She had encountered it before, this presence of Christ in human form. She just hadn’t had the words for it. Her father’s touch held the gentleness of God. Amethyst’s faithfulness reflected the Lord’s own commitment to her. Harper’s scarred face revealed the Lord’s woundedness and compassion. And Bailey? Well, Bailey’s declaration of love for her brought it all into startling clarity—love that could look beyond age or appearance or a hundred other barriers and see into the heart.
Over the years she had discovered bits and pieces of her soul reflected in the eyes of those who loved her. Some of the people in her life challenged her mind and caused her to think. Some aroused her heart with laughter or tears. Others stretched her spirit and enabled her relationship with God to deepen and grow.
Bailey touched everything. For the first time in her life, she felt entire and whole, even though she had never been aware of incompleteness before. He was her soul’s connection.
“Hmmm. A beautiful, intelligent, godly woman who also cooks.” A resonant chuckle came from behind her. “How lucky can one man get?”
Silvie felt his arms go around her, and she elbowed him in the ribs. “Luck has nothing to do with it.”
“How right you are.” He nuzzled the back of her neck. “You are a gift, my darling. Straight from the heart of God.”
She craned her neck and grinned at him. “You make me burn my biscuits, and we’ll have to reconsider this relationship.”
Bailey gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and released her. “Ooh, that’s a threat I’ll take seriously. Besides, I don’t know how I’d start my day without a biscuit from my true love’s hand.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. “How’s life in the big house this morning?”
“I’m doing just fine. I’m not so sure about Amethyst.”
The grin faded from Bailey’s face, and he frowned. “How long has she been this way? Three weeks?”
“Ever since the Night of the Klan Babies.” Silvie gazed at him. The bruises had faded, and only a faint, shiny scar remained from the cut on his forehead. It was Amethyst who hadn’t healed.
“And she hasn’t talked to you about it?”
“Not a word. I’ve always respected her privacy, Bailey, always figured that when she was ready to talk, she’d come to me. But I’ve never seen her so downhearted, and I’m worried about her.”
Bailey nodded. “I don’t know her as well as you do, but I suspect there’s something she’s not saying. Do you think she might be fearful of another attack?”
“I suppose that might be part of it. Things have been so quiet. I don’t want to go borrowing trouble, but I keep thinking they’re out there, waiting. It makes my skin crawl.”
“Maybe that’s all it is with Amethyst, too.”
“No. There’s something else. Something she’s not saying. She tries to hide it, but she’s acting almost the way she did when Harper died. Like she’s grieving.”
“Perhaps you should talk to her.”
“Maybe I ought to.” Silvie took the biscuits out of the oven and slid them onto a plate. “Hand me that bowl of eggs, will you?”
Bailey passed the eggs and watched as she put them in the skillet to scramble. He picked up a slice of bacon from the platter. “You’re reluctant to get into this conversation with Amethyst. Why?”
Silvie kept her eyes fixed on the eggs as she stirred them. “I don’t know.”
“You do know. Tell me.”
“All right.” She let out a sigh. “I feel a little . . . well, guilty. Guilty for being so full of joy when she’s so miserable.”
Bailey gave a low chuckle and came to put his hands on her shoulders. “Amethyst loves you, Silvie. No matter how she’s feeling, she won’t begrudge us the happiness we’ve found.”
“You’re right, of course.” Silvie nodded and leaned back against him. The warmth from his chest infused her with strength and determination. “I’ll talk to her. Right after breakfast.”
Amethyst lay on the bed and listened as the low murmur of voices reached her from the dining room. She should be out there helping Silvie serve breakfast and clean up the dishes. But she couldn’t face them. Any of them.
Especially Bailey, with his probing eyes and questioning glances. Especially Silvie, who for her sake was trying hard not to look so happy even though she was obviously in love. The girl should be enjoying this, Amethyst reprimanded herself. Not tiptoeing around on eggshells trying to keep me from feeling worse.
