(2005) Wrapped in Rain (43 page)

Tucker?

I didn't answer. I knew what she wanted.

'T'ucker Rain ?

That got my attention, and for a moment I could smell the hint of Cornhuskers.

Yes ma'am?

Child, in the end ... love wins. Always does. Always will.

Yes ma am.

I stood in the front yard and held up my glove. Jase reached way back, pointed his glove hand at me, took a big step, and threw as hard as he could. The ball arced upward and spun sideways through rain that fell harder now, wrapping itself around us.

EVERY TIME I WALK INTO A BOOKSTORE AND SEE ONE OF my books sitting on a shelf, I just shake my head. I'm amazed. Many of my family and friends are too. Often, they say, "You made it!" Whenever I hear that, I start looking over my shoulder and feel the urge to duck. I know better. My grip on this business is tenuous at best, and if I've made it anywhere, it's merely to the starting line.

In truth, I feel much like a runner led by the official from my seat in the stands, through the crowds, and out onto the track. He has given me a lane and pointed toward the man holding the starting gun. "This is your lane. Good luck. Gun goes off in a minute."

The view from the track has taught me a good bit. Most important, that I didn't get me here by myself. Yes, I have worked hard, but a lot of runners train hard and many can outrun me. Bottom line, I had help getting on the track.

Allen, my publisher, and jenny, my editor: thank you both for your support of me, your encouragement, and helping me tell the stories that are rattling about inside me. And to the team at WestBow, I'm truly indebted to you. I never envisioned what you have done with my stories.

Sealy, someday soon I hope to be worth the amount of time Chris spends on me. Thank you for taking a chance. Chris, let's go fishing, someplace where the fishing's good, fly rods are required, and the hike in takes the better part of a day. I'm grateful to and for you, both as agent and friend.

Davis, you're a constant encouragement; you continue to set the bar high, and your friendship blesses me-I thank you for all three. Herb, thanks for the education, your care of our good friend, and your laughter-it's contagious. Lonnie, thanks for Clopton and sharing it with me. You're close to my heart. God's too. Dave, for a lifetime of running with me. Two are better than one. It's good stuff.

Gracie, Annie and Berry, Johnny and Michael, thanks for the way you love us and our boys. We're blessed.

Dad, I put Mom's name up front, but don't get your feelings hurt. Mom wouldn't be Mom without you. We all know that. Yours is coming.

Charlie, John T., and Rives, one day soon, we will get a boat that holds all of us, will carry us all the way to Clark's and back, helps us actually catch fish, and won't sink when the wind picks up or waves climb above a foot. Until then, there's always the dock. I pray God gives you strong legs, strong lungs, and stronger hearts. And as you grow into them, I pray you learn to run, that you do it with reckless abandon, and that the track official gives you your own lane. When he does, run the race.

In my life, I've always had running partners better than me. But none better than my wife. Christy, thank you for running alongside me, keeping your eye on the starting line, bandaging my wounds, stretching my legs, lungs, and heart, and believing that we'd get here even when we couldn't see it.

A lot can happen between here and the finish line. I can jump the gun, run outside my lane, stumble, grow tired, drop the baton, or ... run the race. Lord, thank You for letting me run and giving me training partners better than I am. Help me run in such a way that pleases You-one in which my life and my art reflect You-and that encourages other runners like me to keep running, to get up when they fall down, to stay in the race, and to finish-because the prize is worth the pain.

RIVER ROAD WINDS ALONG THE SOUTHERN BANK OF THE St. John's River in Jacksonville, Florida, running from downtown through San Marco. The house where I grew up sits smack in the middle. At least, it used to. Within the last year, somebody moved to town, bought the house and lot, and bulldozed the house. Last time I saw it, nothing remained but an old copper stairwell upon which I busted my chin and the concrete bulkhead where I caught more than my share of mullet and red bass. They can bulldoze the house but not the memories.

Turn right out of my driveway, drive a hundred yards, and River Road turns right again, or due south, where it straightens for about a half mile and ends in River Oaks Road. If you're coming the other way, and don't make the left turn to my house, you'll run up through the front lawn and into what used to be the childhood home of one of my best friends, Bryce.

One afternoon when I was about nine or ten, Bryce and I were upstairs in the sitting room, flipping through thirty-six glorious cable channels, when we first heard the tires squeal. We heard the engine roar and the tires chirp, and then the engine whine grew closer and louder. We lived in a relatively sleepy neighborhood, and we both knew that nobody wound an engine that high or squealed tires that long if they planned to make the turn. Somebody was pushing the limits of both that car and our road. We jumped to the window and watched wide-eyed as the Porsche grew from a small red speck to a blazing rocket. From our perch above the sunporch, it didn't take us long to realize that if the 924 missed the turn, he'd fly across the lawn and demolish the room below us. This was better than The Dukes of Hazard.

