophony of noise spilled out.
“Is your mother home?”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Lucas James, I’m the new pastor at the church. What’s your name?”
“I’m Sarah.”
The crying continued unabated. A young boy about four paraded into the living room, beating a pot in one hand with a wood spatula in the other.
“Jacob! Be quiet!” The girl tried to hush him, but he simply reversed course and disappeared through the door he came in.
Sarah turned toward the back of the house and gestured for him to follow. The living room showed signs that it was once well decorated, but now toys, clothes and bits of food covered the floor like detritus settling after a flood. Artwork decorated the walls, which were painted attractive colors, but the lower ones eyes traveled, the more chaos took over. The lower three feet of one wall was covered with crayon. The house was unkempt. Passing by the kitchen he saw cereal boxes spilled on the floor and dishes piled up in the sink.
They came to a glassed in sun porch which ran across the rear of the house. The room was bright and warm, potted plants lined the baseboard but they looked wilted from thirst and neglect. Calley sat on the sofa hugging a pillow staring out the window at nothing in particular. She appeared thinner than after Elijah’s funeral service.
“Momma. There’s a man to see you.” Calley did not respond. “Momma!” Sarah repeated almost shouting.
Calley turned her head and looked up with rheumy, but dreamy eyes. The extreme pain Lucas saw when she cried in the church was gone. It had been replaced by a vacuous stare. She seemed incapable of focusing on him.
“I’m Lucas James, Elijah’s nephew. I spoke at Ruthie’s funeral.” Pain moved fleetingly across her eyes. “I have taken the job as minister and I wanted to come see you.”
Her eyebrows rose slightly, “Oh.” She nodded and then her attention drifted away.
“Could we talk?”
Calley shrugged, “Sure.”
Her weight loss seemed pronounced as her shoulders moved below her tee shirt. Her face was haggard. The youthful tension of the skin had gone slack. Her blue eyes were like opaque stones and her pupils were dilated.
Lucas picked up a pill vial from the end table. It was dated from less than a week ago, yet there were only a few pills left. Calley was stoned.
Chaos was reigning in the house yet it did not reach her. Lucas wanted something to do; it would facilitate talking.
“Would you mind if I gave your plants a little water while we talked?”
Calley inexplicably smiled coyly like a little girl. For a moment, there was normal tension to the skin on her face and then it fell slack. She shrugged her shoulders, indifferently.
In the kitchen Lucas filled a pan, recently abandoned by Jacob. Elsewhere, a television blared, the boy beat on other pans, and a child cried. Lucas followed the noise into the dining room where a toddler screamed in his playpen. He picked the boy up and bounced him up and down, trying to calm him. Slowly the crying stopped.
Lying on the dining table Lucas noticed a stack of mail. Some were unopened; many were stamped past due. Signs of deterioration were upon the family.
Despite being unaccustomed to small children he did an adequate job carrying the boy in one arm and the pan of water in the other. He returned to the sun porch. The toddler threw out his arms, happily yelling “Momma” upon seeing her.
“Could you hold him while I water?” Lucas asked. He tugged the pillow out of Calley’s arms and replaced it with the young boy.
“What’s his name?”
“Mmm…Caleb. He’s my baby,” she said while stroking the boy’s head.
Lucas watered the plants.
“Things aren’t going too well, are they?”
“Mmm… not really.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
She stirred on the sofa. The languid look left her eyes. “I hate him.” Anger flashed up but she could not sustain it and her eyes de-focused. Lucas worked his way down the plants, waiting to see what else she might say. “They’re all hypocritical cowards,” she blurted out.
Again Lucas waited. He left the room to refill the pot. When he returned she had not moved. He continued pinching off a dead bloom here, plucking a cluster of dead leaves there. By patiently waiting, he hoped she might talk.
“I wrote him you know, I told him I hope he burns in hell!”
Lucas slowly nodded. “Would that make you feel better?”
“Yes!”
“If Robert Goodman suffers, will it bring Ruthie back? Would it take away your pain?”
Again anger flashed in her eyes, but the flames quickly failed. Lucas finished watering the plants. He set the pot down on the floor. Calley continued to stroke Caleb who now slept in her arms.
“This won’t help,” he said, holding out the pill bottle.
Calley snatched the pill case from his hand. “I only use them to help me sleep.”
“It looks like you are eating them like candy.”
“Who are you to criticize?” she snapped. “What do you know about suffering?” Caleb stirred in her arms.
