Gideon - 03 - Religious Conviction (27 page)

“It’s possible, but I was only gone forty-five minutes.”

I am buying into this story, I realize. It may be a total crock, designed at the eleventh hour.

“Why have you waited until now to tell this?”

Leigh begins to cry again.

“If this comes out, it will kill my father,” she says, her lower lip trembling.

Trying to think, I choke down some coffee. Is it possible Art called Shane back and told him what he had done with his daughter, and Shane came to the house and killed him? Surely this has crossed her mind.

“It could have been your father. He might have called back, and Art, in anger or hubris, might have told him.”

Her features collapse, and it dawns on me that she believes her father murdered her husband.

“Art treated Daddy with such contempt!”

If this is what happened, I have to take her down this path as far as possible, so she can’t talk herself out of it later.

“Had they argued?” I ask, as if I were talking to her for the first time. Perhaps, in a sense, I am.

Leigh brushes her hair from her face. She has it pulled back in a ponytail, but some of it has begun to escape. If she has gotten any sleep tonight, I can’t tell it by the way she looks. Her normally beautiful skin looks puffy and loose under her eyes. Her voice becomes anguished.

“Art argued with Daddy in a way nobody else dared. Just the week before he died, he told Daddy that anyone who believed the earth was only six thousand years old was an utter fool. That the scientific evidence against the Bible being literal truth was overwhelming.

He said the New Testament merely represents the efforts of some of the followers of Jesus to convince others that He was the son of God, and is no more hard evidence of the Resurrection than a man preaching on a street corner.”

I had prepared myself for much more, but Leigh has spoken in such hushed tones I realize that even this little snit of Art’s must have seemed like someone daring to urinate on a shrine. Art had done no more, as far as I can tell, than espouse, albeit in a forceful way, the view of mainline Christianity. Yet, perhaps to Shane, and obviously to his daughter, he sounded like the antiChrist. Doubtless, Shane had heard much harsher attacks on his brand of Christianity even from within the Bible Belt itself. Still, his daughter’s soul was at stake.

“How did you react?” I ask.

“I take it you were there.”

Leigh’s face flushes, the memory of it too much.

“Daddy had stopped by the house to ask me to come to church to hear one of our missionaries. Art was so rude I thought I was going to faint” Poor Leigh. Rudeness, not false dogma, is the ultimate sin in the South.

“Did you agree with Art?” I ask.

Leigh betrays her feelings by stammering, “Art … knew so much. He read all the time.”

It is Leigh who has betrayed her father. Could his murder of her husband have been directed at her rather than having been on her behalf? I have given up trying to understand my own motives and assume everything I do is selfish these days. I want Sarah back, not for her sake but for my own. The fact is, she seems happier than she has for months. Just because fundamentalism may not serve her for a lifetime doesn’t mean it isn’t meeting some need right now.

“I can understand if Art was trying to persuade you to believe something a little different,” I say gently, “than what you were raised with. It happens to all of us.”

Leigh’s face is full of sorrow.

“Daddy realizes I’m losing my faith, and it is just about to kill him.”

The irony is that my own daughter has traveled in the opposite direction. I tap my empty cup on the kitchen table I’ve loved so well since Rosa and I bought it at an antique sale in Hot Springs. It is oak, weighs a ton, and will outlast us all.

Leigh, exhausted now or perhaps just sad, rests her head on her knuckles. Shane has her body back but not her mind. Yet, if she is acquitted, she may never leave again. After all, the maiden voyage was a disaster. This is one woman I would like to know in five years. I feel a wave of tenderness as I look down on her tousled hair.

From this angle she reminds me so much of Sarah. But I don’t dare comfort her. Even as smelly and gross as I am now, anything I do could be misinterpreted. And as lonely as I feel, I would be quick to misinterpret a gesture from her. Once I slept with a key witness in a big case and almost screwed it up royally. This one is hard enough without doing that. I smile at my own ego. Any shudder I might produce in a woman right now would be from horror, not ecstasy.

“You need to go home,” I say gently, “and try to get some sleep.”

She raises her head and nods.

“Daddy’s probably called the police.”

