Love Inspired August 2014 – Bundle 1 of 2

by Ruth Logan Herne, Allie Pleiter

  Someone—and it didn’t take a genius to figure out who—had painted gimp on the sidewalk. She wondered if Jason Kikowitz had known the slur was viewed among the worst in the disability community—something so cruel it could barely be said by one person with a disability to another and could never be used by an able-bodied person. Had he known and wielded that? Or had it been a terrible happenstance?

  Oh, Lord, how could You allow this to go so far? Her mother often employed the term heartsick. She told Heather she was “heartsick” over how things had deteriorated after the driver of her accident seemed to go unpunished. She’d been “heartsick” at how Dad let the injustice of it consume him. Heather was heartsick now. Unbearably heartsick at how a situation that had once been so filled with promise now compounded sorrow upon regret upon destruction. It’s all gone so horribly wrong, Lord. You’re going to have to show me what to do because I truly don’t know.

  The fire chief’s red truck pulled up the street, and Chief Bradens’s eyes looked as bad as she felt. Three other men got out of the truck and began pulling equipment out of the back. “The boys are here to power-wash that off the sidewalk. I’ve already talked to the police because I think these three ought to be the ones to scrub it off.”

  Heather thought she knew why, but she asked anyway. “Those three?”

  “I’m sorry to say those three louts were the ones to rattle Jason Kikowitz’s cage the other night. Well, them and someone JJ is probably yelling at again right about now. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Chief Bradens walked his men up to the front door. She saw Brian wave his arms angrily, pointing at the three young men who had the good sense to look ashamed of themselves. The door slammed shut. Chief Bradens shook his head with the same disappointed frustration she’d been feeling and ordered the crew to get to work.

  She looked up to offer Simon a friendly wave—just the smallest show of support—but the shades had been drawn. Sighing, Heather walked up to the door and rang the bell. It might do more harm than good, but she couldn’t just stand there and not at least try to reach out to Simon.

  Mrs. Williams was slow to come to the door, opening it only far enough to show her face. “Morning.”

  “I was wondering if maybe Simon would like to talk.”

  She didn’t look too keen on the idea.

  “Or,” Heather tried, “at least I’d like the opportunity to tell him how sorry I am about all that’s happened. Please.”

  “Let her in, Mom,” Simon called from somewhere behind the door.

  Mrs. Williams reluctantly opened the door wider and gestured Heather inside. Simon was in the living room of the tidy home, slumped on a recliner while his chair stood empty in a corner of the room. He looked like every other fifteen-year-old boy in the world sprawled on the chair like that, boasting a T-shirt and jeans and playing with some electronic device he had on his lap.

  Heather sat down in the chair nearest him. Mrs. Williams stood in the archway to the room, arms crossed, watching.

  “Mom...” Simon whined, glaring at his mom. “You mind?”

  To Heather’s surprise, Mrs. Williams unfolded her hands. “I’ll be in the kitchen getting lunch started if you need me.” She gave Heather an “I’m watching you” glare before she left the room.

  Simon switched off the game and tossed it on the coffee table. “They’re beyond mad, you know. I’ve never seen Dad so worked up.”

  Heather couldn’t believe Simon’s tone of voice. “They have every right to be. What happened was horrible. I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s high school. One rotten day after another. Mom grounded me for getting detentions, which is pretty funny, since she never lets me go anywhere anyway. Kinda dumb.”

  “I wish you were coming back.” It was true. Even though she could understand the Williamses’ decision, she felt as if high school had so much to offer Simon. She believed things could get better, even though she had no idea how.

  Simon shot a look toward the kitchen. “You and me both. Homeschool? Puh-lease.”

  Heather didn’t know what to say. She’d expected Simon to want to stay home, not return to the scene of his torment. “You want to come back?”

  Simon waved his hands around the room. “Would you want to spend all day in here? With them?”

  The home was lovely, and his parents spared no effort on his behalf. How very like a teenager to find such an environment intolerable. “What about Kikowitz?”

  “He’s a jerk. I hate him.” Evidently Simon didn’t see what that had to do with it. He held up his phone. “I got a text from Candace. She told me she felt bad about letting it slip to Jason, that he’d sort of pulled it out of her when she hadn’t meant to say anything. She said she’d understand if I didn’t want to help her with her algebra anymore, but that she’d be really glad if I still could.” He shot Heather a knowing glance. “She got another D. Really, it’s not that hard—the girls in my class seem to get it okay.”

  “Simon.” Heather tried to hide her astonishment. “Aren’t you upset by what’s happened?”

  “Sure I am. It rots. Kikowitz is a jerk.” He leaned in. “And I gotta say, Max is kind of a jerk, too. I mean, it’s nice that the guys tried to help me out and all, but even I could have told him something like this was gonna happen. Aren’t adults supposed to know better? My parents will never let me play hockey now.”

  “Yes.” Heather could not help but laugh. “Adults are supposed to know better.” In many ways Simon was already so much wiser than his years. “I’m glad to know you see Max’s response wasn’t the right one.”

  “It was kinda cool but sorta stupid. How many other freshmen have henchmen?”

