I said okay and thought that this might not be a crisis of faith. It might be a different kind of crisis altogether.
When Jonathon started speaking again, his voice was calm.
“Brother Wells . . .”
“You can call me ‘Bear,’ Jonathon, you know that.” Baby Bear rested his chin on my knee and looked at me with sleepy eyes.
“It’s not Bear Wells I want to talk to right now. It’s Brother Wells—the pastor of the church I was called to minister to.”
I said, “All right . . .”
“Brick, Jason and I—” Brick and Jason were our two youth ministers. “—and all the rest of the interns, we had the kids in their tents, lights out at eleven thirty.”
I interrupted, “We’re not missing a kid, are we, Jonathon?”
“It’s not like that. Everyone is safe in their tents.”
“All right. Sorry. Go on.” Baby Bear was falling asleep and having trouble with his balance. His eyes would close and his chin would slip from my knee, then he’d jerk awake, resettle his chin and start again. It made me smile.
“After lights out, Brick called all of us interns together and ran over the plans for tomorr . . . for today, and Jason led us in a prayer and then we all went to our own tents. Everybody is doubled up except me because Jeff couldn’t come—he had to get his wisdom teeth out. I won the draw for the single.” I could hear the sarcasm in his voice.
I said, “Go on.” I’d lost my smile. Youth ministers and interns double up in sleeping quarters on church overnighters—that’s not a cost-saving measure; it’s church policy. Serves the same purpose as those glass walls in the conference room.
“I wake up thirty, forty minutes ago, and I’m not alone in the tent.”
This is why it’s church policy.
I said, “Go on.”
“I’m in my boxers, sleeping on top of my sleeping bag, because it’s hot, you know? And I wake up and someone’s . . . touching me. You know what I mean?”
I didn’t say anything.
“I turn over and it’s Phoebe Pickersley and she is butt naked. Starkers.”
I said, “Oh, dang.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Baby Bear had given up the effort and was stretched over my feet, sleeping the sleep of the just. I extricated my feet and stepped over him to go to the kitchen.
“Tell me what happened, Jonathon.”
“Brother Wells, even if I was going to let myself be tempted, she wouldn’t be my temptation. You get what I’m saying? I yelled and got out of the tent and woke Brick up. He was in time to see a naked girl, holding my beach towel in front of her, crawl out of my tent and hurry over to the girls’ side of the camp.”
“So the damage is limited? You, Brick and Phoebe?” I opened the fridge and pulled out the milk.
“I’m going to say no.”
The pantry offered me Alpha-Bits, Super Sugar Crisp, Grape-Nuts and Cheerios. I pulled out the Alpha-Bits.
“Because?”
“Because I wasn’t the only one yelling.”
I didn’t say “Oh, dang” again, but I was thinking it.
“Phoebe made a scene?” I asked.
“Every tent I can see is lit up with iPhone light. Tomorrow morning—”
My phone beeped to let me know I had another call. I pressed Decline.
“—you might get some phone calls.”
My phone pinged—a text from Jo: “Ya got trouble in River City.”
It almost made me laugh. It’s from The Music Man, a favorite of hers when she was about five.
“Brother Wells?”
“I’m thinking,” I said. The house phone rang three times and I heard Annie answer it.
• • •
By six thirty Sunday morning, Annie and I had gotten twenty-four calls, and I learned that one of the callers, whom up to then I had deeply respected, was a rampant racist.
Peter Martinez and Morse Mealey, both church elders, came to the house when they couldn’t get through on the phone, and, when I couldn’t get off the phone right away to talk to them, had bowls of Grape-Nuts with Baby Bear who was excited at the unusual predawn activity. Baby Bear stole Morse’s loafer twice. Morse was a good sport about it. Peter put on a pot of coffee, blessings on his head.
I may be the church minister, but I can’t make decisions for the church—that’s the elders’ responsibility. Some ministers run their churches like a fiefdom—I don’t think many of those churches are in the Church of Christ.
