“Tom, look, I’m not—”
“Hold on,” I say as I raise a hand to halt where she’s going. “Look, I’m only—just hear me out for a sec, okay? Let me talk as just Tom and not the esteemed Thomas Endler, attorney-at-law.”
“Oh, is that guy supposed to be ‘esteemed’?”
“No. I sure hope not. Look—it’s just . . . I had this girlfriend, years ago. The one I told you about. Seems like about fifty years ago but it wasn’t that long. I remember—she loved having a good time. She was like one of those crazy parties you attend in college that you’ll be talking about years later. Except she relived it way too many times. She was . . . to be honest, she was quite a mess. But I loved her. I did. She broke my heart. But all that said—and I’m not trying for sympathy here, so don’t look like that—I remember a promise I told her. Early on, before things got bad. I promised her something.”
“What’s that?” Grace glances up at me and I can see this outline of her pretty, innocent face.
“You ever hear of a group called Bloc Party?” I ask.
I see no trace of knowledge in her expression as she shakes her head.
“They were one of our favorite bands. My ex loved all sorts of alternative groups, and we went to lots of concerts. One of their songs has this lyric that says, ‘I made a vow to carry you home.’ I told her this. That was our song, which, actually, is quite sad. But she was the party and I was the designated driver. At least for a while. And I carried her home many nights.”
The face that looks up at me seems sad and empathetic. “You didn’t make that vow with me, you know,” she says.
“I know. It’s just—I don’t know. I felt like I let her down.”
“But you didn’t break up with her,” Grace says.
“No.”
“It was her choosing.”
“Yeah.” I glance over to the staircase, half-expecting Walter to be watching. “But I know there was more I could have done.”
“Was this girl like some kind of case you were trying?”
I shake my head. “Of course not.”
“Didn’t you tell me you didn’t like to lose?”
“Yeah, sure, but this wasn’t about winning or losing,” I say.
“It wasn’t?”
Whoa. Does she already know me that well? Am I that easy to read?
A little while ago, Grace took out her ponytail. The way her hair spills over onto her shoulder makes me feel like I’m in some kind of dumb-male stupor. Her smile seems to spin around me like a lasso.
“I mention that song because I’ve thought about that with this trial. It’s like—it’s weird, but I feel like I’m trying to do the same thing, you know? To carry you home. And I’m just afraid—”
“You’re a good guy, Tom,” she interrupts.
Suddenly I realize this woman is beautiful because she cares. She’s not being something for some kind of cause. She’s real. She’s genuine. She’s the one showing goodness. And goodness knows there’s no way I could ever even remotely show a fraction of that.
“You’re the good one. I shouldn’t be having to defend you, Grace.”
“We’re all in courtrooms. Our whole lives are one big trial.”
“That’s encouraging,” I say with a little laugh. “Can’t our lives be more like making those crazy salty caramel coconut-pecan cupcakes?”
She smiles at me as if she’s allowing my junior high sarcasm in her high school classroom.
“I find it encouraging to realize we’re on trial every single day. That’s what this thing is all about. The thing I can’t fully share in my classroom. Yes, we’re in that courtroom, but we’re not the defendant. He was already judged guilty and sentenced for us. We just have to accept the sentence and know that because of him we can be free.”
I laugh.
“What?”
“Normally I’d say some kind of wisecrack because deep down I’d be cynical about everything you said.”
“But you’re not?” Grace asks.
“No. ’Cause you believe this with such sincerity. And it’s—well, frankly I’m inspired.”
“I am too, Tom. That’s why I can’t not tell the truth.”
51
Beyond
A POST FOR WAITING FOR GODOT
by Amy Ryan
Sometimes I think this world is like a premium outlet shopping mall full of windows and doors and invitations to come in and browse and shop. Store after store, with so many choices and options and wants and needs. Name brands we know and love and desire. So often—too often—we enter through the door and become lost. We get stuck in the aisles of clothing and merchandise. Maybe we can’t decide, so we stay put. Or we become overwhelmed, so we try to hide.
The mall’s owner is nowhere to be found at this shopping mall. There’s a one-lane back road with directions on how to find him, but you have to go past all those wonderful retail shops and so many temptations. It’s easy to become distracted or to get sidetracked or to simply forget.
I was lost, circling the stores just a year ago. Then someone came along and told me I wouldn’t be around to shop anymore. So the first thing I did was go searching for something else. I tried to find that one-lane road, to experience something more meaningful. And I did.
But it’s hard when the doors open again and you’re given a nice new credit card and more time to shop.
More time.
I’m only twenty-seven but I know that my time—that all of our time—on this earth is limited.
Today—tonight—I made a decision.
I don’t want to walk around the shops anymore. I don’t want to peer into the windows, contemplating. I don’t want to wonder if that back road does eventually lead to the store owner. I want to head down it and never look back.
I don’t need to buy anything more or browse or even do some wishful window-shopping. I need to go out beyond where people are busy browsing and buying. I need to walk among those on the outskirts, those unable or unwilling to find the road to the owner. I need to go help them in any way I can.