Amethyst remembered, as vividly as if it were yesterday, how she felt when Harper first declared his love for her—euphoric, as if the pieces of the world had finally fallen into place and she knew at last where she belonged. She couldn’t have hidden it if she tried. But she didn’t have to try. Silvie had been a model of support, encouraging her to relish every insane moment of this new love, laughing with her, listening dutifully to every recitation of how wonderful Harper was.
And Amethyst wanted to do that for Silvie. She felt no envy over her friend’s relationship with Bailey—on the contrary, she approved heartily. But right now it was hard for Amethyst to rejoice over Silvie’s blessing. Not because she was jealous of it, but because she had something else weighing on her soul.
Conrad.
Ever since the night of the attack, Amethyst had not been able to rid her mind of the image of her own son in the cab of that pickup truck, aiding and abetting those hooligans who had beaten Bailey and burned a cross on her front lawn. Her failure as a mother haunted her, gnawed at her. Where had she gone wrong?
For three solid weeks she had wept and prayed, begging God for an answer. She had confessed every sin she could think of, and a few she wasn’t sure she had ever committed. She had waited and listened, searched the depths of her soul, berated herself for real and imagined offenses. And still, she could find no peace.
It had to be her fault, somehow. Wasn’t a parent to blame when a child went wrong?
When Conrad had moved out, taking the other college boys with him, Amethyst had told Bailey that he was an adult and had to answer to God for his decisions. She had meant it at the time, but this was different. This wasn’t just some adolescent prank, some foolish choice her boy had made under the influence of a group of his peers. This went to the very heart and soul of who he was as a person, what kind of man he was becoming.
She didn’t want to admit that her only son was turning into a racist, and yet the reality of what she had seen ate away at her like a cancer. Grief consumed her. Every time she thought her tears were spent, a fresh wave of remorse rolled over her like the incoming tide. And through it all, the Lord seemed strangely silent.
She awoke to a faint knocking on the door. The morning sun had shifted, and the house was silent.
“Amethyst?” Silvie’s voice called through the door. “Are you awake?”
Amethyst sat up, her hands feeling for stray wisps of hair. She pushed the comforter into some semblance of order and patted at the sagging skin under her eyes. “Come on in, Silvie.”
“Lord help us, hon, you look like death warmed over.”
“Well, thanks for the compliment.” She tried to keep her voice light, to maintain a semblance of normalcy, but she failed miserably.
Silvie plopped down on the bed and peered into her face. “We need to talk.”
“I don’t feel like talking.” Amethyst averted her eyes. “Don’t get too close. I—I think I might have some kind of influenza.”
“You’re a bad liar, Amethyst. Always have been.” Silvie raised one eyebrow. “Not enough practice, I’d expect.”
“All right,” Amethyst conceded, “so I’m not sick. Is it a crime to want a little time to myself?”
“I don’t know; I’ll have to ask Bailey. He’s the lawyer.”
In spite of herself, Amethyst smiled. “You two getting along all right?”
“Smooth as butter.” Silvie returned the smile. “He’s—well, he’s very nice.”
“Nice?
”
Silvie grinned sheepishly. “Okay, he’s wonderful. Magnificent. The most incredible person I’ve ever met. Not to mention devastatingly handsome.”
“That’s better.” Amethyst shifted on the bed and pulled her dressing gown around her.
“But I didn’t come in here to talk about Bailey.”
“I know you didn’t. You want to know why I’ve been cloistering myself away for the past three weeks.”
“That would be a start.”
Amethyst felt tears rising in her throat, and she choked them back. “I can’t talk about it, Silvie. Not to you. Not to anyone.”
“We’ve always talked about everything.”
“I know. But I just—” She couldn’t go on; the tears came in a rush, and she began to weep.
Silvie put her arms around Amethyst and held on tight until the wracking sobs subsided. It was so good to be embraced, to feel Silvie’s hand stroking her hair, to hear her hushed voice whispering, “It’s all right, hon. Let it out. I’m here.”