Here’s what we were faced with.
Judging by the phone calls we’d had so far, a good portion of the church would walk into services that morning knowing something had happened. Shortly thereafter, the people who hadn’t heard anything yet, would. Rumors would multiply like bacteria, and most of those rumors would be wrong. We wanted to nip those rumors in the butt, as my brother-in-law would say, but we couldn’t. We didn’t know enough.
I didn’t have any doubt about Jonathon’s truthfulness. I believed him absolutely.
The elders’ decision was not to say or do anything until there could be a meeting between themselves, the youth ministers, Jonathon, Phoebe and the Pickersley-Smythes. Until then, our answer to any questions was to be, “Everything is in hand; we’re looking into it.”
Which was guaranteed to satisfy nobody.
From: Merrie Wells
To: Walker Wells
WHAT is going on in Sugar Land, Dad? I’m hearing strange things from my homeboys. LOL
From: Walker Wells
To: Merrie Wells
Not LOLing over here, I can tell you. Give me a call later tonight. I’ll fill you in.
• • •
To avoid more phone calls from people asking questions I didn’t have the answer to, after church Annie Laurie and I both turned off our phones and went to Houston to have lunch at our favorite barbeque restaurant, Goode Company, and stroll around the Museum of Fine Arts. It took my mind off the mess Phoebe had stirred up.
We returned to the church parking lot at three forty-five to pick up our daughter. The youth group was due at four. We had barely pulled into a parking place before a small crowd converged on our car.
Annie put her hand over mine. “Loins girded?”
I said they were and we got out of the car.
No, I said, no one had been raped, no one was hurt, yes, there had been an incident, but we didn’t want to make too much of it and we didn’t have all the facts in, so this was not the time to discuss it.
Then the Pickersley-Smythes pulled into the parking lot in Mark’s dark-blue Range Rover.
Mark got out of the passenger seat wearing white linen slacks and an open-neck shirt, and set to releasing the twins from the backseat. Liz emerged into the heat looking cool and chic in a linen dress and toweringly high sandals. Mark and Liz looked like they were probably headed out somewhere after the pickup. Most of the other parents were dressed in shorts and tees—it was hot.
When Mark turned, a twin on each hip, I got a big smile from him and an equally friendly greeting from Liz. I thought they were taking things really well, which was encouraging.
I shook their hands, the twins’ hands, too, as they’d stuck them out, and said, “Hey, Mark, hey Liz! Listen, as soon as the kids get back from the trip, the elders and I thought we’d all gather in the meeting room and talk this whole thing out and try to get an understanding about exactly what happened, would that work for you? Annie can watch the twins. She’ll keep them in the playground until the heat gets too much, then she’ll entertain them in the nursery. We’re eager to get to the bottom of this.”
Mark set the twins on their feet and grabbed their hands before they could race across the parking lot.
“Bottom of what?” He had mirrored sunglasses on so I couldn’t see his ey
es, but the smile was gone. Liz moved up to stand by her husband and put a hand on his arm. The stone on her wedding ring was big enough to choke a goat.
I faltered. “Didn’t Phoebe call you? Were you at church this morning?” Because they would have had to have heard something.
“We took the boys to Galveston for the weekend. We didn’t head back until after lunch. What’s up?”
Liz let go of Mark and took a couple of steps toward me, just close enough to make me want to step back.
“Call us about what, Bear? What’s Phoebe gone and done now?” She crossed her arms, creasing her dress, and I didn’t need to see the eyes behind the tinted lenses of her glasses to know what her expression was.
“What makes you think Phoebe’s done anything?” Mark asked his wife. The twins were using him like a maypole, running first in one direction as far as his arms would go and then in the other. Liz whirled and snapped her fingers at the boys. They both stopped instantly and stood passively next to Mark.
“You aren’t seriously asking me that question, are you?” Liz said. “Shall I go into why I think Phoebe must have done something if the elders want to speak with us? Not all the parents—us. First her teachers, then the principal—I’ve had a call from the crossing guard, Mark!”
