Whispers from Yesterday

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  If he told her what God had revealed to him, that he’d been trying to do the work of the Holy Spirit, she wouldn’t understand. Some things had to be spiritually discerned, and Karen wasn’t ready yet.

  But she wanted to understand. He could see that.

  Karen watched the expression on his face, saw the way his brows drew together, could tell he was trying to think of a polite way to tell her to mind her own business.

  “I made a mistake coming up here. I’ll leave you alone.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait.”

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder. He was standing now.

  “Please.” He held out his arm toward her. “Let’s talk.”

  She raised an eyebrow, expressing her skepticism.

  “Please. I’m sorry I was rude. I took my frustration out on you, and that was wrong of me.” He motioned toward the creek. “Come on. We’ll sit in the shade. I could use a rest. I’ve got a jar of Sophia’s lemonade sitting in the water to stay cool.”

  “I don’t want to be in your way.” She turned fully toward him.

  “You won’t be.” His smile was both gentle and earnest. “You aren’t. Honest.”

  Her better judgment told her she should return to the house. Her heart begged her to stay. Her heart won.

  With a nod, she said, “Lead the way, and I’ll follow.” She didn’t take his hand.

  He walked down a steep embankment, then followed the creek about twenty yards to a place where a couple of tall cottonwoods grew along the bank. There was a large boulder halfway in the water, and Dusty motioned toward it.

  “Take your shoes off,” he said. “Sit a spell.”

  “You sound like the intro to the Beverly Hillbillies.”

  He laughed, a genuine sound of pleasure. “Guess I do, at that.”

  Dusty leaned against the large rock and, with a grunt, pulled off one of his boots, then the other. When he was barefoot, his boots and socks safely placed away from the water’s edge and his pant legs rolled up to midcalf, he waded into the stream, sucking in a quick breath when his feet first touched the water.

  “Cold?” she asked.

  “Not at all. It’s perfect.” He grimaced—or was he trying to grin around his chattering teeth? “Come on and join me.”

  Her pulse quickened. She wondered if he had any idea what he did to her. And if he did, was there even a small chance she affected him in the same way?

  “Come on, K-Karen. Don’t be a scaredy-cat.”

  “A what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Your lips are turning blue.”

  “Naw. It’s just shadows from the trees.” He pointed toward the spreading branches of the cottonwoods. “It’s n-not c-cold, M-Miss B-Butler.”

  She knew he was exaggerating his stutter, and she couldn’t help smiling at his efforts. It was good to see him in a teasing mood.

  He grinned, a charming, carefree sort of smile.

  Her heart flipped, like flapjacks on her grandmother’s griddle.

  His grin faded. “Take your boots off, Karen,” he said softly. “It really does feel good.”

  She realized she would have done anything to please him at that precise moment. She sat on the boulder and removed her boots and socks. Then she yanked her narrow-leg jeans up her calves as high as they would go—which wasn’t very far. They were certain to get wet.

  “Here,” Dusty said from behind her. “Just stay seated and turn around. I’ll join you.”

  She did as she was told, a little disappointed not to be standing with him in the middle of the creek. Maybe if she’d gone to him when he first called to her, he would have taken her in his arms. Maybe he would have kissed her.

  Instead, they sat side by side on the large rock, their feet dangling in the icy stream. They weren’t quite touching, but they were close. The silence of the desert surrounded them, broken only by the gurgling music of the creek and the whisper of a hot summer’s breeze rustling the leaves of the cottonwoods.

  After a long silence, Dusty said, “Karen?”

  She turned to look at him. He was watching her with eyes darkened by deep thoughts, his expression solemn.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “There’s something I’d like to tell you.” He hesitated, as if having second thoughts. Then he continued, “I want to tell you about the night my best friend died.”

  Friday, August 20, 1937

  Dear Diary,

  I have been a poor chronicler of events. So much has happened since my last entry, I scarcely know where to begin.