It's been a long time and I can't say for sure, but I'd say he was traveling close to sixty or seventy miles an hour when he hit the curb. The front tires exploded, the car launched itself airborne, and just like Bo and Luke Duke, the car flew through the air, spewing grass, dirt, and concrete. The only thing between him and us was a rather stout and tall palm tree. The front end of that meteor struck the palm tree about six feet in the air, violently rocking the tree. A million shards of glass scattered like fertilizer across the lawn, a small explosion occurred somewhere under the hood, and I think the horn blew for a few seconds. Having spent its energy, the car dropped to the grass below where it lay in several disconnected pieces. The only sound remaining was some unintelligible music blaring from the speakers of the car. It sounded loud and angry, and I remember thinking that my folks would never have let me listen to it-not that I wanted to.

Bryce and I jumped downstairs, flew out the front door, and circled the wreckage, looking inside but keeping a safe distance. If the driver's head came rolling out like a bowling ball, we definitely wanted to see it; we just didn't want to touch it. We walked behind the still-shaking palm tree where red pieces of fiberglass and slivers of windshield stuck into the skin of the tree. The man inside the car was half-breathing and mostly mangled. His eyes were closed, the driver's side door hung partly open, and most of the windows had been blown out. Blood dripped off his face, arms, and most of the dashboard, and certain parts of his clothing were wet. It was the closest I'd ever been to someone who looked dead. This was not better than The Dukes of Hazard.

Then his hand moved. We leaned closer and he moaned at us, but we couldn't hear him because of the lunatic screaming from the eight speakers that surrounded him. Bryce and I stood in silence, hiding behind one another while a crowd of neighbors gathered around to make sure we weren't hurt, and waited for the paramedics. We formed a circle of eager spectators, but nobody approached the car and absolutely nobody touched the man. He lay there alone, bleeding, moaning, connected to two legs that seemed twisted into the floorboard.

Two doors down, my mom had heard the crash. She flew out the front door, lifting her apron over her head, throwing it on the sidewalk, and then bounding down River Road, hiking her skirt just above her knees. I remember watching her knees float up and down like two white pistons as she ran down the middle of the street. She saw us, our safety registered somewhere in her brain, and then she eyed the car. Without even a break in her step, she elbowed her way through the crowd, knelt next to the car, and laid the man's bloody hand in hers. With her other hand, she reached in, placing it either on his leg or the steering wheel. Then, right there in front of God and everybody, she started praying.

My mom can't pray without crying. As soon as she closes her eyes, she's a soaking wet mess, so as she bowed her head, the tears started dripping off her nose. As they did, his head bobbed her way. His eyes were jumping all over the place and never did seem to focus, but Mom never skipped a beat. While she dripped tears, he muttered something only she could hear, and his fingers squeezed around hers.

I think God was listening too, because He turned off that radio. And when He did, it got pin-drop quiet except for Mom. I've had some twenty years to think about it, and I'm pretty sure it was God, because neither the driver nor Mom ever touched the power button. Maybe God just got tired of listening to it.

It struck me then and it strikes me now that when my mom hit her knees, she towered above the rest of us. Sometimes when I think of her in my mind, even though she's still very much alive, the picture I see is the one of her reaching into that car.

I think that was the first glimpse I'd ever had of Miss Ella.

Since then, there've been many: one night-maybe I was eight or nine-I had a high fever and was, at least I thought, pretty close to dying. I looked up from the bucket and saw Mom kneeling at the steps that climbed up into my room. Now, since I'm setting my mom up to be such a saint, don't think my dad didn't pray. He did, and still does, but he was holding the bucket and was focused on catching everything flying out of me. There was the day she took Lewis and me to the hospital and parked us below the sign that read "Do not leave kids unattended" before walking into Roosevelt's room and holding his hand because he was close to dying. (He didn't die either.) There was the time my sister got attacked by the German shepherd on Halloween night, the time a kid I had never seen before and would never see again stole my bicycle right out from under me, and then there was the day that I came home from college, banged up, broken, never able to play football again, and she met me at the foot of my bed, said, "Hey, Squee," and prayed like I'd never heard her before. I could go on.

Anyone who knew me as a kid will tell you that I had a pretty good dose of the devil in me. Knowing this, my parents fought back-they reached in, grabbed my bloody hand, and prayed. I don't ever remember a time in my house when bedtime didn't begin with prayers. My folks knelt by my bed, or got in it with me, every night of my life. And even when they stood, kissed me, and turned out the light, I never slept alone.

Because God has a pretty good sense of humor, each of our three boys got the same dose-they come by it honestly. Like my folks, Christy and I are reaching in and fighting back-growing calluses on our knees and not our knuckles.

Sometimes, I wonder how different my life would be had they not. Would I be here at this computer with my wife and three boys tucked in snug down the hall? Maybe locked up in a prison cell far from home? Or worse yet, lying cold and still beneath a marble tombstone painted with my mom's tears? Fact is, they did, and I'm here. The knee-width, parallel lines at the foot of my bed were real, and because of that-and the brass plumb in my mom's apron pocket-I'll never know.