Providence: Once Upon a Second Chance

by Chris Coppernoll

  “I don’t know how that’s going to help with the book, Bud.”

  “You asked for my help. This is my help. Besides, you’re going to have to get permission from everyone you mention by name before we go to press.”

  “These people are dear to me. We’re not going to contact them for the first time in twenty years for a ‘What do you think of Jack Clayton?’ quote.”

  “Would you rather the copy editor call them all?” Bud looked back at his notes. “I also think we should find out what we can about these two goons from out west. Did you ever find out their names?”

  “Just one.”

  “Well?”

  “Carlos Garcia. The triggerman. He showed up in Providence this week and was picked up by the cops for starting a brawl.”

  Bud turned my direction with a puzzled look on his unshaven face. “What was he doing in Providence?”

  “He was here to see me. That’s what the police detective said when she called. Of course, neither of us knew his actual identity until I saw him at the jail.”

  “Wait, wait, wait—you went to see him at the jail?”

  “Yes, I talked with him. Our conversation didn’t last long. There wasn’t much to say.”

  “Well, Jack, you’ve lived quite an interesting life for a low-rent campus pastor.” Bud booted the laptop.

  I thumbed through the chapters he’d printed out. Two hundred pages of life.

  “Why was he coming to see you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, setting the papers back on the coffee table.

  “Maybe he recognized you from all the press. You are getting a little, shall we say, ‘overexposed’ these days.”

  “Yeah, for some unknown reason, I’ve had my picture in the paper recently.”

  Bud grimaced a “Don’t bring that up” look.

  “Maybe he came here to finish the job.”

  “Who knows,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. He’s in jail and will be there a long time. Turns out he’s wanted on all sorts of charges.”

  “Right.”

  “But now I’m wrestling with what I’m supposed to do now that I know where he is.”

  Bud gazed up from the computer screen. “What do you mean … like revenge? That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “Not revenge. I mean I’m wondering what God would want me to do about this. How far to reach out to him.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Bud asked. “You want to go save this guy’s soul? You’re out of your gourd, Jack! That guy’d rather kill you than spit.”

  “You might be surprised how much danger we’ve faced in Norwood. Peter was mugged at gunpoint, Aaron had his car vandalized, my Jeep was broken into. We’ve all been threatened, but we didn’t leave. And who was threatening us? Sometimes people we were trying to reach. People who’d rather kill us than spit.”

  “I get it, Jack. You’re going to go take a picnic lunch and a Bible down to this creep and turn him into your best friend, then save his soul. I’m sure that’s what he’s hoping for. It’ll give him another chance to kill you.”

  “Bud, listen to me for a second. I’m not going to get on a soapbox, but I will say this: The faith I have is real, and I live by it. I honestly believe my life is not my own. God loves Carlos Garcia, and He may want me to tell him that.”

  “The guy he tried to kill.”

  “Maybe. Can you think of a better messenger?”

  Bud didn’t reply. He was shaking off my words, letting them fall into the crazy bin. I prayed silently for Carlos and Bud, that they’d both see the Light.

  “There’s more to life than a best-selling book, Bud. Or having your picture on a magazine cover. A man who shows love to his enemies does something far greater.”

  Erin Taylor was on my mind when I left the building to grab dinner. Sometimes we regard our former friends as a kind of diminished hologram. A hazy picture obscured by time and distance. Or as characters who no longer exist once the chapters we shared have ended. The pictures I had in my head of Erin, Mitchell, and Jenny may have been locked in time, but not their influences on my life. Their friendships had taken up permanent residence in me, shaping me even now.

  I ducked into Melvin’s for a burger and took my regular seat near the back. I’d caught the happy-hour crowd, and the place was lively with people, the floor covered with peanut shells. The jukebox pumped out another eighties track. I gave the waitress my order to the sounds of Simple Minds’ “Don’t You Forget about Me.”

  Erin and I had never been friends in the same way as, say, Mitch and Jenny, but she’d been an integral member of the quartet. I lost all contact with her in the months that followed Mitchell’s death. We didn’t speak at the funeral, except when I told her I was sorry. By the time I got back from out west, Erin was gone. Like Jenny, she’d moved on to start a new life somewhere.

  I wondered how I would even go about trying to locate Erin. She might be listed in the Indianapolis phone directory, but even so, her last name would probably be different. I checked anyway. Nothing. I needed to find someone who knew Erin, someone who might have stayed in touch with her all this time. Jenny would probably know, but calling her was out of the question. Howard and Angela might know too, but I wasn’t ready to go into a long explanation of why I wanted to contact her. I thought about whether Mitch’s mom would still have her number. She was another person I hadn’t spoken with in years. I was too ashamed, too condemned by what I’d done.

  When Mitch and I were school kids, she’d claimed me as her other son, letting me stay overnight, feeding me, even washing my clothes once in a while. Her greatest gift to me was not saying, “How could you do this to him?”

  I dialed the McDaniels’ house and waited until her voice replaced the ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. McDaniels? It’s Jack Clayton.”