“I’ve done everything—” Amethyst’s voice came out strangled and weak, but she pressed on. “I’ve tried to be obedient, to be faithful. I’ve prayed and confessed and tried to listen, but nothing—” She heaved in a deep breath. “I just don’t understand how God could let this happen.”
Silvie waited until Amethyst had regained control, then stroked a gentle hand across her forehead. “Can you talk about it now?”
Amethyst gulped down a painful lump in her throat and nodded. “I think so. I guess I need to.”
“All right. Let’s start at the beginning.”
Amethyst stared past Silvie’s shoulder and watched as the clock on the mantel ticked away a full minute. Where was the beginning? How could she make Silvie understand when she herself didn’t?
“Is this about the attack on Bailey?” Silvie prodded.
“Yes and no.” Amethyst bit her lip. “It’s about that night—something I haven’t told you, or anyone.”
“Go on.”
In fits and starts, Amethyst got the story out—how she had seen Conrad in the cab of the pickup; how angry she felt that her own father had planted seeds of ungodliness in her son’s heart. How she had been trying, for the past three weeks, to get an answer from God, to find some peace, to figure out what she had done wrong.
“I can’t understand,” she concluded, “why God would let something like this happen. I did everything I knew to raise my son as a faithful, God-fearing boy. But apparently I failed, and he’s turned out more like Abe than like Harper . . . or me. That’s why I couldn’t tell you—I couldn’t face your reaction to the truth. My son—with the Klan! Oh, Silvie, I am so sorry!”
Fresh tears came, and Amethyst began to sob again. Once more Silvie held her and waited out the storm, but this time her embrace was not quite so tender. At last Amethyst lifted her head. “What am I going to do, Silvie?”
Silvie regarded her with a measured gaze. “What do you want from me, Amethyst?”
“I don’t know. Nobody can help, I realize. I just—”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Silvie interrupted. “It’s a straightforward question. What do you want? Do you want me to sympathize, or do you want me to be honest with you so we can get to the bottom of this?”
“I want to know what you really think. I want honesty, of course.”
Silvie straightened up and gave Amethyst a knowing look. “All right. The first thing we need to decide is who’s to blame.”
Amethyst blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Well, so far you’ve blamed yourself, your father, and God. We need to sort out who’s really responsible for Conrad’s actions.”
Amethyst considered Silvie’s words. She was angry with God—both for allowing this to happen and for remaining silent when she needed an answer so desperately. She was furious at her dead father for the influence he exerted over her son. And she raged at herself for not being the kind of mother who could have prevented such a turn of events.
“I guess I’m the only one to blame,” she whispered after a while. She felt sick and miserable and ashamed, and although she was willing to take responsibility for her faults, she still couldn’t understand where she had gone wrong. Silvie had always been candid and logical and wise; maybe she could help figure this out.
“What about Abe?” Silvie prompted.
“My father certainly had a negative effect upon Conrad,” she mused. “Con adored him, and he absorbed a great deal from his grandfather before I realized what was happening. But Abe died when Conrad was just a boy. I should have been able to do something to alter that influence.”
“And what about God?”
“Do I blame God, you mean, for the way Conrad turned out?”
Silvie nodded and pressed her lips together. “Couldn’t God, who is supposed to be Father to the fatherless, have intervened? Couldn’t God have counteracted Abe’s influence in Con’s life?”
“I suppose so, but—”
“But you blame yourself. You’re angry with God, and you’re angry with your dead father. But still you’re the one who is responsible for Conrad’s choices.” Silvie peered at her, waiting for an answer.
Amethyst’s heart felt like a lead weight in her chest. “I guess I am.”
Silvie sat back on the bed. “I’m impressed.”
“Impressed at what?”
“Impressed that you have so much power over other people’s lives. I never knew.”
Just briefly, Amethyst felt like a bug in a jar, being scrutinized and inspected. She didn’t like the feeling one bit, but she suspected that Silvie was probing toward an important revelation. “And your point is?”
“This is not about you, Amethyst. It’s not about how good a mother you were, or what kind of mistakes you think you’ve made. It’s about Conrad.”