  Maybe Simon wasn’t as wise as she thought. “Henchmen?”

  “That’s what Dad called them. Well—” the boy smirked “—Dad called them lots of things, but he said they were no better than some villain’s henchmen, getting revenge on the bad guy by being bad themselves.”

  “Your father is right, but I think henchmen is going a bit far.” That’s Max Jones, she thought. Always going a bit too far and luring others to do the same.

  “I see it like this. When a mean kid trips and falls in the lunchroom, you know you shouldn’t enjoy it, but you do. You know what I mean?”

  “Simon, revenge is a really slippery business.” She thought of her father and how the pursuit of justice had slid so easily into the craving for revenge. She’d found and read some of Max’s earliest press statements from his accident, and she’d seen the same dangerous hunger in his words. She thought Max had grown beyond it; she knew her father had buried himself in it and now she wondered if her role here was to ensure Simon never went there at all. She scooted her chair closer. “I know you go to church, so I know you understand that God needs to play a part in how you handle all this. Your response to all this has to come from who you are, not who Jason is. Or who Max is. Or even who your parents are.”

  Simon shrugged his shoulders. “Pastor Allen was here this morning—Mom and Dad called him right after they called the police and school. He said pretty much the same thing. About me, that is—he left out the part about Mom, Dad and Max.”

  “Well, Simon, what do you want to do about all this?”

  Simon slumped back against the chair cushions. “I want it all to go away. I just want to go to chemistry and Ping-Pong Club and have it all go away.”

  Heather slumped back against her own chair. “I hear you on that one.”

  Simon raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re really ticked at him, aren’t you?”

  “Who? Jason? You bet I am.”

  “No, Max. I heard my mom telling my dad how you told her she could trust Max to be a good influence and all. Sorta botched that one, didn’t he?”

  Heather r
emembered thinking once that Simon might have a good deal to teach Max. “Yes, he missed it by a mile.”

  “He’s still figuring it out, I guess. He’s been in his chair, what, a year? I’ve been in mine my whole life. We’ve gotta give him time.”

  Heather smiled. “How old are you again, Simon?”

  He grinned. “Sixteen in December.”

  She gave his hand a squeeze, and he groaned and flinched like every other teenage boy she’d ever known. “No, you’re not. You’re much, much older than that.” She stood up, a silent prayer of thanks that God had made her path clear. “Do you really want to come back to school?”

  “Better than being cooped up at home, even with Kikowitz.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Mom?�� Heather gripped the phone tightly.

  “Heather? It’s Thursday. Aren’t you in school?”

  She sank into the couch. “I’m not going in today.”

  “Honey? Are you all right?”

  “No.” What was the point of hiding it? “I mean I’m fine—physically—but I need some advice.”

  Heather could hear her mother settle into her chair. “All right, then, what about?”

  “Did you ever get to the point where you could forgive Dad for the way he behaved after I got hurt? I mean, did it ever get better with him, or between you?”

  She heard Mom suck in a breath. “That’s a big question. Maybe it would help if you tell me why you’re asking.”

  Heather spilled out the whole story. In between fits of crying and anger, she chronicled the stormy progression from choosing Max as Simon’s mentor to the horrors of what had been scrubbed from Simon’s sidewalk. “I’m hurt. Simon’s hurt. The fire department is hurt. I think even Jason Kikowitz is hurt. Mom, this went from bad to amazing to worse so fast I can’t figure out what to do.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry you’ve been tangled up in such a mess. It hardly seems fair. You’ve had more than your share of this kind of thing already between Mike and your dad. I had no idea things had gotten so...personal...between you and this Max fellow.”

  Heather sank farther into the couch cushions, suddenly exhausted. “It sort of crept up on me. How can someone be so wonderful and then so horrible?”

  Her mother’s sigh held so much regret. “I asked that about your father so many times. He loved you so much. He would do anything for you. But your accident seemed to bring out something...I don’t know...raw and angry inside him. Something that became bigger than him, something that swallowed up all the love inside him even though I think it was born out of his love for you.” She paused before adding, “Yes, I forgave him, but it was a long time before I could.”

  Heather was hoping for something that would feel more like a solution. Instead, her mother’s words made her feel as though she were living in a continual cycle of the same problem. As if injury, disease and their aftermath would haunt her the rest of her life.

  “Why do you think Max did what he did? Did he tell you?”

  “He thought he was standing up for Simon. Letting the bully kid know that there were bigger, stronger bullies who would defend Simon. He said he thought it had to be done, and he’d take the heat for it so that Simon wouldn’t be a target again. Only he’s just made Simon a bigger target—and let all of us down in the bargain. How can he claim to care about me and do something like this when he knew I was trusting him with Simon?” She grabbed a tissue off the coffee table as the tears started up again. “How, Mom?”

  “He went about it all wrong, absolutely. But even I know that people lash out when something precious to them is threatened. I’m not making excuses, but it may be that Max wasn’t quite ready for how much he’d come to care about you and Simon.”

  “He picked the worst way to show it.”