The irony is too great. In a moment of anger I thought about calling the cops, too, and claiming Sarah had been kidnapped. What a disaster that would have turned out to be. Sarah never would have forgiven me.

Briefly, I tell Leigh what has happened. She listens sympathetically. Sarah is in a place emotionally Leigh may never occupy again, and I sense in some way she envies her.

“You’ve got to come down to Chet’s office today so we can prepare your testimony for Thursday.”

She bites her lip.

“Can I stay here the rest of the night?” she asks, sounding like a little girl.

“I don’t want to go home. I feel too weird now being under the same roof with him.”

I look at my watch. It is close to four-thirty.

“You have to promise to call first thing in the morning and tell your parents where you are.”

For the first time she yawns, her chest swelling under the gray sweatshirt.

“I promise I won’t be any trouble.”

I stand and lead her to Sarah’s room.

“My daughter’s room is going to be a mess,” I apologize, forgetting how bare she has left it. When I hit the light switch, my emotions almost get the better of me and I say in a soft voice, “Or used to be.”

I go find her a clean towel and washcloth and inspect the bathroom. It is passable. It was Sarah’s turn to clean it this weekend. Fortunately, she usually does a little better job than I do, and if Leigh doesn’t inspect it too closely, it will do. Standing in front of my mirror, I am repulsed by what I see. If my eyes had any more red in them, I could donate them to the blood bank. As I pick up the only hair I see on the sink, I can imagine Pearl Norman on her hands and knees scrubbing out the commode in her own home until it gleamed with an alabaster sheen. Her house was spotless, and I realize that Pearl reminds me of my mother, who lived in an age when it was okay if all a woman knew how to do was cook and clean house and take care of her husband and children. At least it was permissible until her husband died. I go to say goodnight, and Leigh thanks me for letting her stay.

“We have to talk to Chet today,” I re mind her.

She ducks her head.

“I can’t tell people,” she wails, “that I let myself be filmed dancing without any clothes on. I just can’t do that to my father.”

I try to contain my frustration by glancing around my daughter’s bare room. It is as if I were trying to rent it out. How strange! Leigh is facing life in prison for a crime her father may have committed, and once again she is worried about his reaction. My daughter runs away, and I haven’t done anything.

“We’ll make the jury understand,” I tell her gently, “the kind of influence Art had over you. By the time Chet is through with his opening statement they’ll hate Art as much as your father did.”

Leigh sits down on Sarah’s bed, twisting her hands in her lap.

“I can’t implicate my father!” She begins to cry.

“It’s my fault all this happened!”

I lean against the doorjamb of Sarah’s room and marvel at the guilt on this girl’s shoulders. Our battle isn’t going to be with the jury; it will be with her.

“You won’t be implicating your father,” I say, disingenuously.

“Only he can do that. You’ll just be telling the truth.”

For the first time the words come tumbling out: “I think Daddy killed Art!” she cries, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I don’t think he meant to, but I think he did it!”

Despite the stench coming from me, I go sit down by her on the bed and put my arm around her shoulders as she sobs against me in gasps that rack her whole body.

How can I not believe her? If this were Sarah, I wouldn’t have a choice, and I have not smothered her nearly as much as this girl has been. Would Sarah risk her life and lie to protect me? I’d be lucky to escape being burned at the stake.

“You know your father wouldn’t want you,” I say, patting her shoulder, “to run any risk of being convicted.” I say it, but not convincingly at all. Despite all the alleged emphasis on the re deeming power of love emanating from within the walls of Christian Life, I am no longer certain that punishment isn’t Shane’s agenda. In his heart perhaps he knew even before she did that Leigh was past the point of no return, and this was his way of keeping her. What did Chet say that Christian Life would have ten people there on visiting day for her?

Leigh wipes her nose on the sleeve of her warm-up but doesn’t speak. I would feel better if she got angry.

I get up and say, “We’ll talk about it later. You need to try to get some rest.”

“Thank you,” she answers, and I leave her sitting in Sarah’s room.