There was a moment where a whole lot of silent communication went on between husband and wife. Without another word ever being said, something was concluded. Liz turned back to me, a big smile on her face.
“We’ll see you upstairs, Bear. Not a problem.” She turned to her sons and snapped her fingers again. “Toby. Tanner.” They followed her like ducklings as she strode toward the other parents.
Mark called after her, “Hold their hands in the parking lot!” and without slowing, she held a hand out for each little boy.
I stood there. Mark stood there.
“Is there something I can do to help, Mark?”
He shook his head, thrust his hands into his pockets.
I nodded and we walked beside each other, back to the other parents. Standing apart from the others was a middle-aged black couple and a tall young man I hadn’t met before. I thought I knew who they might be.
• • •
Jo tumbled off the bus hot, cranky, and impatient to wash the river out of her hair.
I pulled her aside from her friends and asked if she knew exactly what had happened.
“Dad, no. I’d be the last person Phoebe would have come running to. She made a scene. Cara said one of the guys made a pass at her and she didn’t like it, that’s all I know. But since I heard she was only wearing a towel, she must have let things go pretty far before she decided she didn’t like it.” Jo smirked. I didn’t like seeing that on her face and I gave her a warning look. She looked away.
Jo wasn’t happy with the idea of waiting around the church while I was at a meeting and her mother was watching the twins. I made sure she had her new house key and she caught a ride home with friends.
• • •
Peter Martinez had set up a big pot of coffee and a pitcher of iced tea—the lemon-flavored instant kind, but still—on the credenza in the meeting room along with ice, cups and creamer. The meeting room is set up like a large living room, with sofas and love seats, tables and credenza, but we also brought in some folding chairs to make sure everyone could sit where they wanted to.
Seven of our twenty-four elders are assigned to shepherd the youth ministry and we had hoped all of these could be with us to meet with the Pickersley-Smythes, but two were out of town and Barrett Foley had recused himself on the grounds that his wife had been the one behind the ugly phone call Annie and I had gotten that morning. He had apologized, tears in his voice. Sally Foley was only seventy-two, but she was showing signs of dementia. Barrett didn’t want to leave her home alone, and after that phone call, he sure didn’t want to bring her anywhere near Jonathon Reece. That left us with elders Morse Mealey, Peter Martinez, Casey Dobbins and Jack Crady—all solid. I could count on each of them.
The couple in the parking lot, the ones with the tall young man—those were, as I had guessed, Jonathon’s parents and his elder brother, David, the one who had recently been released from prison. Mr. and Mrs. Reece were tall, handsome people, like their sons. Mr. Reece wore a dark, lightweight suit with a pale-gray tie and his wife had on a neat navy-blue dress and a matching hat. David, who looked like grim destiny come to claim his own, was wearing dress slacks with a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Either they hadn’t had time to change after church, or they had felt the gravity of the meeting called for this level of formality. I was glad I had opted for khaki slacks and a polo shirt instead of shorts and a T-shirt. Mr. and Mrs. Reece both took my hand when I held it out, David waited long enough for me to get the message, and then gripped it hard—another message. David was there to make sure we didn’t mess with his baby brother.
Jonathon told me he had asked them not to come, but they had insisted, and I didn’t blame them. Texas has a history with young black men, too much of it grim.
Jason and Brick, our full-time youth ministers, sat with their arms draped around Jonathon’s shoulders, presenting a touching, if slightly ridiculous, united front. All three wore damp, mud-streaked T-shirts and smelled of river water and unwashed male. They greeted David with the overly friendly handshakes, smiles and slaps on the back that we dole out when we’re trying to communicate, without saying it, that, hey, the past is the past, and you’re all good with us, man. David took it like you’d take the attention of a pair of untrained puppies.
Liz had posed herself and Mark on the love seat, her hand on his knee. He tried to rise when Phoebe came in, but Liz’s hand pressed him back down.
Ahh, Phoebe.
