by Nancy Moser
His eyes caught hers, then looked away. “Maybe he was making up for all the lousy tips they've left in the past.”
She sidled away from him. “They tip fine. It was a mistake.” She grabbed a cloth and began wiping the table. “I ran after them and gave it back.”
Silence.
“They were very appreciative.”
Silence.
“Bob even offered me an extra five as a reward for—”
“For being so perfect? For showing up your husband because he kept the insurance overpayment? Is that why you're telling me this story?
“No, no…”
“Why else would you tell it?”
“You asked me how my day went.” Lame. Very lame.
“And this is the only thing you could think of to share with me?” He shoved a chair into place with extra force. “Does it feel good being holier-than-thou, Annie? Does it make you feel better than me?” He stormed from the room.
She fell into a chair. What have I done?
Annie came back to the kitchen from outside, carrying a mug of hot chocolate she'd made for Cal. He was in the garage, sorting through his extra lumber and making as much noise as possible. He hadn't wanted her peace offering—or her apology.
She stood at the kitchen window and looked out at the garage, her mind blank. What else could she do to make amends?
Avi came to her side. “What's Daddy mad about?”
“I brought up something I shouldn't have.”
“Did you say you're sorry?”
She nodded, then noticed the mug in her hand. “You want some hot chocolate, sweet-apple?”
“Sure.”
“Sit at the table,” Annie said absently.
Avi did as she was told. She was such a good girl.
At least one of them was.
Jered leaned over the toilet, wanting but not wanting to throw up. He heard the door to the restroom open, then a hard tap on the stall door.
“Get out here, kid. Stardom awaits.”
Jered got to his feet. “I don't think I can do—”
“Get out here now!”
His stomach did a different type of roll. He opened the door, and Jinko pointed at the spot in front of him. Jered moved into place, bracing himself. He looked at the floor.
Jinko chucked him under the chin, forcing his face upward. “You'll never know unless you try, kid. Who knows? Maybe you're the next Elton John or George Harrison.”
Jered managed a smile. “George is dead.”
“Which is what you'll be if you don't get out there. Now.”
Jered nodded and took a deep breath. He hoped once he got in front of the audience his nerves would calm down and he'd do fine.
It was time.
He sat on the stool up front. All those faces, looking at him. Some not looking at him, chatting as if he weren't even up here. Bonnie the waitress gave him a wink and a thumbs-up, and he spotted Vasylko peeking out the kitchen door. And then there was Jinko, standing in the back with his arms crossed as if Jered better do good or else. Why was it harder performing in front of these people he knew rather than strangers?
He cleared his throat, set his fingers on the strings, and began. What did he have to lose—except his dignity, his pride, and his dinner?
Jinko hoped once Jered got in front of an audience his nerves would calm down and he'd do fine.
He should have let the kid barf his brains out in the restroom. His first strums on the guitar were tentative, and his voice wobbly. Jinko could tell there was a good voice behind it. Somewhere. But it sure didn't come out.
The crowd was merciless—as was their due. Amateur Night was entertainment plain and simple, and the audience thrived on booing the bad acts more than clapping for the good ones. It was all part of the game.
The kid couldn't take it personal. But he did. He finished and fled. Bonnie detoured close and told Jinko, “Poor boy. Go find him.”
He had no choice. Sure, it would be awkward, and he'd have to play the comforting father figure for a few minutes. But after that, Jinko could move on to more important things.
After all, he finally had the kid just where he wanted him.
Jered sat out back behind Palamba's, next to the dumpster. He wanted to get in his truck and leave, but he left his keys in his guitar case, and no way was he ever going back in there.
His song had been a disaster, a nightmare come to life. It's like his stomach had sent a lump into his throat that wouldn't let his voice come out.
Which didn't explain his hands. His hands—his fingers—had betrayed him entirely. They rebelled and became weak and useless, unable to hold the simplest chord—or find it in the first place.
People had laughed. And booed. Some had looked away nervously, as if unable to witness such a total bomb. He should have run from the stage during the first stanza, but he stayed and finished, hoping beyond hope that he'd get his act together and offer a few decent notes to the world.
No such luck.
He banged a fist on the dumpster and stood. Enough of this. He'd leave. Move on. None of these people ever needed to see him again. And who needed a truck? He'd walk. Hitchhike. Jinko could have his stuff as payment for his debt.
Suddenly Jinko appeared at the corner of the building. Jered ducked, but too late.
“There you are, kid.”
Jered started walking.
“Stop!”
Jered took two more steps, then stopped. He owed Jinko a goodbye. He turned around, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
Jinko came toward him, lighting a cigarette as he walked. He stuffed the pack and lighter in his shirt pocket. He stood before Jered, smoking, eyeing him.
“Go ahead. Say it. Tell me I blew it.”
“Big-time. What happened?”
Jered kicked a pebble aside. “Everything left me: the chords, the words, the notes. I knew them all—I've been practicing hard—but they weren't there when I needed them.”
“You let nerves win.”
“I didn't have much choice.”
“Sure you did, kid. You can't let your emotions take over. You have to show them who's boss.”