Twice now I’ve seen faith tested. Genuine faith that’s been attacked. This is the second time I’ve been standing there in the front row to watch.
Whatever happens tomorrow, I know something: It’s time for me to get on stage. To see the lights in my eyes and to feel the sweat on my forehead and to know I’m being watched. And then—I’ll tell them to come along. Everybody watching or listening, I’ll invite them to take a walk with me. Just down this way. Just over this dirt road. This bumpy, muddy dirt road.
I’ll promise them that it leads to a better place.
Then as we walk together, side by side along this road, I’ll share the reasons I believe.
52
GOD, WHAT DO YOU WANT? Do the negative figures and overdue accounts paint my worth?
I walk down a sidewalk several blocks away from my house. I got home after leaving Grace’s house but then felt cooped up and imprisoned sitting on a couch. So I took Ressie on a walk and just kept walking. Thinking. Wondering. Maybe, possibly, praying, if this is praying. If there’s a God to pray to.
Are you there? And have you followed me all my life?
And why here and why now am I suddenly having to speak for you?
Maybe I should withdraw the question. Rephrase it.
Why here and why now have you decided to speak to me?
I hear Ressie panting. She’s seriously out of shape. Maybe I should walk her more. Maybe I should pray more.
I turn down a street and see a glow in the distance. I squint and make out the sign of a church. It gives the church’s name and service times, but I suddenly think of Grace telling me about seeing that old sign with the one bulb hanging there, illuminating a single, haunting question.
“Who do you say that I am?”
I begin to head in a different direction because I don’t want an answer. But the question follows like a fearless child bolting through the dark.
Yet I know if I turned it wouldn’t be a child running after me but my father.
Tell me, Tom. Who am I? Who do you think I am?
I see his face and I hate him. I despise this man who’s made me feel minuscule my whole life. But the voice I’m hearing is not my father’s.
So why should I allow you to do the same? Tell me why—tell me!
My skin crawls with goose bumps. I don’t know what that was, this feeling and those thoughts and this rumbling.
I listen but don’t hear a thing. At least not audibly.
But the silence doesn’t prove anything.
No.
The silence reminds me that this is not a conversation with my father. There’s nothing about this moment that has to do with dear old Dad.
He’s not here. If he were, he’d be arguing or judging or insinuating or saying something. But all I can hear is silence. A shadowy stillness blowing that same question over the back of my neck.
Who do you say that I am?
My heart aches. This isn’t a courtroom and there isn’t some point to prove. There’s just this beating pain and this voice inside and I want it to go away.
“He brings opportunities and people who help.”
Opportunities . . .
People who help . . .
Grace. It’s not even a subtle sort of irony.
I sorta love this woman not because she’s the kind I’d love but because she’s the kind who can make me more lovable in life. And maybe she’s right—maybe we were put together for a reason.
Is it for this? For this moment right now?
The arguments fill my head again. Shouting out. I hear all of them. They make me stand in place on the sidewalk.
“Please help me,” I ask God.
If I had to be honest—completely honest—I would say that there is a God and that I’ve known it all my life and it’s not because of my mother or my father but because of this quivering thing called grace boiling inside of me.
And yeah. A woman with the same name might have helped stir my simmering pot.
53
THE MORNING NUDGES her gently, kissing her forehead, then telling her to get up and get going. Amy looks at the alarm clock and knows it’s way too early to wake up, but that doesn’t matter. She knows there’s no way she’ll get back to sleep.
After a morning jog—an actual morning jog—she makes coffee and showers and eats a breakfast consisting of an omelet with tomatoes and mushrooms and green peppers. She spends time on the computer, then more time reading the Bible, then eventually turns on the television to catch the morning news. She scans several channels and then sees a picture of Grace Wesley on one of them.
Wait—what?
It’s Fox News. She might have changed her blog name and her views, but she still hasn’t changed her news preferences, so it’s strange to be suddenly watching a channel she once openly despised. There’s no hate left inside, but there’s still some genuine apprehension.
The commentator is talking about Grace and the trial. Amy turns up the volume, still stunned a bit that it’s garnered this much national attention.
“She ought to have the right to answer a legitimate question, so long as she doesn’t descend into proselytizing,” the woman on the screen says. “Unfortunately, I’m guessing she loses. In the public schools? God’s already out the door—and the progressive left will do anything to make sure it stays that way. But maybe I’m wrong; we’ll watch how this goes. I’m your host, Susan Stone. Plenty still ahead on the program.”
Amy turns off the TV. She doesn’t want or need to see any more.
I hope you’re wrong, Susan. I hope Grace proves everybody wrong.
She looks at the clock and knows she still has another hour before she needs to arrive at court. But it doesn’t matter. It’s time. She sips more coffee and prepares to leave.
Amy can watch more speculation on the screen or she can head to the place the decision will be made.
There’s no better place to sit and wait and pray.
