“They’re still separated, and everybody’s still in counseling.” He smiled wryly. “Hoping for the best there, too.”
“Uh-huh. Well. I just wondered.”
“How was your Christmas, Mary Lynn?”
“Good. Fine. I was at my brother and sister-in-law’s, and it was fun watchin’ the young’uns open their Santy Claus.”
Not for the first time, he wondered about Mary Lynn’s prospects for marriage and motherhood. He knew she loved children; she always fussed over his when they came to the store. But he didn’t want to pry. He just smiled and agreed that that was probably the most fun part of the Christmas celebration.
* * *
“Dad, you won’t believe how many kids from school have called here, asking about T-Rex,” Tiffani told him, the moment he walked in the door. “They all want to know every detail, and how he’s doing, and I don’t know what to tell them!”
“I guess his folks haven’t called with an update?”
“Not here. I was hoping maybe they’d called your cell phone. It is on, isn’t it?”
“On? I think so. Somebody called me earlier, and it worked.”
Tiffani held out her hand, and he meekly placed his phone in it.
“Oh, Dad, look! You’ve got it turned off. See this little switch? It’s s’posed to be this way for the phone to ring.”
“Shoot! I’ll never get the hang of the dang thing!”
“Yes, you will. It’s easy. Let’s see if you’ve got any saved messages.” She did mysterious things to his phone and announced, “Yep, you have two messages. Want to listen to them?”
He nodded and put the tiny instrument to his ear. Sure enough, there was Lula’s voice.
“Bishop? This here’s Lula. Things is pretty serious down here. The doctor sat us down and told us that Thomas is probably about ready to go one way or the other. He figures that if he makes it through the night, he might survive. Y’all don’t need to come down, though. My sis from up in West Virginia finally got here, and she’s a big strength to me. Just please let ever’body know, and keep prayin’—you know—for the best thing. Thanks. ’Bye.”
The other message was from his first counselor, Bob Patrenko—also asking for an update. He carefully deleted the messages, under Tiffani’s tutelage, made sure the phone was “on,” and went into the kitchen, where Trish was stirring a pot of something savory on the stove.
“That smells wonderful—and so do you,” he told her, kissing her cheek. “But would you mind a whole lot if I don’t eat with y’all, tonight? I feel like I need to fast, again.”
Trish frowned a little. “On New Year’s Eve? I’ve made special treats for family night.”
“Oh—right. I almost forgot it’s New Year’s Eve. Sorry, babe. Let me think about it for a bit, all right? I don’t want to be a wet blanket on the fun.”
She looked at him. “Why do you want to fast—for Thomas, again? Don’t you think the Lord remembers the fasting you’ve already done for him? I mean, does it wear off this soon, or something?”
His wife’s straightforward way of assessing things made him grin a little. “I’m sure the Lord remembers. It’s just that it looks like tonight may be a crisis time for Thomas, according to what the doctor told Lula. If he makes it through the night, they think he may recover. I reckon maybe the fasting is for my own benefit—so I’ll feel like I’ve done everything humanly possible to help.”
“Ah, Jimmy, I’m sorry. You do whatever you need to. We’ll understand. But you are going to be here for games, aren’t you? I’ve told the kids they can stay up as long as they want.”
“Yeah,” chimed in Jamie, perched at the kitchen table. “Monopoly marathon—woo-hoo!”
“But first, you have to play Candyland and Chutes and Ladders with me,” insisted Mallory.
“Right,” their father said weakly. “Sounds like fun.”
“Dad’s not interested in those baby games,” Tiffani scorned. “He has more important things on his mind than playing silly games with us, anyway.”
He turned to look at his eldest. “Well, now, Tiff, that’s not fair. It’s true I have worrisome things on my mind, but any time I can grab to relax and play with you guys is mighty welcome. In fact, I expect it’s just what I need.”
Tiffani shrugged. “Until somebody calls you away,” she remarked.
“Well, we’ll just hope that doesn’t happen tonight,” Trish soothed. “You kids sit down at the table; this is almost ready. Dad can eat or not, as he chooses.”