Jered snickered. “And how was I supposed to do that?”
“Quit trying to please other people. Live for yourself.”
“I'd love to.”
“Then do it. If you're always worried what other people are thinking or feeling, you'll drive yourself crazy. You have to get the mindset that you're better than the rest. Do what you have to do— what you want to do—and let other people worry about themselves.”
Jered wanted to believe what Jinko was saying; it would feel good to believe that way. But to do it… That was something else.
Jinko took him under his arm. “You go back to my place and—”
“I can't. My keys are inside. In my guitar case.”“He shook his head adamantly. “I'm not going back in there.”
Jinko pulled out his keys. “Take my car. I'll bring your truck later.”
Jered looked at the keys in his hand. Keys to the black Mercedes. For Jinko to trust him with his car…
Jinko tossed the cigarette and ground it dead with the toe of his boot. “When I get home, we'll have a little talk about some of those opportunities I mentioned. We gotta get you some confidence, kid. And I have just the thing.”
Jered would take it. Whatever it was.
Jered lay on the cot in Jinko's garage, looking at the ceiling joists but not seeing them. Over and over he replayed his performance at Amateur Night. The horror of what was intermixed with what he wished had been. If only. If only. He hated those two words.
I should go home.
You are home.
My real home. Steadfast.
Go home as a loser? A failure?
He turned on his side, hoping the movement would nudge the direction of his thoughts. It worked, and another dialogue began, starting with Jinko's words: “Quit trying to please other people. Live for yourself”
&
nbsp; Easier said than done. I still want to do my musicy but I need to make a living—and not as a dishwasher.
But Jinko had an idea, opportunities. He had “just the thing.”
Jered heard the whirr-clunk of his truck's engine. He jumped off the cot, wanting to pull himself together. He didn't want Jinko finding him all mopey. If he wanted to be of any use to his boss, he had to at least pretend to be strong.
Jinko opened the garage door without knocking. “Come on.”
“Where we going?”
“You'll see.”
Jered had no idea why Jinko insisted on using Jered's truck but thought better than to ask questions. Especially ten minutes later, when Jinko pulled onto a dirt and gravel road and shut off his lights.
“How can you see to drive?” Jered found himself whispering.
“I know the way.”
The way to where?
About a quarter mile up, Jered could make out a grove of trees, a black blob against the night sky. Nothing good could happen in such a place at two in the morning. Nothing legal.
If only they'd left Eldora and headed toward Steadfast, Jered would have considered jumping out of the truck and making his way home. But they'd headed in the opposite direction. There was no home close. None.
Besides, Jinko was his friend. He'd been nothing but nice. He wouldn't lead him astray. He'd talked of opportunities.
“Here we are.”
The road widened to a clearing, to a place where a farmhouse had once stood. A set of concrete steps led to nothing, marking its place. A dark van sat to the left, hidden in the darkness except for the reflection of the moon off the back bumper.
Jinko swung around and backed up to it, then shut off the truck. “Come on.”
Jered's imagination took off. He's going to shoot me and put my body in the van. But he shoved such a ridiculous notion aside and followed Jinko's instruction.
The normal sounds of night were absent. Any cicadas or birds had moved elsewhere for the coming winter. The only sound was of their shoes crunching against the gravel, and the sound of Jered's arms swishing against his nylon jacket.
He held his arms still as they walked toward the van.
A man appeared from the drivers side. Jered couldn't see any details of his face but could tell his form was bulky—with muscles, not fat. Without a word the man opened the back of the van and Jinko opened the tailgate. They started moving boxes to the truck.
“Help,” Jinko said.
Jered did as he was told until the truck bed was full—full of boxes of booze.
“Get in, kid.”
Jered walked to the passenger side but turned enough to see Jinko hand the man something. Payment?
Jinko got in, and they backtracked the way they had come. Jered had a ton of questions, none of which he dared ask.
Back at Palamba's, Jered helped Jinko unload the booze. He shut the tailgate. “You drive us home, kid. I'm beat.”
As Jered pulled away, Jinko leaned his head against the back window of the truck, clasped his hands over his middle, and closed his eyes. Isn't he going to say anything?
Apparently not. Though it was only a five-minute drive, Jinko snored. Back at the house, he woke up when Jered shut off the engine. They both got out.
Jinko lingered a moment, dug a hand into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a bill. He held it with both hands. It was a fifty. “This is yours tonight, for the use of your truck. Next time, when you do it by yourself, this will be a hundred. Comprende?”
Jered took the fifty. Not bad for an hour's work.
Jinko reached into another pocket. “And here's a pager so I can get ahold of you.” He showed Jered how it worked.
Cool.
Jinko headed inside. “See you in the morning.”
You bet.
Annie hated when they went to bed mad, so she had only dozed. But now, suddenly, for some reason, she was wide awake. She sat up enough to see the clock over Cal's shoulder: 3:16. Ridiculous to get up this early, but what choice did she have? She slipped out of bed and tiptoed downstairs after checking on Avi.
Fine. Fm up. What should I do now?
