Power in the Blood (John Jordan Mystery)

by Michael Lister

  “Well, I’ve got to go,” Kim said as the last seconds of the first half were ticking down.

  “Good luck. You look great,” I said.

  Later that night we danced slowly to Boz Scaggs’s “Look What You’ve Done To Me” and to other songs, most of them unfamiliar to me. It reminded me of high school—distant dances and young love. She danced close to me, but not too close. Actually, not nearly close enough.

  “I think your dress is overpowering me,” I said as we danced to a ballad Richard Marx had written for his wife.

  “Why do you say that?” she whispered, seemingly in some sort of trance herself.

  “Because I would swear that your hair smells like peaches.”

  She smiled.

  Still later that night, I took her home and kissed her good night—a perfect first kiss: gentle, slightly lingering, and hinting of more, much more. It was a perfect night.

  Even later that night, I went to bed with a smile on my face and dreamt of picking peaches in what must have been paradise, maybe even the Garden of Eden, but I assure you they were not forbidden fruit.

  They were fruit from the Tree of Life.

  Chapter 23

  The great fiery eye in the sky was covered in a thick asbestos blanket of rain-threatening clouds. Relief. It was the coolest morning in weeks—still, it never dipped lower than ninety. Many of the Native Americans in our area had been doing a ceremonial rain dance for weeks. Had we known how to do it, many of us Other Americans would have joined them. Perhaps today our prayers and dances would be answered.

  Laura and I were driving east on Highway 20 toward Tallahassee in my dad’s new Ford Explorer. It was white with tan leather interior that still smelled new. My old Chevy S-10 was not an appropriate chariot for the Lady Laura. The Lady, who was less talkative than the previous night, looked regal in her long, fitted black dress, her hair down, small gold loop earrings, and a single gold chain around her neck. Her look was as understated as it was devastating.

  For the first part of our trip she said very little. She looked and sounded sleepy. I couldn’t help but wonder what waking up beside her would be like. I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to get out of bed if I did.

  “When are you going to tell me why we’re dressed like this?” she asked.

  I was wearing a black Mark Alexander suit with a gray pinstripe, a black shirt with an Episcopal collar, and black wing tip shoes.

  “Did you bring a change of clothes?” I asked.

  “Yes, but that doesn’t answer my question,” she said, her eyes twinkling though they still looked half-asleep. I guess I should have said half-awake.

  “You don’t like surprises?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t,” she said. Her face, besides looking slightly sleepy, looked pure and childlike, due in part to its sleepiness and in part to its natural look. If she had any makeup on at all, it was not visible—with the exception of a small amount around her eyes.

  “That figures,” I said.

  “Oh, really,” she said, leaning forward preparing to engage. The new leather creaked as she moved. “And exactly what does that mean?”

  “You’re just too guarded, too addicted to control to like surprises,” I said.

  “Listen,” she said, her irritation showing, “I’m pretty close to getting my master’s degree in psychology, so I don’t need some prison priest who’s taken a few psychology classes spouting off psycho babble to me.”

  “I see,” I said.

  We were silent for a while. I couldn’t help smiling.

  “Why are you smiling so big?” she asked behind a smile of her own.

  “I enjoy your company,” I said. “I also enjoy giving you a dose or two of your own medicine.”

  “I am working on my OC tendencies,” she said. “How about you?”

  “What about me?” I asked. I felt the muscles in my stomach tighten.

  “Are you actively working on your recovery? I’ve heard a few things about you, you know.”

  “Been checking up on me, have you?”

  “A girl has to be careful these days.”

  “You’re not a girl, and I have no doubt that you can handle yourself quite well. As to your question, I do not miss my two AA meetings each week, I have a sponsor, and I read a lot of recovery books.”

  “I know. I just wanted to see how honest you were about it. You think I would go off with a recovering alcoholic without being sure that he was, in fact, recovering.”

  “It seems you know a good deal about me. Tell me about you.”

  “I will. Just as soon as you tell me where we’re going.”

  “Okay,” I said trying to think of how to tell her. “Here goes. We are going out to eat and to a jazz concert in the park and to spend a leisurely afternoon in our state’s beautiful capital.”

  “Don’t you mean lovely?” she asked. “And, I am talking about this morning. What are we doing this morning?”

  “Well, on the way to an exciting afternoon, we’re going to a funeral.”

  “You are taking me to a funeral on our first date?” she asked and then opened her mouth to speak again and could not.

  “I can’t believe I was here to see it,” I said. “You’re speechless. You are actually speechless.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?” she said. Her smile had completely vanished now, replaced with the look of disgust ordinarily reserved for perverts. “I can’t believe this. I hate funerals.”

  “I don’t know anybody who loves them, but it’s certainly an important time of ministry for me. People experiencing loss need help. However, I did arrange for you to stay with a friend of mine during the funeral if you want to.”

  “Whose funeral is it?” she asked.

  The sides of the highway, like every highway in northwest Florida, were lined with rows of pine trees. The occasionally visible sun behind the rows of trees caused them to cast shadows like prison bars across the highway.