Everyone is there waiting for the judge, just like all the other mornings. The jurors and Kane and his team and the Thawleys and everybody else. Grace is sitting at the table, looking classy in her suit jacket and skirt. Yet Grace is doing exactly what Amy is doing, looking around and staring back at the closed doors.
She’s surely wondering the same thing too.
Where’s Tom?
Of all the days to be late, this is pretty much the worst one.
Amy can see the look of worry and fear on the teacher’s face. And ever since talking with Tom that first night and studying and listening to him in this courtroom, she’s had the feeling he’s just one night away from heading down to Tijuana to escape or hide out.
Then she hears the bailiff’s voice call everybody to rise, and Amy feels a wave of panic flow through her. It only increases as Judge Stennis strides into the court and sits down, taking a quick scan of his courtroom. His courtroom and nobody else’s.
“Ms. Wesley, are we missing someone?” he asks her.
As if on cue, planned and perfectly executed, the door opens and in marches Tom like a Marine receiving some kind of medal for valor. Immediately Amy is thrown off guard. Her first thought is a bit terrifying.
Marc . . .
Tom looks like he’s gone out and gotten some professional to help dress him. Not only dress him but polish up every inch of him. Her mind reels off the items that Marc used to be so proud of.
The dark suit looks like an Armani. The gleaming black dress shoes look like Sutor Mantellassi. She spots gold cuff links and a watch that resembles a Bell & Ross timepiece. His red silk tie could be from Turnbull & Asser.
All items Marc used to brag about, all bought at the kind of shopping mall I blogged about last night.
It’s not just what Tom’s wearing but how he looks in it. He’s clean-shaven and his hair is freshly cut and he looks wide awake and alert and energized.
What’s happening here, and where’s the mutt we all knew and loved?
Tom steps past the railing and addresses the judge.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor. My apologies to the court.”
The judge appears not to want to start the morning off with a verbal scolding. He only nods and waves off the apology.
Tom approaches his table, looking at Grace with a smile.
It’s not the confident sort of smile you might have when you know you’re about to win something.
It’s more the sort of grin you get when you’re about to do something crazy.
54
“DO YOU TRUST ME?”
That’s all I ask Grace. She looks perplexed, surely wondering why I’m late and why I decided to suddenly go GQ for the court today.
“Do you?” I whisper to her again.
Last night seems like both a month and mere minutes ago. Her expression is complete confusion. But she nods slowly, not saying anything, her worried face saying it all.
“Completely?” I ask her.
This time she only gives me a look of curiosity.
I hope this goes the way I imagine it might.
I turn to the judge. “Your Honor, I have one final witness to call: Grace Wesley.”
A few voices behind me in the crowd make some noise in surprise chatter. I turn to Grace and see her complete bewilderment along with a flush that might be a combination of embarrassment and anger. Her eyes simply ask me what in the world I’m doing.
“Ms. Wesley?” Judge Stennis says. “Please approach the witness stand.”
“Do I have to?” she asks.
“I’m afraid so,” he says.
Such a lovely and demure woman, yet so feisty.
I love it.
Grace isn’t the only one in shock. The judge looks curious and Kane seems a bit alarmed. Grace still hasn’t left her seat.
Come on. You can do this, Tommy Boy.
“Your Honor,” I call out in the most authoritative voice I can. “Given the witness’s r
eluctance to testify, may I have the court’s permission to treat her as a hostile witness?”
I don’t even bother to look at Grace. From here on out, I have to focus on one thing and one thing only. Judge Stennis lowers his eyebrows and his gaze as if to try to see behind me to discern what’s happening. Yet I know what his answer has to be.
“You may.” Proceed at your own peril.
Grace walks past me but I don’t look at her. I can hear the bailiff swearing her in, and as he does I go to the table and replay the questions in my head.
Don’t give in. Don’t back down. Just ask and go with the plan.
Soon I stroll back up to her and look at her the same way I did last night. Or at least I try to look the same way. I flash a smile.
“Grace, I want you to do something for me. Something for everyone in this courtroom. Do you think you could do that?”
Her gaze shows cautious amusement. She nods, still not having any idea what’s about to happen.
“I want you to apologize. I want you to tell them—the Thawleys and the school board and everybody—that you’re sorry. Tell them you made a mistake.”
“Tom . . . ?” her weak, stunned voice asks.
I don’t bother looking at the jury. I’m sure they’re a bit confused.
“Your Honor, what’s going on here?” Kane asks behind me.
“Go ahead, Grace,” I say. “Apologize.”
I’m not talking like someone encouraging a friend to do something she’s afraid of. I’m blasting her like a cop telling someone to stay in their car.
“Tom, I don’t get—”
I cut her off. “You heard what I said, right?”
She’s pale and shocked.
“I would like you to apologize to this court and all the people in it.”
“I can’t do that,” she finally says.
Of course you can’t. You couldn’t do it in that first meeting we were in, could you?
“Why?” I ask. “Why can’t you do that, Grace?”
“Because—I don’t believe I did anything wrong.”
God's Not Dead 2 Page 24