  “Hi, Jack. How are you?” Her tone was friendly and casual. I was relieved.

  “I’m well. I’m actually up in Chicago right now, and I thought to call you. I’m trying to get in touch with someone, and I wondered if you might be able to help me.”

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “Erin Taylor,” I said.

  Instantly there was silence on the other end of the line. It lasted two or three long seconds.

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Jack. I don’t know if she’d want me to give you her number.”

  “I understand why you’d be hesitant. But this is really important.”

  She let out a long sigh as if the story couldn’t be told in a short version, and it was a story she’d rather not tell in any version.

  “She … Erin’s married, Jack. She lives in Virginia now. We still exchange Christmas cards, and she’s doing great. But I don’t know how she’d feel hearing from you. For the longest time, the only way she could deal with Mitch’s death was by blaming you for everything.”

  “Do you blame me, Mrs. McDaniels?”

  A long pause. Another sigh.

  “Yeah, I guess I do, Jack. I know you’ve suffered all these years too, but you were a very stupid young man. But it’s all over, Jack. You can’t bring Mitch back, and neither can we. If you’re asking me if I blame you, the answer is yes. If you’re asking me if I forgive you, that’s a different question. But yes, I do.”

  Tears welled up in my eyes. Something had been unlocked in my soul. Those words, simple words. “If you’re asking me if I forgive you … yes, I do. I didn’t know how much I wanted to hear them until they’d already been said.

  I let out the uncontrollable cry of a man freed from a prison of his own making—a prison he’d been locked up in for twenty years.

  “I’m so sorry …” I said after a minute or more of crying. “I’ve felt so much heavy guilt.”

  “Jack, you loved Mitchell, and he loved you. I don’t think he would want you to suffer anymore.”

  “He was coming there to help me.” I cried again. Another strongbox opened, another razor-shar
p piece of the black puzzle was tossed into the fire.

  “What if it would have been you?”

  “I wished it would have been,” I said, sobbing like a baby, saying things I wished I would have said years ago. “I wish it would’ve been me.”

  “If the roles had been reversed, what would you have wanted Mitchell to do with the rest of his life?”

  I thought for a moment, the cries ceasing like the break in a rain shower.

  “I’d want him to get on with it,” I said.

  “Even if it was his fault.” It wasn’t a question. She already knew my answer.

  “Yes.” I knew what she’d say next. If that’s what I’d want for him, it was probably what he’d want for me. Freedom was possible. It opened before me like a thick curtain.

  “Jack, there’s been enough suffering. We miss Mitchell every day, but he’s in the hands of the Lord. You’re still entangled in grief, and I think it’s time for you to let go.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m still here.”

  “You’re still here because God wants you here. Don’t you think some good has come out of your life, Jack? With the books you’ve written and the people God’s touched through the work you do? The whole country’s more aware of the needs of the poor because of the way God has used you. Maybe the grief you experienced was what prepared you to do this work. But, Jack, no matter what good you’ve done, it isn’t good works that set you free. It’s forgiveness. Forgiveness frees us, Jack. And Hank and I forgive you.”

  I felt suddenly calm. It was as if the spirit of guilt had left me.

  “I still wish I could take it all back, Mrs. McDaniels. I’d do it all differently.”

  “You can’t, Jack.” Her words reminded me of something Howard had said. Perhaps I just had to hear them a dozen times before they would stick.

  “I’ve done what I thought the Lord wanted me to do, day by day, step after step.”

  “And He made a way for healing, Jack—day by day, footstep after footstep.”

  I thanked Mrs. McDaniels for her kindness and asked again for Erin’s number. A minute later she returned to the phone.

  “Erin’s husband is Donald Harrimore, and they live in Virginia.” She gave me their number. “Tell Erin I gave it to you, Jack, but please use wisdom, and don’t push things if she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “I won’t, and thank you.”

  “Jack, I’m glad you called. There’s a part of us, Hank and I, that’s proud of you. In some ways we feel like part of Mitchell lives on in your work. There are traces of the past still present.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “We lost two sons that day, Jack. Getting one back wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

  “I’m trying,” I said.

  “Keep trying, Jack.”

  I lay prostrate on the floor crying out to God in deep resolute worship. Mitch’s parents had forgiven me a long time ago, but I needed to hear it again. I needed to hear it so I could take yet another step toward forgiving myself.

  ~ THIRTY-SIX ~

  Bring me a higher love

  Where’s that higher love I keep thinking of?

  —Steve Winwood

  “Higher Love”

  The liberating conversation with Mrs. McDaniels stuck with me for days, two days to be exact. That’s the amount of time it takes to drive from Chicago, Illinois, to Annandale, Virginia, following the speed limit and piloting for long hours with the radio off. I’d given the operator Erin’s number and asked her what city I was calling. “Annandale,” she said. “Outside Alexandria.”

  When I arrived in Alexandria, I checked in at the Holiday Inn and moved my things into the hotel from the trunk of the rental car (the Jeep would never have made it). I hadn’t yet called Erin. If she would see me, I wanted that meeting to be in person. If she refused, I was prepared to turn around and go back.