  “One of the inmates from Potter,” I said.

  “Do you go to all of the inmates’ funerals?” she asked. She seemed to really be trying to understand. Gone was her look of shock, replaced now with a look of curiosity.

  “No. Actually, this is my first one,” I said.

  “Why this one?” she asked.

  “His family asked me to do it.”

  “You’re doing the funeral?” she asked her eyes widening.

  I nodded.

  “Did you know the family from before?” she asked.

  “I’ve never met them, and if I met the inmate, I don’t remember it.”

  She was silent, her eye taking on the abandoned look of someone in deep thought.

  “Listen,” I said, “I’m very sorry about this. You were giving me such a hard time yesterday I thought I’d pull this little surprise on you, but I shouldn’t have. It was inappropriate, and I’m sorry. However, I probably didn’t think it’s such a bizarre thing to go to a funeral because they are so much a part of what I do.”

  “I’ve never thought of it that way,” she said, her expression changing from contemplation to compassion. “You must stay depressed.”

  “I have my fair share of depression, but probably not too much more than most people.”

  “I would think that someone in your position, whether it be a chaplain, minister, or priest, would either have to totally disassociate or vicariously feel depressed most of the time.”

  “You’re right that many people in helping professions maintain a professional aloofness in order to protect themselves, but as someone whose primary job it is to follow Jesus and enter into the sufferings of others, I can’t do that. The foundation of ministry is compassion—to feel with others.”

  “No, I guess you can’t disassociate,” she said, “not like us cold clinical shrinks anyway.”

  “To be honest, I think the best caregivers, whether counselors, doctors, nurses, or ministers, are those WHO risk truly caring.”

  “Maybe. But who ca
n do that without eventually burning out, or worse?”

  “It is a tightrope. And I fall off it quite often. But I’ve been through some pretty dark times in my life, and those who tried to help me from a safe distance out in the light were unable to.”

  “So, what do you do?” she asked.

  “I care. I get my heart broken. I get manipulated. I get depressed, but only occasionally. And that’s because I care for people, but I don’t adopt them. I do all I can, and if they need more, then God will send them someone else who can give them more, and if she doesn’t, well then she must not want them to be helped anymore. I try to be responsive to needs, and I try not to take responsibility for people.”

  “And that works?” she asked with genuine interest.

  “Not very often. No. But in theory . . . in theory, it’s great.”

  She laughed. It was a nice laugh and the first time I heard her laugh genuinely. Every other time I had heard her laugh it was at me and had it come out forced and a little mean.

  “I bet it does work for you,” she said, becoming instantly serious, “and I have a lot to learn before I begin my practice.”

  “Anyone who says they have a lot to learn is someone I trust. I’m willing to be your first client and send you my referrals. And, if you ever get to the place where you feel like you don’t have a lot to learn, let me know, because I’ll need to terminate our sessions and find someone who does.”

  “It’s a deal,” she said, but then seemed to reconsider. “However, if we have a relationship, won’t that be unethical, you know, dual relationships and all?”

  “So you think we might have a relationship then, huh?”

  “We have a relationship now, but I would say that if I don’t drive you off and if your God is not overly jealous, then we might have even more of a relationship by then.”

  “She is very jealous, but she will share me with one other lover, so long as she’s good for me and she knows who’s the wife and who’s the mistress.”

  We were silent again. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds and reflected off the car in front of us. I put on my shades. They improved the situation only slightly. I pulled over to the left to pass, and when I did, I noticed that Laura eased her right hand over to the door and held onto the handle. Her knuckles turned red and then white.

  After we had safely passed the car and she had time to recuperate, she said, “I would like to go to the funeral with you, and I’m sorry for before.”

  The clouds covered the sun again. I pulled my shades off.

  “Now, will you tell me about yourself?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. You seem to see way too much as it is.”

  I looked at her with an expression that said, I don’t buy it.

  “Well, the short version is that I’m working at FedEx while I finish up my master’s at FSU. I should finish this fall or at least by the spring. I would like to have a practice in Tallahassee, but the field is so

  flooded now that it’s doubtful that I will.”

  “What about family?” I asked.

  “My dad lives in Tallahassee. He was a deputy with your dad at one point. He and my mother divorced when I was thirteen. My mom and my sister live in Pottersville.”

  “You too, right?”

  “No. I just visit on the weekends. You think I would let a strange man come to my home?”

  “Strange?” I asked.

  “You’re taking me to a funeral on a date.”

  I gave her a small shrug, conceding the point.

  “My mom teaches school, and Kim is going to attend TCC in the fall. My mom’s brother is the president of the bank in Pottersville.”

  “Have you ever been married?” I asked.

  “I’m not ready to discuss that yet.”

  “Okay. I understand.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kids?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Anything else I should know?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’ve always been a sucker for compassionate men who look like Catholic priests and take me to funerals for our first date.”

  “That’s good to know,” I said.