“I know, Silvie. But I’m his mother, and—”
“Tell me about your mother.”
Amethyst frowned. “You know all about my mother. She was a weak, self-centered person who didn’t have an ounce of backbone.”
“And your father?”
“He was a drunkard and a gambler who abandoned his family and ruined his life.”
“And you turned out to be a compassionate, deeply spiritual woman who is committed to serving God and helping others,” Silvie whispered. “How do you suppose that happened?”
Amethyst paused. She was beginning to understand. “Because I chose a different way. Grandma Pearl’s journals helped me find my way to faith. Grandpa Silas’s life became a model for the kind of person I wanted to be.”
“Exactly. You chose. And so did Conrad.” A soft light came into Silvie’s eyes, and she smiled faintly. “We can’t change other people, Amethyst. We can’t even change ourselves. Only God can bring about the change and growth that need to happen in our lives.”
A spark of anger flared up in Amethyst’s heart. “Then God could have changed Conrad.”
Silvie shook her head. “You know better. Even God doesn’t force change upon people. We have to invite it. We have to want it.” She shrugged. “Sometimes we’re not aware that we want it. You weren’t, when you first began reading Pearl’s journals. But God knows our hearts and responds accordingly.”
“You’re saying I don’t bear any responsibility for what Conrad has become?”
“I’m saying neither of us can know what Conrad will become. You were a good mother, Amethyst, a loving mother, a model of integrity and honesty. But you have to let go. Your son is nearly a man now. He makes his own choices, and he will have to live with them. You can’t change him, can’t force him to become the person you have in mind for him to be. All you can do now is pray that someday, in his own way, he will invite God to work in his life.”
“You’re not angry that Conrad was involved in the cross-burning?”
“Of course I’m angry, and for the same reasons you are. But I don’t blame you. You’re his mother, hon, not his conscience.”
>
For the first time in three weeks, Amethyst felt the burden of sorrow lift from her shoulders. She looked deep into Silvie’s eyes and saw something else there—the gaze of a loving God, who wept with her when she cried.
She drew Silvie into a firm embrace. “How did you get so wise?” she murmured.
Silvie leaned back and grinned. “Comes with the territory,” she answered. “After all, I’ve lived with you for years.”
41
Dixon Lee
Amethyst, there’s someone here to see you.”
Amethyst looked up from the cutting board. Her fingers reeked of onion, and her hair fell in ragged wisps around her face. She pushed at a stray lock with the back of her hand. “Silvie, I’m not exactly dressed for receiving. Look at me—blue jeans and one of Harper’s old shirts.
Who is it?”
“The new preacher at the Presbyterian Church.”
“Dixon Lee Godwin?” She frowned and waved the knife in Silvie’s direction. “What’s he want with me?”
“White folks don’t often tell me their business,” Silvie quipped. “Besides, you are a member of his congregation.”
“He’s only been in town a month. I’d barely recognize him on the street.”
Silvie shrugged. “Maybe he’s eager to get to know his flock.”
“Can you tell him this is not a good time? I’ll give him a call and invite him to tea.” She went back to dicing the onions.
“He seemed very insistent. Agitated, I’d say.”
“Oh, all right.” Amethyst flung the knife down and pulled the apron over her head. “But somebody needs to tell this fellow that it’s impolite to drop in unannounced.” She looked down at her jeans and stained shirt and grimaced. “He’ll just have to take me as I am.”
Silvie grinned and picked up the knife. “Don’t we all?”
Amethyst went into the parlor to find the Reverend Dixon Lee Godwin perched uncomfortably on the brocade settee. She had only seen him in the pulpit, where he cut an imposing figure. Up close, she thought he looked a little like Abraham Lincoln—very tall, with gangly legs and enormous hands. He had that same angular jaw and jutting brow, but his face was clean-shaven and his hair graying at the temples. A fine figure of a man, she thought. Born to be a preacher.
The Amethyst Heart Page 33