“It’s tortilla soup, isn’t it?” he said wistfully, peering into the pan. “Will you save me some for lunch tomorrow?”
“No,” said his wife, with a raised-eyebrow smile. “In case you’ve forgotten, tomorrow is New Year’s Day, and we’re having people over for the traditional feast. We’ve got the Jernigans coming, and Melody and Andrea, and Buddy, and Hestelle.”
“Oh, that should be a jolly crowd.” Tiffani’s tone was wry. “Why didn’t we invite somebody fun, like the MacDonalds?”
“Because,” her mother said, hugging her daughter’s shoulders and speaking in a light but precise voice, “we’re not doing this for our own entertainment. We’re doing it because all those folks need a little cheer in their lives, right now. Would you like to invite Claire? There’s room for her.”
“She’s at her grandma’s. No, I’ll just endure as long as I have to.”
“It’ll be better if you do a little more than endure,” her father suggested. “If you help your Mom and be cheerful and kind to all our guests, I guarantee the day’ll be happier for you.”
“Dad, I don’t need a lecture right now,” Tiffani said, holding up a warning hand. “I’m not planning to be rude, I promise you. It’s just that Mallory’ll have Andi to play with, and Jamie’ll drag Buddy off to play computer games—which is fine with me, by the way—but there’s nobody for me to relate to. So, I’ll just be on maid duty, and we’ll all be happy. Happy New Year to me!”
Trish ladled the soup into blue crockery bowls. “Would you like to invite Lisa Lou?”
“Mom, will you please stop trying to foist Lisa Lou Pope off on me? Besides, I’m sure she’ll be with Billy Newton.”
“Foist?” the bishop said. “That’s an interesting word. Hardly ever hear it. By the way, did you know Billy Newton’s being baptized on Saturday?”
“That’s nice,” Tiffani said. “Now maybe Lisa Lou can marry him, and they can move as far away as possible!”
Trish put the pan of soup back on the stove with emphasis. “Tiffani Shepherd, I don’t know exactly what has put you into such a sour mood, but I’m personally not enjoying it one little bit, and I strongly suggest you make an effort to be a little more positive and cheerful, or this won’t be a very fun New Year’s Eve for any of us!”
“Yeah, Sis—what’s the deal?” asked Jamie, frowning.
“It’s a girl thing,” offered Mallory with an air of nonchalant certainty. “It’s ’cause she’s sixteen, and she doesn’t have a date tonight.”
Tiffani burst into tears. “Oh, just hush up, all of you,” she said. “You don’t know anything!”
* * *
For the first time ever, the bishop’s eldest daughter boycotted family home evening, secluded in her room with music playing at a louder than usual level, declining any soup or other goodies throughout the evening, and refusing to talk to anyone. The bishop played games with the others, but there was an unaccustomed bleakness to the process, and no one seemed to care much who won. Trish and the children ate popcorn balls and hot mulled apple cider, and then they had family prayer and curled up on the sofas in the family room to watch New Year’s Eve celebrations from around the world. Even those were tinged with worry because of the possibility of terror attacks in crowded places. Shortly after eleven, the bishop excused himself and went to his trusty desk phone in the dining room. He punched in the now-familiar numbers of the ICU in Birmingham and waited for Lula or Tom to answer the page.
>
“Hello?” It was Tom’s voice.
“Tom, my friend—it’s Bishop. How’s our boy doing?”
“Well, Bishop—the news might be good, believe it or not! It looks like his fever’s headed down, at last—reckon the medicine finally took hold—and if it stays down, now, they figure maybe he’ll make it. Cain’t say for sure, of course—but that’s the latest. Lula’s so relieved, she’s sacked out on the sofa, just snorin’ away, bless her heart. She ain’t slept much, of late.”
“And neither have you, I know. It’s been a long week. I sure do hope this is a turning point for Thomas. You’re all constantly in our prayers, you know that. And lots of Thomas’s friends from school and church keep calling to see how he’s doing. Hopefully, by tomorrow we’ll have good news for the New Year.”
“That’s what we’re a-hopin’. Thanks for callin’, Bishop.”
