He had the decency to look ashamed. “No. Nothing. And I know how hard this must be for you to swallow …”
I sat back down and leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. “Jonathan, I can’t swallow this because I’m still swallowing all the other stuff. There’s no room to swallow this. But far more important that my shock or surprise is your lapse in faith. What happened?”
Elbows on his knees and head in his hands, Jonathan Sterling looked about as sad as I ever want to see him. He shook his head back and forth while his shoulders shook. Was he crying?
“Jonathan?”
He looked up, his eyes glistening, and said, “Sorry about that, Pastor. This is a tough conversation to have.” He took a deep breath, settled back into the chair, and began his story. By the time he finished, I had tears in my eyes as well.
I ran my hand over my head and looked down for a moment before I addressed him. “Son, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. None. I’m ashamed to admit I thought little Tanner might be the result of some indiscretion a few years ago and that you had him for just this occasion, and then he’d go back to his mother.” I stood, walked to the window, and peered out. No answers out there. Just Sadie feeding her chickens. I shrugged and shook my head.
Turning back to him, I said, “I’m ashamed of myself, Jonathan. All I could envision was Mandy having to deal with another woman in her life—Tanner’s mother, I mean—and that precious little boy being shuttled from house to house between parental visits. I thought the worst of you, and this whole situation, and for that I humbly apologize.”
Mel and Mandy came into the room just then. Mandy went quickly to Jonathan’s side and knelt beside the chair. She took his hand and raised it to her cheek. Mel put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed.
Mandy looked up and said, “I know I keep saying this, Mom and Dad, but I’m sorry I didn’t mention Jonathan’s faith has slipped a bit.” She sighed. “Well, a lot, I guess. But with all the other stuff like the president and his stepdad and Tanner, well, I just took the chicken way out and put off telling you until I absolutely had to.”
She stood and glanced down at her husband-to-be, who looked up and grinned ruefully.
She looked back at the two of us and shrugged. “And even then, I blew it. You’ve found everything out by accident. Please believe me when I tell you I’m really, really sorry I didn’t have the guts to come clean months ago.”
Mel is nicer than I am and took the initiative to make Mandy and Jonathan feel better. I’d have let them twist in the wind a little—at least for everything except this last confession—but that’s me. As always, Mel proved the bigger person and offered sympathy rather than chiding. All well and good, but we still had the problem of a son-in-law whose faith was weak.
“Jonathan, I can understand your anger at God over the loss of your first wife. Really, I can. There are times in the life of any believer when he or she wonders what on earth God is thinking. Why do these horrible things happen? Can’t God stop them? Of course, He can. God can do anything. But why He chooses not to is a question for the ages. Short of our dying and spending eternity in His presence, we won’t know the answer.”
To his credit, Jonathan didn’t hide behind Mandy and try to fade away. “That’s the problem, Pastor Foster. I don’t care anymore why He didn’t stop her. He didn’t and nothing can bring Tanner's mother back now. I just find it hard to figure out why He didn’t.”
Mandy squeezed Jonathan’s shoulder then looked over to her mother and me, her eyes wide and sad the way they looked when she was five years old and scared to tell us something. “Mom, Dad, please try to understand where Jonathan’s coming from. I know it sounds strange that the person who’s about to marry him is concerned that his first wife is gone. After all, we wouldn’t be getting married in two days if Jillian were still here. But you have to understand the pain he and Tanner have gone through and why he ...”
I held my hand up to stop her. “Mandy, I understand. I do. But you two also have to understand why I can’t let it go. My whole life has been spent in the service of God and no, I don’t understand why He does or doesn’t do certain things. I don’t pretend to have the answers. And let’s face it, now isn’t the time to discuss this. We have a wedding to prepare for and a president to host.” I turned to Jonathan. “I ask just one thing, son. Can we talk about this some more after the wedding?”