I slip off my pants and get into bed, trying not to think about what she is sleeping in. How can I think of sex at a time like this? I ought to be put to sleep. I lie awake wondering if I am being conned. What happened to the video? Was there one? Maybe we shouldn’t allow her on the witness stand. Up to now, I thought we ought to pick the most conservative jury possible, but how is a Bible thumper going to relate to a woman who dances nude an hour or so before her husband is murdered?

Somebody ought to be punished, and it’s too late to teach her husband a lesson. Did Shane Norman do this?

There is no evidence that he did anything except have a good reason to hate his son-in-law. Chet has got to confirm Shane’s alibi today, or I will. I feel the bed sag slightly, but it is just Woogie, probably confused about the night’s events.

“Welcome to the club,” I say, reaching down to pet him as he curls up beside me.

“Some body’s in Sarah’s bed, but it’s not her, is it, boy?”

For a response, he burrows against me. I’m not much of a substitute. If Leigh stayed another night, he’d be in there with her. Damn. I wonder if I’d try to join him.

Why can’t I think of her like a daughter? For the same reason Art Wallace couldn’t, I guess. Incredibly, when the bed moved, I hoped it was Leigh. Sure. What could be more attractive than a whiskey-breathed, smokestenched, middleaged sad sack? As my old track coach at Subiaco used to say, “Page, if you had a brain, you’d be dangerous.” Still, it is nice to know my self-esteem is still intact. How boring life would be if I couldn’t make a fool of myself.

At six my alarm blasts me out of a sound sleep. How could I have even closed my eyes with all that caffeine?

I stumble into the hall to go to the bathroom and notice Sarah’s door is open. I can’t resist the urge to peek but it is too dark to see anything. After I piss, I go into the kitchen and find a note by the coffee pot from Leigh telling me that she will call my office later. I wait until seven and then call Chet and tell him about my over night visitor.

“You’ve got to determine today if Shane could have killed Wallace!” I almost yell at him.

“We’re almost out of time!”

He responds calmly.

“Come on out for breakfast,” he invites me, his voice strong.

“Wynona would love to cook for you.”

“Okay,” I answer. I hang up, nonplussed by his manner How can he be so calm? He has screwed this case up, and all he can think about is breakfast. It must be the medication.

Woogie wanders into the bathroom while I am shaving and looks up at me as if to ask, “Where’s Sarah?”

The few nights she has spent the night out in the past he has wandered from room to room obviously looking for her. This morning has been no exception.

“She’ll be back soon,” I say, without conviction. How could I have slapped her? We’ll both remember it the rest of our lives. I had no business doing that. The phone rings, jar ring me out of my growing self-pity.

“Have you heard from her yet?” Rainey asks, her voice concerned yet determinedly upbeat.

I beat down the feeling that she is ultimately responsible for Sarah’s departure, confident that Sarah is likely to call her before she calls me. It is odd to be estranged from the woman who has meant so much to me. If we had gotten married instead of backing away each time at the last moment, maybe none of this would be happening She wouldn’t have all this time for another “family” if she had areal one. It’s hard to escape the conclusion that Christian Life is what people do if there’s nothing good on TV. As bitter as I feel, I man age to avoid delivering myself of this sentiment. Like the comments of a rejected boyfriend, it would be taken as so many sour grapes.

“Not yet,” I say evenly, and tell her I’m going out to Chet’s.

From her tone it is clear that Rainey is hurting for me. Missing from her voice is the accusatory, sanctimonious tone from last night’s conversation.

“She’ll call you today,” she assures me, though she doesn’t sound as confident as I would like.

Still wary of her, I resist the temptation to tell her that Leigh was over here and spilled her guts. Nothing I can say right now would convince Rainey that Shane is involved in his son-in-law’s murder.

“You seem more understanding today,” I say hopefully.

“I want Sarah to come home for you,” she says, “but please realize that if you try to make the jury think Shane killed his son-in-law when you really don’t have any proof he did, I’ll never feel the same about you again.”

So much for biting my tongue.

“I have a job to do!”

I screech into the phone.

“You know that! And since when have you been worried about your feelings for me? Ever since you started going to Christian Life, you haven’t spent five minutes thinking about me, and you know it.”

“That’s not true,” Rainey responds, her voice no longer under control as it was.