* * *
He carried a sleeping Mallory up and tucked her in bed, where Samantha the cat was already warming a place for her, then knocked lightly on Tiffani’s door.
“What? I’m in bed,” came her voice, which sounded as if she had a cold. He knew she did not.
“Tiffi? I love you. Happy New Year, sweetie.”
A sniff. “Okay.”
* * *
Trish was in the kitchen, punching down dough for refrigerator rolls.
“Come to bed, babe—don’t knock yourself out, okay?”
“Oh, I’m almost done. Everything’s as ready as I can make it. If you’ll just steer your son upstairs, I’ll be right there, too.”
“All right. Honey—I’m sorry if I haven’t been spending enough time with you and the kids, lately. I’ll try to do better.”
She smiled at him wearily. “This has been a rough week for everybody. You’re being a wonderful, caring bishop—and that’s exactly what I want you to be. We just need to learn to share.”
“But if my family’s feeling neglected, I’m not quite on the right track. You all come first—you know you do.”
“I do know it, Jim. And don’t worry about Tiff. She knows it, too. She’s just being a teenager.”
He sighed. “Why did I think it’d be easier than it is? She’s always been such a reasonable kid.”
“I wonder if our precocious little Mallory didn’t hit the nail on the head? Tiff’s sixteen, and she hasn’t really been asked out yet. Girls have—you know—certain expectations. Even if they don’t always own up to them.”
“Well, she wouldn’t accept a date on a Monday, anyway, would she? That’s always family night. She knows that. It’s like a rule in our family. Or at least, a tradition.”
Trish smiled. “Maybe she wouldn’t go out, but—you can bet your bottom dollar she’d love to be asked.”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s true.”
“Oh—I almost forgot to tell you. Merrie called, to wish us Happy New Year and to tell us that she’s starting to feel the baby move. She’s so excited. I’m glad for her.”
He nodded. “Me, too.” He was glad; he felt a sort of proprietary interest in this little niece or nephew-to-be, having counseled its mother on how to make clear to its dad that he needed to not only start a family but pay more attention to things at home—specifically his wife, Meredith, Trish’s sister.
* * *
On New Year’s Day—after an early morning call from Lula, informing him that the doctors were now “cautiously optimistic” about Thomas’s prognosis, as his temperature was still hovering around the normal range—he found time in the morning to answer the letter from Elder Rand Rivenbark’s mission president, affirming that he was certain that the missionary would be able to live mission rules at home, and that the family would honor those rules and not try to distract him. Furthermore, he felt that the terrain would be easier for him—that most dwellings were single-family homes with just a few steps up to the front doors. He hoped this transfer could be worked out. He stamped the letter and set it aside to be mailed the following morning, then went to see if he could do anything to help Trish get ready for the company dinner.
“Everything’s under control, I think,” she responded to his query. “Just plan on going to pick up Buddy around noon. We’ll eat about twelve-thirty.”
“Smells wonderful,” he told her. “Thanks, hon, for doing this.”
“We always do it,” she reminded him with a shrug. “Just a few different faces at the table each year.”
He looked around the kitchen with satisfaction. A fragrant mince pie and what his mother had called a “Lane cake” sat on the end of the counter. A pot of black-eyed peas bubbled on the stove, and a pan of cornbread was ready to pop into the oven. This meal was a southern tradition in his family on New Year’s Day. There would be ham with raisin sauce, fluffy hot biscuits in addition to the cornbread, and cheesy grits, set off by pickled onions, bread-and-butter pickles, and spiced apple slices. He was grateful that his wife had been willing to tackle his mother’s old recipes and carry on such traditions—as much for the sentiment of the thing as for the wonderful mix of flavors. He knew that his eldest sister, Paula, would be preparing a similar meal for her family and their mother—but Ann Marie? He chuckled. Not a chance. Middle child, Ann Marie, would likely send out for pizza. The kitchen had never been her domain, and her husband and sons would want to spend the day watching football, game after game, drinking beer and nibbling on whatever snacks were handy. He liked football, too, though not in such quantity. He would sneak a peek every so often to see how certain teams were faring—but he knew there was no chance to devote the whole day to it, even if he’d wanted to. He and Trish would visit with their guests for as long as they cared to stay, and then, once all the food was put away and things cleaned up, the family would relax. Tiffani, whose mood had vastly improved since the night before, would probably call a couple of friends. Jamie and Mallory might watch a video. If the weather stayed nice and there was time before dark, he and Trish might bundle up and go for one of their neighborhood strolls, chatting and informally taking stock of their lives and those of their children to see where improvements or adjustments might be made. It was, he thought, an altogether satisfactory way to begin the year. He bowed his head and sent up a little prayer of thanks, not asking for a single thing. His cup was full.
