Behind The Pines

by Lauren Brown

  “But what?” I’m nervous now.

  “Well”—he takes a drag and blows it in my direction—“you ain’t leavin’ Park Pines anytime soon.”

  I suddenly become lightheaded as if I’m going to either explode or pass out.

  “Wha—what do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. The Bear said you ain’t leavin’ at the end of the year.”

  I can feel the anger creep from my feet to my face. “He said a year. He’s already ruined my life, how much more can he take from me?”

  Rick blows more smoke into my face, burning my eyes.

  “He didn’t ruin your life, you did,” he says, laconically.

  “How much longer?”

  “He didn’t say. Could be awhile. I don’t know.”

  I sink into my seat, putting my head into my hands.

  “Where are the pills?”

  I reach into my pocket and throw the pills at him. I don’t look at him. I just look at my pleated pants and try not to punch him. He curses me as he tries to grab the pills in the cup holders and floorboard.

  “Good. Now I’m going to smoke while we wait out this hour. I’ll be back.”

  When I return to Park Pines, I can hear Hue’s record player playing The Rolling Stones. I’m angry. Really angry. I don’t want to be alone today, so for once, I knock on Hue’s door.

  He opens it slightly to check me out, then allows for me to enter. His room is predictable with military medals hanging from plaques, the smell of Cuban cigars weaved into the quilt on his bed, a picture of his mother and one of the men that were killed in Vietnam in frames on his bedside tables. A few posters of The Rolling Stones line his walls.

  “You look terrible. What happened today?” he asks over the music.

  I sit on his bed and put my hands in my lap. My head hangs as I tell him the news. “He said I can’t leave.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Rick. The Bear told him I can’t leave Park Pines in December like they promised.”

  Hue doesn’t say anything but begins making a cup of coffee in his little, personal coffee maker. We sit in silence while it brews. He hands me a cup.

  “You know, son, I had a man tell me one time what to do. It’s one thing for your mama or your daddy to tell you to do something, it’s another for a man you don’t know to tell you how to live your life.”

  He sips his coffee then continues, “I applied for a job at the lumber yard workin’ for this ole’ bastard the summer I turned fifteen. Mama had told me to ‘cause after daddy’s cancer, she couldn’t afford much anymore. So I did as she said.

  “He was a terrible alcoholic, greedy for money. I was cuttin’ the lumber one day and he just came up to me, out of the blue, and hit me in the head. Told me I wasn’t doin’ it right, that I was stupid, and my pay would be cut in half ‘cause he didn’t pay stupid people the same as he paid smart people. Know what I did?”

  I look up at him. “Turn the other cheek?” I ask sarcastically.

  He smiles. “You could say that. I turned my ass cheek to him, told him to kiss it, then punched his nose right off his ole face.” He begins to laugh, thinking back on the memory.

  I can’t manage a laugh, but I smile a little wider at this.

  “You wanna know the point in tellin’ you that story? You’ve been livin’ your life out of fear of what everyone else thinks. You’ve been scared of screwin’ up. You’ve worked on those hot days to make a name for yourself and you’ve had a man with no title to his name slap you straight clean across the face.

  “But you know what the problem is, son? It ain’t the man slappin’ you in the face, and it ain’t the world tellin’ you to be better. No, it’s your mind. You’ve let your mind take over your heart. You, son, showed him your face to slap.”

  I look into his brown, aging eyes. They remind me of an old oak that’s been struck with lightening. A brown masked by patches of mouse-gray lichens interspersed with patches of new growth from years of wear and tear.

  “I know a guy,” he says as he drinks his coffee, “who can help you.”

  “There’s no one that can help me, Hue.”

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You just showed me your face. Cut it out and show some heart, John.”

  I take a deep breath and look up at him. “You don’t know this man, Hue. He feeds off men’s hearts and poisons their spirits with fear. He will kill the last of those that I love, including Nurse Sarah.”

  “You want to fight the fire, you want out of here, listen to me.” He rolls closer to the bed. “Can you get proof, hard evidence, for the things the Bear has done to you?”

  “You mean like the prescriptions and letters from him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I guess. They’re in my father’s storage shed in Chattanooga. Sarah took them there after my office closed. Wait, why?”

  “Is there any way you could get your hands on those files?”

  “I’m not sure, why?”

  “I think the only way you’re going to give these guys the justice they deserve is to expose the truth. I have a good friend named Chip, the guy I told you about in my story. He works for the local news. He pretty much owns the station.”

  That explains why he watches the news every morning, but I still don’t know where he’s going with this.

  “And?” I prompt.

  “Well, if you can get your hands on those files, and if you can reveal your heart, I think I have a plan that can end this once and for all.”

  “Look, Hue. I’ve thought about turning him in. But you’re missing it. See, he works for the mayor. They can get away with anything. Undoing all of this mess would be about as difficult as putting toothpaste back in its tube.”

  “Hah! That’s what you think. They may have known your sister-in-law worked here, but they didn’t know that David Huey West was in this building.” He winks. “I think my plan can help.”