Mandy grabbed Jonathan’s hand and looked into his eyes. “That’s okay with you, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer, but she took that as an assent and turned to Mel and me. “Mom, Dad, you know I believe, don’t you? And I’ve done my best to convince Jonathan of God’s goodness, despite the tragedy of Jillian’s death. But this is a very personal thing for Jonathan. He has to get through this in his own way. We’ll finish this conversation after the wedding. Before we leave. Okay, Jonathan?”
He nodded, but I noticed it wasn’t with any enthusiasm. I took one more jab. “Jonathan, I’ll shut up for now, but let me leave you with one thought. Do this for Tanner, okay?”
He sighed and said, “Okay, Pastor, for Tanner.”
Mandy let out a long breath. “Good. That’s settled. Jonathan, why don’t we go into the kitchen, and I’ll fill you in on what the good ladies of Road’s End have been up to.” She turned and gave me a smile. “I think you’ll approve, Dad.”
I smiled at her. “Right, honey. I don’t have the energy to fight ’em anymore, anyway. At least not today. Maybe tomorrow.”
But this was Road’s End. Tomorrow would bring its own problems.
Chapter 24
Tomorrow came earlier than I would have liked—in the middle of the night, to be exact. I was awakened at precisely 2:47 AM. I know this because I saw the clock’s digital numbers during my daredevil lunge for the lamp I accidentally knocked off the side table when I heard the shrieking outside our bedroom window. I was exhausted before I was even awake.
Even at 2:47 AM, I recognized the voice, or voices, as it were. I looked through the window, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but George and Dewey and his rusty John Deere.
“Oh, good grief." I yanked my arms into my robe before taking the stairs as fast as I dared in my slippers. I unlocked the back door and dashered … uh, dashed outside and around to the front.
There they were in all their presidential-honoring glory. The parade vehicles, one ancient ambulance, an equally ancient fire truck, Dewey’s rusty John Deere tractor, and George’s 1962 Dodge Dart station wagon, were lined up in the street in front of the inn. Their combined ages, not counting the men milling around in my front yard, probably topped 150 years.
I stalked through the dew-soaked grass as pastorally poised as I could in my jammies and slippers. “What’s up, men?”
George looked up from his myriad of duties as bossy parade director and said, “Whatcha mean, what’s up, Hugh? We’re linin’ up for the Road’s End Inaugural Presidential Motorcade and Honor Guard Parade. That’s what’s up.”
“No need to be sarcastic, George,” I said. “I know what you’re doing. I just don’t know why you have to do it in my front yard.”
George threw up his hands. I half-expected him to walk off in a huff, charge into his dressing room trailer, and slam the door behind him. Fortunately, or not, as the case may be, we weren’t filming a movie. This was real life. My life. Sigh …
“Where else would we stage the parade, Hugh?”
I shrugged. “I don’t care. Just any place but here, okay? We need our sleep, and you guys shouldn’t be wandering around in the middle of the night at your age anyway.”
The minute the words spilled out of my mouth like some evil alien entity birthing itself from my throat, I knew I’d committed a cardinal sin—no, the cardinal sin—of Road’s End. I’d implied that the men around me were not flush with the bloom of youth. I immediately tried to make amends.
“What I mean, guys, is that none of us should be out here. No one past the age of …” What age could I use
that wouldn’t tee them off? “… uh, ten should be wandering around in the dark in the middle of the night.” I smiled my best don’t hate me because I’m stupid smile and said, “Right?”
Dewey shook his head in obvious disgust. “Yeah, right, Pastor Foster.” He may as well have said, Serial Killer Foster. “You’d actually let a ten-year-old out in the middle of the night? A ten-year-old? Can you believe it, men? What kind of pastor are you, anyway?”
My shoulders slumped. “You’re right. I misspoke. Let’s just say that none of us should be out here at this awful time of night. Now, please take your … uh, parade and line up someplace else.”
“And leave the staging area?”
“Staging area? What staging area?”
George pointed to the ground next to my soggy slippers. “This staging area. You’re standing right where Dewey’s tractor should be. Now git back to bed and let us git back to our bivouac’n.”