  Mikkel and I traveled by rail across the vast United States. How provincial I felt as we were carried from one state to another. America is so much more than the wide swath of Snake River and rolling farmlands of eastern Oregon. I never imagined anything like the majestic Rocky Mountains or the endless prairies east of them or the crowded cities beyond that.

  We had a section in the sleeping car, which made our lengthy journey more comfortable than it would have been otherwise. The train was air-conditioned. Such a luxury in the middle of summer.

  During the day, we spent many pleasant hours in the observation car. Mikkel knows no strangers, and he initiated many conversations with other passengers. I felt a special thrill whenever he introduced me by saying, “And this is my wife, Esther Christiansen.”

  I felt quite pampered by the porters who saw to our needs and answered my many questions. We took most of our meals on the train, but occasionally we ate in a rail station’s modern café. The food in those cafés was good, and the staff behind the counters were faultlessly cheerful to their customers.

  I must admit, despite the comfort of our train travel, I was thankful when we reached New York City. I was ready to put solid ground beneath my feet for a time.

  But if I felt provincial before, I now felt positively dull-witted. So many people. Such tall buildings. I could not begin to describe it for I do not have the vocabulary. I was a foreigner in a strange land, and my fears I had thought laid to rest returned. If I felt so out of place in New York City, where everyone was American and spoke English, how was I going to feel once we reached Denmark?

  But Mikkel eased my fears, encouraging me to read my Bible and promising that I would find answers therein. And so I did. Psalm 119:19 says, “I am a stranger in the earth: hide not thy commandments from me.”

  I am a stranger on earth, for my portion is in heaven with the Lord my God. Jesus said, “Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.” Thus, while I may be a stranger, I am never alone. What a glorious promise!

  But I digress.

  Our ocean voyage is better not talked about. I was miserably sick most of the time. Poor Mikkel. He was forever waiting on me. Unfailingly patient and caring. If anything would make me want to remain in Europe, it would be the thought of the return voyage.

  Be that as it may, I have fallen in love with Copenhagen and with Mikkel’s “bedstefar” (that is Danish for grandfather). Fritz Christiansen is a man of seventy-three years. He is round and plump with a bushy snow-white beard and thinning white hair on his head. He is not nearly as tall as Mikkel, but their eyes are very much the same. Pale blue and penetrating. He has a wonderful laugh, one that rises from deep in his chest. He has welcomed me into his home like a long-lost granddaughter. Though he speaks hardly any English and my Danish is faltering, we have formed a strong bond.

  One last thing, for it grows late.

  I should like to tell you about where we are living. The house is narrow and three stories tall with an attic besides. Very different from the farmhouse where I grew up. It is in the western quarter of Copenhagen, set among other homes very similar to it.

  The city of Copenhagen is many hundreds of years older than the tiny town of my birth. It is cooler and more damp than I am used to, but I think I shall become accustomed to the difference. There is a university not far from the house, a school with some five thousand students.

  Now if
only I could find someone whom I could talk to, I would be happy, for Mikkel is gone much of the day, already involved with the members of Grandfather Fritz’s church.

  Esther

  THIRTEEN

  “His name was Pete.” Dusty stared into the gurgling stream. “Pete Gold. We met in the seventh grade and became fast friends.” He shook his head. “My dad really disliked Pete. Maybe that’s why we became inseparable. I wanted to spite my dad.”

  Karen thought of her relationship with her own father. She’d done just the opposite. She’d done anything and everything she could to try to please him, to earn his approval and affection.

  “My mom died when I was five. My dad raised me alone. Dad was a tough, don’t-argue-with-me kind of guy, and he wasn’t afraid to apply the palm of his hand to my backside when he thought I needed it. And I needed it often. More than he knew. Especially after I fell in with Pete. We were a couple of inexperienced punks looking for trouble, and we found plenty of it too.”

  Karen wondered if he exaggerated. The Dusty she’d come to know during the past month was about as straight and narrow as any person she’d met.