  “How so?”

  “I reckon we record you tellin’ your story, showin’ the proof, and have him broadcast it on the news for Johnson City to hear.”

  I choke on my coffee. He’s lost his mind. “Wait, hold on. First, you want me to somehow go to Chattanooga, three hours away, and collect files that may not even be there out of a storage unit. Second, you want me to tell the story I told you to the city. And third, you want me to believe any of this makes any logical sense?” I finally laugh out loud.

  He smiles. “Pretty much.”

  I sniff at this. There is no way this could work. “Hue, let’s say this did happen, that I could retrieve the files and tell my story, I’d be risking Beau and Janie and Sarah’s lives. If there was any slight chance in the world that this could work, that they would all be safe, I’d then happily spend the rest of my life in prison.”

  He takes a long sip of his coffee. “John, you’re already in prison. And worse, the bad guys haven’t been caught. We have to plan it just right. A time when Beau and Janie are out of town and Sarah is here. He won’t have a chance. The feds will have arrested him before he can do anything.”

  This is ridiculous. I shake my head in disagreement. “I don’t know Hue.”

  “Well, the option is out there. All I have to do is make a phone call to Chip. You think on it for awhile.” He rolls to the record player to put on another album.

  I stand and make my way back to my room. The anger I felt earlier plus this has started to make me feel dizzy.

  “Try to come to the Bible study tonight, John,” Hue annoyingly calls out to me as I close his door. The Rolling Stone’s song “Time Waits for No One” coincidentally begins to play, following me into my room.

  I try to eat my meal at dinner, but Vernie’s repetition is exasperating. LeRoy left early because of it. She’ll be transferred any day now. Vernie suddenly stops talking as a nurse informs everyone that the pastor is here for the Bible study. I watch everyone slowly stand and clean their plates before going to William’s room. He and Hue ha
ve larger rooms because of their wheelchairs, and this makes a perfect spot, supposedly, for everyone to gather and pray. I continue to sit in the lobby, waiting for everyone to clear out before going back to my room.

  Passing William’s room, I hear a nurse call out to me. It’s Sarah.

  “Ted, why don’t you join them?”

  I shake my head. “Nah, I’m okay.”

  “It’s only an hour,” she whispers as we get closer to the door then pushes me inside. She and Hope were always good at pushing their beliefs onto me.

  “Okay, everyone, take your seats,” the pastor says. He’s a shorter guy, young with thick chestnut colored hair and eyes.

  Everyone sits in plastic chairs or on William’s bed. I sit in a desk chair, arms crossed.

  “It looks like we may have some new visitors, so I’ll introduce myself. My name is George Navarette and I have been a pastor here in Johnson City for ten years now. I was, once upon a time, an engineer, but something called me to preach and reach out to those in the community, and I’ve been doing it ever since. Preaching the gospel is my passion, especially here at Park Pines.”

  I roll my eyes at this. I have so much more to think about than the gospel.

  “So, welcome to newcomers. Let’s get started.”

  I watch everyone flip his or her Bible open. I look at my impatient leg that bobs up and down.

  “Today we’re going to be reading the Parable of the Prodigal Son. A classic story in the Bible. How many of you have read this parable?”

  Hands go up around the room. I raise mine to avoid looking stupid.

  “Great,” he continues. “Let’s begin in Luke 15 in which Jesus begins to tell the story of a father and his two sons. The younger one said to his father, ‘Father give me my share of the estate.’ So his father divided the property between them.

  “Let’s stop right there and think about this for a moment. There are two sons, two children of the same father, a father that loves them both equally, and they’re both asking for money. To ask for the estate implied a wish that the father was dead. It was rude and selfish, but the father gave anyway.

  “Reading on, ‘Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living.’ We can safely assume he probably spent this money on common, earthly, materialistic things. He didn’t take the money his father gave him and invest it, he didn’t put it towards an education, towards repaying debt; he did what most humans on earth would probably do, and that is, spend it for the pleasure of the now.

  “Well”—the pastor is walking around the room now—“he pays for this carelessness because a famine strikes the whole country not long after he spends all his money. Luke 15:16 states, ‘He longed to fill his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, but no one gave him anything.’ The youngest son had forgotten about the necessity of life, of the food and water that we actually need and now, with no money, is desperate to hold onto his life.”

  He pauses and looks around the room. I’ve never heard this parable before, it’s intriguing, but I don’t think it applies to me. I’m almost tempted to leave when he stands in front of me, holding his Bible, and reads over my head, “When he came to his senses he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired servants have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants.’ And here, in this passage, we have the ideal image of hope.”

  My stomach sinks at the word.

  “The son remembers his father’s kindness to all and decides to return and ask for forgiveness. He realizes that without him there is no hope. He returns to his father and Luke 15:20 says, ‘So he got up and went to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him. He ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.’

  “After he proclaims he is unworthy, the father does the unexpected, he asks that his son be robed, that a ring be put on his finger and sandals on his feet, that they celebrate over a feast. The elder son is angry and refuses to come in. The father goes outside to plead with him, but the elder son yells, ‘Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and have never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fatted calf for him!’ The father then replies, ‘My son, you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we have to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again. He was lost and is now found’.”