Bivouac’n?
I looked around for a face of reason. Aha! “Pastor Parry, can you please make them see they can’t … bivouac in my front yard. I have a wedding in two days. I have the President of the United States coming to stay here tomorrow. I have guests upstairs trying to sleep." And I had a whopper of a headache. "Please!”
To his everlasting credit, Pastor Parry took my plea to heart. “Men, Hugh’s right. We can’t do this here. Let’s move on down to … to where, Hugh?”
“How about back down the road out of town? The president will be coming from that direction, anyway, so that’d …”
Pastor Parry nodded. “That sounds like a plan to me. Men, let’s head down the road a piece and bivouac there.”
“Great idea, Pastor P.!”
“Way to go, Perry!”
“Knew you’d come through, Pastor Parry.”
They did everything but hoist him on their shoulders—another bad idea—and carry him down the street in a triumphant march to the staging area. Scenes from old World War II movies flashed through my mind.
Pastor Parry took the adulation in stride and smiled benevolently at his band of merry Hugh-haters. “That’s enough, men. Let’s let Hugh get back to bed now. We’ll finish up down there.” He pointed to the road leading past the church and out of town. Wagons, ho! Too bad I hadn’t suggested the nearest crossroad—the one that, other than two-track farm trails, lay a scant sixty miles south. That’d keep ’em busy.
Several nods and assorted comments later—“You betcha,” “You got it,” “Let’s do it!” and my favorite, “We oughta hang that Pastor Foster”—the men dispersed to their various vehicles. One hour and two jump-starts later—Dewey’s tractor and the ambulance—they chugged down the road in a cloud of exhaust fumes and snide remarks about that “nasty feller that took Pastor Parry’s job out from under him” and “He’s got a lot of nerve standing around in his underwear in plain sight.” I had long before adjourned to my bed, but I could still hear because those last remarks were yelled at the top of George Washington’s lungs. I’m glad the first George was the leader of our country. This one would’ve hanged ninety percent of the population just for standing out in their yards in their jammies.
Chapter 25
The next morning dawned, as usual, thanks be to our Lord, and with it came the awful realization that the President of the United States, his arch-enemy/brother-in-law, and who knew who else would arrive in Road's End in just a matter of hours. Why, oh why, couldn't Mandy and Jonathan have eloped like any other decent couple who have a child her parents don't know about and famous relatives up the kazoo would do? But no, I had to have a traditionally-minded, parent-respecting, wedding-loving woman for a daughter. Just my luck. Or as Tanner would say, "Just my yuck."
Nobody else seemed affected by the threat of imminent cataclysmic events; in fact, they seemed downright chipper. Mildly annoyed that I had to be cranky all by myself, I did what I always do in times of trouble: said a quick prayer and headed to Sadie's for a cookie.
I opened her screechy screen door and walked inside to the best doggone smell in the world—freshly brewed coffee and sugar being baked. I started to say something to Sadie, but from behind the counter, she held her hand up for silence, pointed to a chair, and said, "Shut up and sit down."
So, I did. She marched around the corner, slid a white mug across the table at me—I caught it just before it flew off the other end—and fairly threw a big splash of coffee into the mug. "We're all gonna die."
Finally! Someone who recognized impending doom when they saw it. Sadie's normal scowl-and-growl greeting was intact, perhaps even a bit gloomier than usual. All was well with my little world.
Of course, I am a pastor, so I felt duty-bound to respond to her statement. "Yep, we sure are, Sadie. Aren't you glad you know your Savior?"
She raised her fist and shook it in my face. "That's not what I mean, and you know darned well know it, Pastorman."
I poured some cream into my mug and took a sip before answering. In the meantime, she lowered her fist and pulled out a chair. She slammed the coffeepot on the table.
"You seem upset, Sadie. More than usual, that is."
She gave me one of her high beam glares. "Is that a crack?"
I shook my head. "No, of course not, but you have to admit you've been a bit ... well, testy lately." Maybe I should just shut my mouth.