Chapter Seven
* * *
“ . . . stay the tide of sin and wrong”
As he struggled through the second day of the year 2002, Bishop James Shepherd became increasingly grateful for the peaceful interlude that had been the first day. His challenges began at seven in the morning, when the phone rang on his desk in the dining room, where he was eating breakfast while perusing the home teaching assignment sheet. Absurdly glad that it was the old-fashioned phone ringing, the one that sat so comfortably in his hand and didn’t have mysterious buttons and features, he answered pleasantly.
“Um, Bishop? Uh . . . this is Buddy.” Buddy’s voice was more hushed and tentative than usual.
“Well, good morning, friend. What’s up?”
“Um, well—I hate to bother you and all, but I wondered iffen there’d be any way you might could give me a ride back over to my Mama’s place this mornin’.”
“Sure, I expect I could. Anything wrong, Buddy?”
“Um—my bike’s over there, else I’d just ride it back, see? And Deddy—well, he ain’t feelin’ real good, and I think he’d kinda like the place to himself today.”
Read between the lines, Bishop, he advised himself. Read, Deddy’s either drunk or has a whopper of a hangover and is in a foul mood, and I don’t want to be where I’m not wanted.
“You bet your boots I can give you a ride. Let me just finish a bite of breakfast, and I’ll be right over.”
“Cool. Thanks, Bishop.”
He told Trish the situation, and she hurried the process of packing him a lunch of leftover tortilla soup, corn chips, an apple, and a wedge of cheddar. He would go straight to work after dropping Buddy off.
Buddy
was waiting for him, hunched against the cold on the top step of “Deddy’s” small porch, his backpack beside him. He jumped up and started toward the truck, but his father, unshaven and with flyaway hair standing in a tousled halo above his grizzled face, came out the door to say his good-byes.
“You tell that filthy little slut you call your Mama that she ain’t gettin’ one more penny outa me!” he shouted, waving one hand and then using it to grab for the porch roof-support. “Not as long as she’s shackin’ up with that no-good . . .”
“Okay, see you later, Deddy,” Buddy called, trying to make his voice camouflage his father’s as he scrambled into the truck. “He ain’t always like that,” he added, as the bishop pressed the accelerator.
“I’m sure he’s not,” the bishop agreed. “Since he is today, though, I’m glad you called me.”
“Well. Yessir.” Buddy was quiet, and the bishop, sensing his embarrassment, spoke of other things—T-Rex’s condition, the basketball chances for the Fairhaven High School Mariners, classes starting again the next day. Buddy answered in monosyllables.
“Had any breakfast?” the bishop asked.
“Oh—no sir, but . . .”
He pulled into a fast-food restaurant and ordered a sausage and egg biscuit and an orange juice, over Buddy’s protests that he could get something at his Mama’s place. The bishop was glad for the impulse that had turned his truck into that drive-through when he pulled up in front of Twyla Osborne’s mobile home and saw both her car and a red pickup there. The drapes and shades were drawn, and all was quiet. He knew, somehow, that Buddy wouldn’t knock to be let in.
“You don’t have a key, do you, Buddy?”
“No, sir, but I’ll be fine. Mama’ll be up, soon. Iffen I get cold, I’ll just ride my bike around to warm up.”
The bishop shook his head. “How’d you like to come help me out at the store for a while? Put your bike in the back of the truck, and when you get bored, you can ride on back out here.”
“You don’t need to do that, Bishop. I’ll be okay.”
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