  I watch the young pastor remove his glasses and take a seat on the edge of William’s bed. “This parable,” he says, “is one of my favorites. Jesus is identifying himself with the loving, awaiting, forgiving father while the younger son is a symbol of the lost, as so many of us are. The major theme here is not so much the younger son sinning against his father but more so the restoration of fellowship with the Father. The awaiting father is gracious, forgiving, and above all loving, for it’s this memory of the father that brings the prodigal son to his knees and, ultimately, to God.”

  I see him point to the ceiling of the room as if I’m supposed to see something, feel something. I look up at his fingers, then back to his face, which is now looking directly at me. He smiles and for a split second I think he knows who I am. I swiftly put my head down and stare at my hands.

  “That concludes our short sermon for the day. If you will now get into your small groups, I’ll be coming around to pray with everyone and discuss what we’ve read today in further detail.”

  People begin making their way out into the hall and into adjacent rooms. Since it’s my first time, I don’t know where to go. I decide to return to my room when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around and see the pastor.

  “Hi,” he greets me, squeezing my shoulder before taking my hand.

  “Hey,” I say quietly.

  “You’re Mr. Smith aren’t you?”

  I nod.

  “Beatrice told me about you the last time I was here.”

  “Well, there’s not much to me actually.”

  “Oh, I beg to differ. We all have our stories.” He looks at me again as he did during the small sermon and my hairs stand on end. It’s as if he subconsciously knows who I am. William’s room has cleared for the most part. A few stragglers remain in the corner to discuss the sermon.

  “Now, I don’t know you, Mr. Smith. I don’t know what your favorite food is or your third grade teacher’s name. But what I do know is that you seem…afraid.”

  I look at him and tilt my head. The pit in my stomach roils at his accusation.

  “Look at this place”—I turn around and throw my hands up—“what isn’t there to be afraid of?” I laugh to conceal the truth in his statement.

  He smiles and places his hand on my shoulder again. “Do you not think the son was afraid? Afraid to return home after everything he had done?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Well, you guessed right. Not only was he more than afraid, but also extremely ashamed. The beauty of the story though, is that what we humans presume to be true, isn’t always the case. Only God is truth.” He gives my shoulder a light squeeze. “Time here is fleeting, my brother. Don’t live it out of fear.”

  His eyes dart from my right to left eye. He squeezes my shoulder one last time then walks to the group talking in the corner. I slowly turn around and walk back to my room. I see Hue look up at me as I pass their study group in the lobby, but he doesn’t say anything.

  I sit on my bed and reflect on the pastor’s words and his sermon.

  How did he know I was afraid? Does he know what I’m afraid of? That’s impossible.

  I glance at myself in my dresser mirror and see the gray hair, the glasses. Maybe my mak
eup was off, and he could see a different person underneath. But it looks the same, the same as any other day.

  I fall onto my back and stare at the ceiling. My thoughts jump from the pastor to the sermon. I think about the prodigal son. I think about how much black I’ve worn, to my father’s funeral, my mother’s, and to Hope’s and our unborn son’s. I think about Allyn Copperfield and the pills, about how no amount of white pills can lighten the darkness. I think of the Bear and Rick and the gunshots in the woods. Then, in all the heavy thoughts, I think about why I am afraid. I close my eyes. But I can’t figure it out. I feel my heart in my chest.

  I remember the long days of medical school studying the human heart. I remember the first time I saw a real human heart in anatomy lab. I couldn’t help but stare at it in silence, at the magnificent piece of tissue that allowed me to live each day. At the muscle that fought so hard in so many, that hurt and loved so many.

  As I quiet my soul to listen to my heart, I can hear something. Something science and textbooks can’t explain, something painkillers, gambling, and alcohol can’t veneer. There’s a reason my heart is beating.

  Microcosmic pictures of my life flash before me, pulling me to the bed. I see my mother and I. She’s in her hospital gown, but I don’t seem to notice it, rather it’s her laugh that sticks out to me. She’s laughing with me in our old home. Then there’s my father with a whiskey in his hand, but we’re cheering as the Cubs hit a homerun. Our eyes are bright and gleeful. I see Hope. And there’s no fire. Just us with our son in the field that day under the stars.

  And then I realize I’m stretched long on a dirt road. I can feel the dust in my nostrils. Gravel embeds in my hands as I brace myself to see what appears to be a man walking near me. But no. Not just a man. Something more. He is something more. I strain out my arm to touch the tip of the golden gown and feel…prodigious love.

  Rapidly, all these images run through my mind like a movie reel until I finally see what seems to be a bright, warm orb. It consumes me whole then, just like that, I open my eyes and see Park Pines ceiling.

  I blink a few times and feel… different. I can still hear my heart beating, I’m still alive. I sit up and look in the mirror. I see myself, Dr. John Livingston III clothed in white, cleansed from the pain of my past, and, for once in my life, I am not ashamed.