  “We ended up with a few minor marks on our juvenile records. Nothing too serious. We managed to avoid the cops on the big stuff. Dumb luck mostly.” He glanced at the sky, frowning. “Dad and I fought a lot by the time I was in high school. I thought he was a real square. He thought I was a real delinquent.”

  No wonder he’d been so sensitive when she’d used that word to describe the boys at the Golden T.

  Dusty shook his head as he returned his gaze to her. “Later, I could see that my dad loved me and how hard he tried to save me from myself. But I couldn’t see it then.”

  “Hindsight,” she whispered. “Everything’s easier in hindsight.”

  “The night of my sixteenth birthday, Dad was sick. He wasn’t the sort to take to his bed for no reason, but I was mad ‘cause we’d made plans and he was breaking them. So when Pete showed up in a car, I took off with him.”

  In a low voice, he told her the story of a night spent drinking beer and cruising the streets of Chicago. It was a sadly too-common story that ended in tragedy.

  “Turned out, Pete’s aunt hadn’t given him that car. He’d stolen it. The police arrested me, and my dad had to get up from his sickbed to bail me out of jail. He was just a working stiff. Never made much money, but he put everything he owned in hock to hire the best attorney he could find.”

  Dusty turned his head away, but the crack in his voice as he continued his story confirmed the depth of his emotions.

  “The next weeks were awful. There was Pete’s funeral, seeing his mom weeping next to his casket. There were the meetings with attorneys and the hearings and wondering if I was going to end up in jail. And Dad … he kept getting sicker and sicker. But I hardly noticed. I was too caught up in my own problems. Me, me, me.”

  He fell silent.

  Karen wanted to touch him, wanted to take hold of his hand and squeeze, wanted to offer some sort of comfort.

  He slid off the boulder. His feet hit the water with a splash. With his back to her, he lifted a hand to his face, and she suspected he was wiping away his tears. Then his shoulders rose and fell as he drew in a deep breath and released it. When he faced her again, he’d regained control.

  “Dad lived long enough for me to get off on some legal technicality. I didn’t have any other family, and there wasn’t any money left after the hospitals and lawyers were done. So I threw a few things into a duffel bag and left Chicago. Hitchhiked my way across the country, doing odd jobs, stealing when I had to, surviving the best way I knew how.”

  She nodded. No wonder he’d been haunted by Hal taking off the way he had.

  “Took me about a year to wind up in Owyhee County. Jock Carter found me trying to keep warm in a threadbare sleeping bag on a frigid October night. He took me back to his ranch, fed me, clothed me, took care of me.”

  Dusty searched for the right words. Everything else he’d told her had been history. Now what he said, if her heart was ready, could change her future.

  “Jock was a true witness of Christ’s love. He ran a place for boys, a lot like this one, only it operated year-round. Watching him, I came to understand the forgiveness Jesus was offering me if I’d give my life to Him.”

  Karen was concentrating on what he said—he could tell by the look in her eyes and the way she worried her lower lip between her teeth.

  “I accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior when I was eighteen. It radically changed my life.” He glanced downstream, in the direction of the ranch. “Ultimately, it’s God’s unconditional love and forgiveness that I hope each of the boys will find.”

  After a moment of silence, Karen said, “Tell me something, Dusty.”

  He met her gaze. “Sure.”

  “If you believe God’s forgiveness is unconditional, why are you trying so hard to earn it?”

  Her question caught him unprepared. His mind went blank; he couldn’t think of an answer.

  She turned away from the stream, stood on dry ground, then reached for her socks and boots.

  “Maybe I’m wrong,” she said as she yanked on the first boot, “but it seems to me you’re still feeling guilty about Pete and your dad and who knows what else.” She pulled on the second boot, then straightened. “Awhile ago you said God was telling you that you’ve been trying to save these kids and you can’t. Maybe that’s true. Looks to me like you’re trying to save yourself, too.”

  Unable to form a reply, Dusty watched her leave.

  Was she right? Was that what he’d been doing?

  She’s not a believer. She didn’t understand what I was telling her.