Phoebe had on shorts so brief I think I’ve seen more modest panties, and in lieu of a shirt, she wore a bikini top tiny enough to do a couple of radishes proud. She slouched against a window, her hands clasping her elbows. Her eyes looked bruised and tired and her small mouth was chapped. She was a mess, and if she’d been mine, I’d have taken my own shirt off and put it on her, or grabbed a sofa throw or tablecloth or anything and draped it around her and taken her home to her mother.
But Phoebe didn’t have a mother, and Mark had let his wife pull him back down to the love seat. I felt sorry for the girl, standing there alone. I walked over to her, intending to stand by her, even though I was mad as a hornet about how she might have jeopardized Jonathon’s internship. When she saw me coming, she slipped off to the opposite corner. I didn’t push it. I let her be.
Casey Dobbins opened the meeting with a prayer that God would give us discernment, compassion, and forgiving hearts and Jonathon’s father audibly echoed, “Amen.”
Morse Mealey asked Jason and Brick to explain the situation to the best of their understanding, and they did, not having much more to offer than that they’d seen a near-naked Phoebe leaving Jonathon’s tent and “carrying on a bit” as she did.
I wanted to know why Jonathon had had a tent to himself when church policy dictated against just such an event, and Jason and Brick both manfully accepted full responsibility for the lapse, not that that was of any use to anyone right then.
“Why was it Jonathon who got a tent to himself? Huh? Why’d you pick him?” David hadn’t sat down. He was crackling with suspicion and irritation.
“Dave.” Jonathon started toward his brother.
“Dude,” Brick interrupted, with a goofy grin that made me see again how young he was, just twenty-four, straight out of college. “Short straw. You know. I was jealous, man. Really. I mean, not now, but last night.”
David measured Brick with his eyes until Jonathon gave his shoulder a shake. “Dave. Come on.”
Jonathon, an arm around his brother, told his story. It hadn’t changed from the time he told it to me last night. David interrupted once, saying, “That girl is messed up.” H
is father covered his eyes with his hands during the telling, and wiped them down his face sharply, as if sheeting water off a newly washed face. His mother brought a manicured thumb to her mouth and nibbled her nail polish into oblivion.
Phoebe looked bored, and in the middle of Jonathon’s story, slumped to the ground, her back against the wall. She pulled her feet close to her bottom, placing sole against sole, and diddled with the numerous toe rings she wore on her bare feet.
I said, “Phoebe? Do you want to tell us what happened?”
She shrugged, her attention still on the rings on her toes.
“Could you join the circle over here, Phoebe? You’re a part of this.”
At that I got a look from her. “A part of what?” Phoebe said, but she stood up and walked over to the circle, all eyes on her, the only young woman in the room. She sat on the arm of the love seat and her dad put his arm around her hips. I was grateful to see that—I don’t care what a kid’s done, they need an advocate. Not to say that what they did was okay, but to let it be known that whatever the kid’s situation, they had someone on their side. Liz was not happy to see Mark embrace his daughter. She wedged herself closer to Mark and gripped his knee tighter. I know enough about stepchildren issues to have told her that for a stepparent to compete with a blood child—that’s a game you’re going to lose, every time. She would have been so much wiser to ally with Phoebe, not fight her.
“Did Jonathon persuade you to go to his tent, Phoebe?” asked Mark. I’d have asked the same question. It was legitimate. “Did he put pressure on you?” Even the girl’s father realized you cannot strip a girl and stuff her in your tent against her will—not without waking up everyone in the fifty-plus tents surrounding you.
David made a move but yielded to Jonathon and Mrs. Reece sprang from the couch and said, “Oh, no, you don’t!” before her husband said, “Evelyn. Let the man ask his questions. Jonathon has nothing to fear here.” She sat down but didn’t lean back against the cushions. Her husband cradled her hand in his, either to comfort her or to contain her. See, that’s what I mean about an advocate—no matter what, Jonathon knew he had people on his side, people who were assuming from the beginning that he was in the right.
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