  The funeral home was actually a small double-wide trailer. It was only slightly larger than my trailer, but it was way too big for the number of people who showed up for Ike Johnson’s funeral. In addition to Laura and myself, there were four other people there—two elderly black ladies, his grandma and aunt, and two young people, his sister and his friend. The funeral home was named Jack’s. It didn’t even say Jack’s Funeral Home on the sign—just Jack’s. There were an uneven number of wooden pews on the right and left sides of the chapel. They needed another couple of coats of paint. The thin red carpet had stains and smelled like old socks.

  I had wrestled with what to say all week. I felt it must be something about God’s love and his ability to redeem the worst of situations and people.

  I said, “God’s mercies, the Bible says, are new every morning. That means that every single morning, God’s infinite mercies are fresh and unused and waiting for us. They were waiting for Ike this morning no less than for you and me. You may say that Ike didn’t live the way he should have and so surely God’s mercies were not available for him. But I say that it is when we don’t do what we should that we need mercy most, and it is also when mercy is most available to us.

  “Grace is not what we deserve, but what we need. Justice gives us what we deserve, but grace gives us what we need. If God doesn’t love Ike as much as he does you and me, then God’s love is conditional and the Bible is wrong. But if the Bible is true, if Jesus was right, then God is love, filled with compassion even for those who make themselves his enemies. God is love.

  “All I ask of you today is to believe and trust in the absolute love of God. A God, who like the father in Jesus’ story of the prodigal son, welcomes us home even after we rejected him and run away to a foreign land to get as far away from him as we could. This past Tuesday, Ike closed his eyes in this world and opened them in the next. He opened them on the familiar and loving eyes of God, who, as a father, loves Ike and loves you and me, his children. Johnathan Edwards, the famous Puritan preacher, was wrong. We’re not sinners in the hands of an angry God. We’re sinners in the hands of a merciful God. Dare to believe in love, in God. For God is love.”

  Throughout the entire message no one made eye contact with me except for Laura. That’s not a complaint—even from ten feet away her eyes were incredible. She looked at me the way some people do when they hear you speak for God. It was a very dangerous thing, and I could tell that she was seeing far more than was there. Or perhaps more likely, she wasn’t putting what she saw into the full context of my broken-down life. I closed with the hope for atonement that extends past the borders of this world and the few nice things that some of the inmates had said about Ike. The latter I stretched so far they almost broke.

  After the funeral, the family thanked me and tried to pay me. As Laura and I were preparing to leave, the young man they had said was a friend of Ike’s asked if he could talk to me, which was funny because until that moment he hadn’t acknowledged my presence at all.

  “Preacher, I loved Ike,” he said, still looking down at the floor. “I even went to see him a couple of times in prison. But then something happened to him. Drugs, I think, but something else too. He got in over his head. I think they killed him. I wanted you to know.”

  “Who do you think killed him?” I asked.

  “Whoever he was involved with,” he said.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Don Hall.”

  “Is there a number I can reach you at if I find something out or need to ask you some questions?”

  He shook his head and walked away. After taking about five steps, he stopped, nearly turned around, but then continued walking. Laura was waiting for me in the back near the door.

  “Do you believe all that?”
Laura asked when we were back in the car.

  “Believe all what?” I asked.

  “All those things that you said in your sermon, which, by the way, was excellent.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “How can you believe such hopeful things when the world is such a hopeless place?”

  “How can I not? Besides, the world is filled with hope as well. Grace shows up all the time; we just usually miss it when it does.”

  “What grace?”

  “Dancing with you last night, that was a grace. And your peach perfume, that was a grace, too. A good night’s rest is a grace, a rainy night, the weekend, the love of a parent, the loyalty of a friend. God speaks through all of these things and more. In fact, she speaks through the bad things as well—it’s just usually things we don’t want to hear.”

  “But how can you know all of this has meaning?” she asked. Her voice said she wanted to believe.

  “I admit that it’s wishful thinking,” I said. “But certainly it is not blind faith—there is evidence. However, the fact that I find meaning in them says something, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess it does,” she said. She shook her head slowly. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you.” She reached over to the armrest where my right arm was and took my hand. “You did a good thing back there. You’re a good man.”

  I didn’t respond. I didn’t have the heart to tell her how badly she was mistaken.

  For the rest of the afternoon, we clung to each other, savoring every moment. I could tell that the crisis dynamic of the funeral had had a profound effect on us. We were grasping for life, hoping to find something within each other. We were moving too fast, and I knew it, but I lacked the will to do anything about it.

  Chapter 24

  Under cover of a small oak grove, I parked on an old twin-path logging road in my dad’s Explorer. Dan Fogelberg sounded rich and full on compact disc played on the vehicle’s expensive stereo system. One of the few things I was left with after the divorce was a rather nice collection of CDs. Susan was never into music much, which was a downer while we were married but turned out to be most beneficial when we divorced. The only other thing that I escaped life with Susan with was my stereo system, which, combined with my CD collection, was worth more than the trailer in which I kept them.