  But did he think God couldn’t use an unbeliever to speak to him? In fact, it seemed the Lord had used her twice today already. First up by the bridge. Now here.

  Does that mean my work has all been in vain, Lord? I’ve believed You placed me here, that You wanted me to open this camp. I’ve believed it was Your will I continue Jock’s work. Have I been wrong?

  Open your hands, My son.

  He held his breath, and his pulse quickened as he waited. Open your heart. Open and let go. Let go of what, Lord?

  Release whatever fills your hands and your heart, and receive the abundance I offer you. Receive from Me. Jesus?

  You are accepted in the Beloved, My son.

  Dusty stepped out of the creek, overwhelmed by the outpouring of love that filled his heart. Not his love for God, but the Father’s love for him.

  He didn’t want to set up idols. He didn’t want to negate the work of Christ by trying to achieve his own salvation through good works. He wanted to be squarely in the midst of God’s perfect will.

  “Lord,” he whispered, his face and hands—open hands—raised toward heaven, “I thank You.”

  And in that moment, he truly and finally let go of the past.

  It was one of those soft summer evenings when the air was freshened by the green scent of irrigated alfalfa fields and the more pungent aroma of sage. The evening stars twinkled in a sky not yet gone dark. Basalt outcrops, rising unexpectedly from the forbidding Owyhee Range, resembled ruins of ancient citadels with their highest ramparts kissed gold by the last rays of a sinking sun.

  Sophia watched the dying of the day from her bench in the garden.

  It was a familiar summertime ritual, one she had observed for more than fifty years. In the beginning, of course, Bradley had been beside her.

  I still miss him. Even after all these years.

  It was easy to imagine her husband sitting there, his arm draped over her shoulders in that relaxed, devoted manner of his. She could see them both clearly in her mind’s eye, so young, so full of hopes and dreams.

  It’s true. Youth is wasted on the young. It’s too bad we have to get old before we understand it.

  “Grandmother? Are you out here?”

  “Yes, I’m here. On the bench.”

  Karen appeared o
n the path as it spilled through the abundance of flowers and shrubs that made this garden Sophia’s special oasis. “I wondered where you’d disappeared to.”

  “The evening was too lovely to ignore.”

  “It is nice tonight, isn’t it?”

  “Sit beside me, dear.” She patted the bench.

  Karen did so, then turned her gaze beyond the boundaries of the ranch. “There’s a kind of haunting beauty about this place. When I first came, I thought the only word to describe it was desolate, but I was wrong. It … oh, I don’t know. It sort of grows on you.”

  Sophia laughed softly in agreement.

  “I’m still afraid I’ll find a rattlesnake at every turn,” her granddaughter added with a shudder.

  “Not an unreasonable concern.” “Oh, that reassures me.”

  “Snakes aren’t all bad. They eat the slugs and insects that could ruin this garden.”

  “Everything’s got a purpose. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Yes, I guess it is.” Sophia took hold of Karen’s hand and squeezed it. “You’ve found some degree of contentment here with us, haven’t you, my dear?”

  “Yes. I have.” There was a look of real affection in her eyes.

  Should I tell her, Lord? Is now the time to tell her about Esther and Mikkel and her mother?

  “I talked to Dusty this afternoon,” Karen said. “Like you told me to.”

  “And?”

  “I think I understand him a little better.” A frown narrowed her eyes. “But in some ways I’m more confused than ever.”

  “About Dusty?”

  “Him … and other things, too.”

  “Keep seeking, dear. You’ll find your answers as long as you seek them with an open heart.”

  The cloak of darkness fell over the garden and its inhabitants. The yawning stretch of desert surrounding them amplified the night sounds—the hoot of an owl, a coyote’s mournful cry, a bullfrog’s ribbet, ribbet, even the whine of a diesel engine as a truck, somewhere in the distance, sped along the ribbon of highway.

  After a long while, Karen said softly, “Do you truly believe God is up there, listening to us, caring about us?”