She stood in the front room. She could watch TV, but she'd have to keep the sound so low she wouldn't be able to hear it—especially when the furnace kicked on. She could read a book. She had a stack a foot high she'd been meaning to start. Just last week Dottie had given her a romance she said she just had to—
Annie looked toward the kitchen. She had another book.
She flipped on the kitchen light and retrieved a pocket Bible from the cupboard where she kept the good dishes. After Merry had given it to her last August, Annie created this hiding place, knowing Cal would never find it.
What an odd attitude. Why did she feel the need to hide the Bible from her husband? It was the most popular book in the world. Nearly every family had one—whether they ever read it was another matter. Even Annie had one. Somewhere. She'd lost track.
She remembered the note the customer had given her the day before. First Corinthians something. She hadn't had time to look it up.
Until now. In the middle of the night.
She retrieved the note from her purse and read it again. “You are His light to the world. Shine brightly. Read 1 Corinthians 13:4-8. God bless you. ” She'd heard Jesus called “the Light of the world,” but this man said she was His light. She'd received the note after doing a nice thing. So was she supposed to be His light by being nice? Doing good deeds?
Not making your husband feel bad.
The verses. Maybe they'd clarify everything. Annie sat at the table and ruffled through the delicate pages of the Bible until she spotted 1 Corinthians at the top of a page. She found chapter 13 and took a deep breath. Okay, God. Help me here. She read:
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.
Annie held the pages against her chest—which had started to pound. Wonderful words she did not live out. She was not patient and kind. Their argument had started because she was proud and self-seeking. And certainly she was easily angered. She and Cal both were. And they both had a habit of keeping vast records of past wrongs to bring up at opportune moments. The kind of love described on this page was so…so…
Perfect. Was it even attainable?
And Cal wasn't perfect either. It wasn't just her fault.
But did that matter? Maybe if she learned to love this way, Cal would come around. Like Susan had said, maybe she could love him into having a faith. Maybe he'd see the good influence of Jesus in her life and want it for himself. Wouldn't that be wonderful?
“You are His light to the world. Shine brightly. ”
That was it. That was the key. If she believed in Jesus, she had to be His representative, shine His light to the world. To Cal.
She looked over the love verses again. These words were not a suggestion; they were a goal to be worked toward, and hopefully attained.
She closed her eyes, willing it to soak in. Such profound truth. God, help me love this way.
It was a start. A good start.
Cal felt Annie get back into bed. She'd been up an hour, reading some skinny navy-blue book in the kitchen. When he'd found her gone, he snuck downstairs, peeked in, and saw her. But what was she reading? What could keep her up for an hour in the middle of the night?
He waited until the rhythm of her breathing was deep and steady. He slipped out of bed for the second time and returned to the kitchen. The book was gone. He backtracked to the bookshelf in the front room. No skinny blue book.
Her purse.
It was hanging on the coatrack. No book. He checked her coat pockets. Not there either.
Cal looked around the kitchen. Where would she hide a book? He opened the cupboa
rd that held the cookbooks, but it wasn't there. The desktop was as messy as always. Nothing new had been added.
Then he remembered her secret hiding place up with the good dishes. He'd found a fifty-dollar bill there once by accident and had never said anything. If she wanted to have a place that was hers alone, fine with him. He had his own hiding place. His own secrets.
He opened the cupboard and saw the book on top of the stack of plates. Bingo. He picked it up. The New Testament, Psalms and Proverbs. A scrap of napkin marked a page. On it was written a message: “You are His light to the world. Shine brightly. Read 1 Corinthians 13:4—8. God bless you.”
Cal's heart began to race. Who'd given his wife this note? And when did she get the Bible—a Bible she was reading in the middle of the night? What was with that?
He'd find out. Right now.
Cal took a couple steps toward the front stairs, then stopped. Maybe confrontation wasn't the way to go. Not yet. Still too many unknowns.
He put the Bible back on the plates. He'd keep an eye on Annie, that's what he'd do. He'd be on the lookout for any more strange stuff. Then, he'd put a stop to it.
Yes, indeed, he'd watch her, watch her real close. This wasn't going to happen to him. Not again.
Six
This is how we know who the children of God are
and who the children of the devil are:
Anyone who does not do what is right is not a child of God;
nor is anyone who does not love his brother.
1 JOHN 3:10
FOR THE FIRST TIME, Annie awoke on Sunday morning and thought about going to church.
Up until now, she'd believed she could be a good Christian on her own, without the benefits of a congregation. But after experiencing the sisterhood of her Bible study—she really hated having to miss it yesterday because of work—and the love insight of 1 Corinthians, she knew alone she was weak. Bonded with others, she could find the strength to do this right. She'd made enough mistakes.
According to their habits, Sunday was for sleeping in, for reading the paper at the kitchen table while eating orange cinnamon rolls. Leisurely family time. And yet…
Annie had always felt a little nostalgic seeing a car pass, full of a family dressed for church. It conjured up feelings of her youth and of idyllic TV shows such as Father Knows Best and The Donna Reed Show.