“Let me put him down,” said Lucas. Calley surrendered Caleb without argument. She sank back into the pillows on the sofa. Lucas carried the boy to the playpen where he laid him down and covered him with a blanket. Jacob having forsaken his pots and pans was watching a video with his older sister.
When Lucas returned to the sun room. Calley’s mood had turned sour. “I don’t want to talk to you!” she blurted out. “You and your sly implications about drugs and me. What do you know about suffering?”
Lucas rubbed his face as he made what was a difficult decision for him. Finally, he looked at her.
“May I show you something?”
Calley was guarded and defensive. She shrugged, “Sure just don’t try to tell me about suffering. I’ve lost my husband and my little girl.”
Lucas unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled it off. Calley watched, perplexed by this man of God. He was muscular and well built, but when he turned around his back was a mass of twisted scar tissue. Raised ridges of welts ran riot over his lower back and shoulder blades. Almost nothing was left unmarked by the criss-cross of hatch marks. With his back toward her he said,
“My father hated me. He whipped me almost everyday of my life; sometimes he used an electrical cord, usually he used the buckle end of his belt.” Lucas turned back around. Looking at Calley he softly said, “Believe me. I know about suffering.”
“What happened to him?”
Lucas was slow to speak. This wasn’t something he easily disclosed.
“One night when I was fourteen he beat my mother to death. Then he passed out on the floor. She lay there broken and bloodied. I was going to kill him. I had the kitchen knife in my hand but I couldn’t wake him. I wanted him to see it coming. I wanted him to suffer like my mother and I did, so I ran away and waited.”
Lucas paused, as he looked out the windows, at a memory far in his past. “He was arrested and got six years for second degree murder. While he did his time I grew up. I worked out with one goal in my life, to hurt my father so badly he would never hurt anyone again.”
Calley watched him her eyes now riveted by his story.
“They released him four years later. I was a freshman in college. I drove straight through the night so I could be across the street when he walked out of prison. I followed him, enjoying the knowledge that soon he would pay. His first stop was a liquor store where he bought a pint, and then he found a prostitute and checked into a cheap motel. That night, after the girl left, I knocked on his door. When he opened the latch I kicked the door back into his face. He went down, when he began to get up, I began to beat him with a roll of quarters in each of my fists. I worked him over until my knuckles were raw and bleeding. I worked over every part of his body, the gut, the kidneys, his legs, his arms.” Sweat glistened on Lucas’s forehead as he relived the past. Then I began on his face. I broke his nose and knocked out his two front teeth. I looked in his eyes and told him I was going to kill him. He groveled for his life.”
Calley’s eyes were wide but her voice was eager. “Did you kill him?”
“I wanted to, I came damn close, before I realized I was letting him make me into himself. I saw him for the small angry, pathetic, impotent man he was.”
Lucas buttoned his shirt. “I thought beating him would make me feel bette
r. I believed vengeance would make everything right, instead it just left me feeling empty and sick.”
Tears welled up in Calley’s eyes. “But it’s not fair!” she cried plaintively. At the noise, Jacob came running into the room. He looked at his mother and turned around. As he ran back to the television he shouted to his sister, “It’s just mommy, she’s crying again.”
Lucas looked at Calley, “You need to let it go before it destroys you and the rest of your family.”
“But I can’t.”
“It’s possible. If it weren’t I could never pray the words, Our Father in Heaven.”
Calley simply said, “Life sucks.”
For the moment, there was little left to say. Lucas left while the video droned on in the living room.
He drove home emotionally exhausted from a memory he kept largely suppressed. The incident became a turning point in his life. He changed to a theology major with a minor in psychology. Some would say it was a case of over-compensation, but Lucas found an answer to his emptiness in faith.
He paid for college by signing up for ROTC. Three years later when he graduated, he deferred active duty while he went to seminary. He entered the military at twenty-four.
During his third year of active duty he received word his father had died. The man had been living in a Chicago flophouse. He was taken to Cook County Hospital after being picked up wracked by delirium tremors. For three days, invisible bugs tormented him, crawling in and out of his head and over his body. The last night, while screaming that demons were chasing him, he threw himself out the window of his fifth floor room.
Lucas flew back for the burial. At the morgue, he was struck by how frail the man was, who tormented him throughout his youth. He found forgiveness for his father in his heart. It was not simply forgetting, nor was he saying it did not matter. He simply recognized that there he might be, but for the grace of God.