  The next morning I called Erin’s number. It was a Friday. I wondered if she’d be working, or even if she was home at all between holidays. I hadn’t thought very far ahead. I didn’t know what sort of message I’d leave on the machine.

  “Hello.”

  It took me a moment to respond. It had been a lifetime since I’d heard her dulcet voice.

  “Hi, Erin … It’s Jack Clayton,” I said.

  “Jack, hello,” she said, giving away nothing.

  “Hi. I didn’t know if I’d find you home.”

  “Are you in Alexandria? The caller ID says Holiday Inn.”

  “Yes, I am. Got here yesterday. Mrs. McDaniels gave me your number. I came down hoping we could have coffee together or something.”

  “Is that why you’re calling?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You came all this way just to have coffee?”

  “Yes. I’ve been working on this new book—it’s sort of a memoir—and I’ve been thinking a lot about the past. I wanted a chance for the two of us to talk.”

  I heard a blast of nervous laughter from the other end of the line. Erin covered the phone for a moment to muffle the sound. “I’m sorry I’m laughing, Jack. It’s just that this is what I’ve been praying for.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Me, either, but are you free today?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not usually home during the week, but with the holidays, Donald and I have family here, so I took a few days off.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. If you have guests, we can make it another time. I have a habit of showing up unexpectedly.”

  “No, it’s okay. Why don’t you come over here? Let me give you directions. Do you have paper?”

  I jotted the directions on the Holiday Inn pad by the phone.

  “It’s a large brick two-story with a small fountain and garden in front. Just pull in the horseshoe drive.”

  “Sounds beautiful.”

  “We like it. Can you be here for lunch around eleven thirty?”

  “Yes. Are you sure it’s all right? I don’t want to intrude on you and your family.”

  “You won’t. I’ll see you ’round eleven thirty.”

  “Erin,” I said. “Thanks for seeing me. I guess I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

  “Well, Jack, this certainly is a surprise, but life is full of surprises, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it certainly is.” I said and hung up the phone. Life had been full of surprises, she was right about that.

  I pulled in the drive at 2816 Bellpark Lane a few minutes early. The house was a beautiful two-story French Colonial with a large fountain surrounded by a colorful landscape of shrubs and flowers and stone. It brandished regal-looking brass light fixtures on either side of the front door, and clinging trumpet vines climbed up the brick exterior. It reminded me of a scaled-down version of Lillian Hall.

  A silver Mercedes with Virginia tags and a blue Pontiac with an Enterprise rental sticker were parked in the driveway. I got out of the car and crunched over the pebble drive, listening to the pleasant gurgling sounds of water from the fountain. The glass storm door opened, and Erin peeked out, her eyes smiling, her face framed in blond hair.

  “Welcome to Virginia, Jack.”

  I didn’t respond to her right away, just content to see her again. I felt like crying and laughing at the same time. So many memories.

  Time had been kind to her. She looked just like the young woman my best friend was going to marry all those years ago. She came down the steps, and we embraced, a grasp that started as a friendly hug between old friends but switched quickly into an “I’m sorry; it’s been too long” hold.

  “It’s good to see you.”

  “I’m sorry, Erin. I’m so sorry.” It didn’t feel right to wait any longer to say those words.

  “I know, Jack. You don’t have to apologize anymore,” she said. Her eyes expressed an understanding of suffering and an ability to recognize it in others. “It’s time to put it in the past.”


  A healing rain poured down along with a flood of memories. We shared a love for the same person, and a similar sense of loss.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” I said.

  “Jack, it’s okay … Really, it is.” She gave my arms an amiable tug. “Whatever you came here to say, consider it said and done.”

  I smiled, and for the first time comprehended how the past can be folded away. Not stuffed into slivery crates and nailed shut. But washed over in a cool sea of forgiveness, or the softened eyes of an old friend. I took another giant step toward forgiving myself.

  “Your home is beautiful, Erin. You know, in a weird way it reminds me of Lillian Hall. The way it’s designed, the fountain, the front doors.”

  “I’ve never thought of it that way,” she said. “But I guess you’re right.” Erin laughed, like she did the first time in the apartment. Probably just after Mitchell had said something funny.

  “It reminds me of the day we all met in front of Lillian. Do you remember that?”

  “When you and Mitch were jogging?”

  “Yeah.” I smiled. It was nice to remember with someone who’d been there.

  “Mitch and I had already known each other for a while. But I met you for the first time that day. And that’s when you met Jenny.”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Do you remember what it felt like when you first saw her?”

  “Yeah, it’s burned into my memory.”

  “Did it feel anything like this?”

  I turned and saw Jenny standing in the doorway.

  I had no words.

  She walked outside, a slow, purposeful gait. I met her on the stairs, and without thinking, picked her up in my arms, holding her for what might have been a minute but felt like an eternity. I thought I heard the cheering of unseen angels and the sounds of workmen wheeling out the last of the scattered boards from old, busted memory crates. Or maybe it was the sound of the Spirit, whirling freely like the wind through uncluttered chambers of the heart.

  “What are you doing here?”