"Oh, shut your mouth." See how respected I am around here? And how come it's so easy to read my mind? She continued, "I'm always testy and you know it."
I was stuck. Do I agree that she's testy or lie my brains out and tell her I hadn't noticed—that half the free world hadn't noticed, for that matter—and that her neighbors usually hid behind locked doors when she was in this kind of mood? I chose honesty. Let's face it. I have little choice in these matters. As I said, I'm a pastor.
“Okay, I agree. Yes, you have a quarrelsome nature, but ...” I held my hand up to avert the crack of her fist into my jaw. “... but listen to me now. That's part of your charm. Folks expect you to be outspoken, to speak your mind. It's just that sometimes you get a little crankier than normal.” I held up my mug for a refill, and she complied. I continued, “Now, tell me why we're all going to die.”
“It's the idiots in this town.”
Well, that narrowed things down a bit. If I divided the idiots from the non-idiots, we’d have ... well, never mind. “Which idiots would that be?”
“The ones down the road,” she said. “Those ... those ...”
“Idiots?”
She bobbed her head. “Thank you. Yes, those idiots down the road with their ...” She waved her hand around her head as if grabbing for the thoughts that wouldn't stay in her brain. “Their stupid presidential rusty car and tractor-pull parade. Did you hear them during the night?” She planted her hands on the table and leaned toward me. “Did you hear them?”
I nodded. “Yes, I did. In fact, I came out at 2:47 AM this morning to shush them up.”
“I know,” she said. “I was watching you through the curtains. Nice jammies.” She grinned and frowned all at once; quite a talent actually. “No, I'm talking about those gunshots or cannon fire or whatever they were doing down the road.” She pointed her finger as if she could shoot out a laser and melt them all in their tracks. If only.
“Backfires. I heard it, too, come to think of it.” Sip, sip, big bite, swallow. “Noisy, but harmless.” My mother's voice came floating out of nowhere, as it has a scary way of doing. Oh, right, it's all fun and games until someone puts an eye out. In our case, that would be until someone snipes us, blows all of us and our town to smithereens, or—best case scenario—hauls every last one of us away to spend the rest of our lives with Bubba or Bubbette. I shuddered and politely asked Mom to shut up.
I looked up at Sadie and smiled. She looked so frail sitting there in her old-fashioned, flour-covered apron, her white hair piled on top of her head, staring out the window as if waiting for a long-lost love to come marching down the road.
She turned
away from the window and stared at me for a moment. Was she envisioning a younger man? A man she once loved?
“Someone oughta kill ’em all.”
It was all downhill after that. Sadie filled me in on her plans to eliminate, and I do mean eliminate, a good number of the men in town, and I did my best to talk her out of walking right down there and bashin’ every last one of ’em over the head. While valiantly struggling to keep her out of prison and my neighbors out of their graves, I couldn't help but wonder how she thought she could take them all on before one of them realized she was systematically whacking them out of existence. Then I remembered who we were talking about and just dropped the whole thing altogether. They wouldn't know what hit them until they were standing around in Heaven and the angels stepped in to break up the latest argument between Dewey and George.
She made a good point, though. Her heart was in the right place; after all, even the nicest of men can get themselves into trouble behaving like idiots, but killing those same men just didn't seem like the best solution.
We talked, and after three coffee refills and another cookie, I managed to convince her to climb down from her ledge, or countertop, as the case may be. For a brief moment, while crossing the street to go home, I thought about walking down the road to confront the men myself. Then I remembered my humiliation a few hours earlier and decided that this time, they were on their own. Besides, I had the most powerful man on earth coming to my house in just under three hours. I had bigger fish to fry.
And speaking of frying, something yummy and deep-fried was being prepared when I walked through the front door. “Daddy, get out of here!"
"I'm going. I'm going," I said. Geesh, what was the big deal?
"You can't see my wedding dress. That's the big deal!"
Faux Pas (A Road's End Mishap Book 2) Page 13