  “Oh, I agree. But even your father’s vengeance began with his deep love for you. Your father just kept on going down the sinkhole, getting darker and darker. Seems to me Max will either wake up to what he’s done and try to set it right, or he’ll head down a sinkhole of his own.”

  “What do I do?” Her words sounded like a little girl’s whine.

  “I don’t know that there’s much you can do right now. Try to be there for Simon—do what’s best for him. Pray. If Max is the man you think he might be, he’ll own up to how he’s hurt you. Your heart will tell you what to do then.”

  “What if it tells me to walk away? Like I did to Mike?”

  “You know why you left Mike. Don’t start doubting that decision just because it’s come on you again. You are a survivor, Heather. You’ve healed from more than most people your age. God would not want you with someone who will hurt you. I’m certain what Max does next will tell you what you need to know. But I’ll still pray.” Her mom’s voice took on the edge of tears now, too. “I’ve never stopped praying. I’m so proud of you. You know that?”

  “I do, Mom. Thanks.”

  Heather set down the phone and echoed her Mom’s advice. “Okay, Max Jones. The ball’s in your court.” She remembered the way Max had flung himself out of his chair to make Simon feel better that afternoon they had played Ping-Pong, and her heart twisted. Get through to him, Lord. He could be so wonderful.

  * * *

  “Will you tell him to give me a call or stop by the cabins?” Max handed the church secretary a card, feeling naive for expecting Pastor Allen to be free and available whenever a sorry soul came waltzing into church in need. God probably only worked like that in the movies. Then again, when that steeple had appeared in his sights, all lit in sunshine like a neon arrow pointing “Go here”...

  A thought struck him. “Hey, what’s the name of that older lady from the knitting group, the short one, kinda feisty? Her name starts with a V, I think...”

  “Violet Sharpton?”

  “Yes, her. Are you allowed to give me her phone number?”

  “I won’t need to. She’s just down the hall in the church library. You can go talk to her yourself.”

  Max found himself not entirely ready to put this particular plan into action. Still, he’d heard the knitting ladies talk about how shawls were best for times when words wouldn’t do, and he knew he didn’t have the words to apologize to Heather. He’d hoped that talking with the pastor would help him find the words...but maybe he could show his remorse in another way. Max wheeled himself out of the office in the direction the secretary had pointed, trying not to think that maybe Pastor Allen wasn’t available just so Violet Sharpton could hear his outrageous request. I’m not ready to be one of JJ’s “God appointments.”

  When he turned into the library, Mrs. Sharpton was standing at a table stacked high with children’s books.

  “Hot Wheels! You’re the last person I expected to see today. How are you, Max?”

  How to answer that? “I’m in a bit of hot water, Mrs. Sharpton, and I think I might need your help.”

  She whipped off her glasses and came around to his side of the table. “Well, now, that’s a mighty intriguing answer. Let me sit down and you can tell me what’s up.”

  At first he yearned to spill out the whole story, but he decided some of the details weren’t quite public and perhaps it was time to show a little discretion for a change. “I’ve done something that’s hurt Heather Browning, and I’d like to ask you to make a special prayer shawl as my way of apologizing.”

  The older woman folded her hands. “Oh, my. That sounds serious.”

  “I suppose it is.” Max cast his eyes around the room, suddenly self-conscious. This was a silly, mushy idea and he shouldn’t be here. And yet it also seemed like the perfect gesture. “It’s...it’s not something I can easily fix. As a matter of fact, it might not be something I can fix at all, w
hich is why I think the shawl might be a good idea.”

  “Means that much to you, does she?”

  The older woman was making grand assumptions, but her eyes were so amused he found he couldn’t get angry. “Well, I don’t really know yet, Mrs. Sharpton.”

  She waved his denial away with a tsk. “Call me Vi. And of course you know. You wouldn’t be here with your face so red if you didn’t.” She gave him a “fess up” look that would have had him sinking guiltily into a chair if he wasn’t already in one. “What did you do, son?”

  He really didn’t want to go into it. Then again, if Gordon Falls worked the way everyone said it did, everyone would know before the end of the day anyhow. He told her the shortest version of recent events he could manage.

  “Well, now, I don’t know what to say.” She planted her thin little hands on her hips. “Half of me wants to clap you on the back for giving that hooligan a what for, and the other half wants to knock you upside the head for showing such a poor example. What ever made you think that was a smart idea?”

  Before he realized it, Max had spilled the whole business about Mike Pembrose and the speech Luke Sullivan had given him. He hadn’t even told most of that to JJ, so he had no idea why it all came out to this little gray-haired spitfire of a woman who somehow seemed kind and chastising at the same time. “I think we’re pretty much a lost cause, Heather and I, and that’s for the best. Still, I feel like I have to do something and not leave it like this.”

  Vi sat back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. “So, you’ve decided it’s a lost cause, have you? Better to not give Heather a chance to let you down than to risk taking it any further. That Luke Sullivan was right all along, you think.”

  Well, when you put it that way... Max shrugged, at a loss for an answer.

  Violet Sharpton reached out and whacked him on the head. “Luke Sullivan is dead wrong, young man! And where he is right now ought to prove it to you!”