Prophet (44 page)

“Carl . . .”

Carl spun around, his face spattered with paint, his hands covered with it, his eyes the eyes of a savage. His words were rehearsed; he’d been brooding on them with every splash of paint. “I needed answers, and the whole world ignored me! I sought for God, and He gave me
you! So I looked to you for Truth and . . . and you blew up my universe and cut to a commercial!”

“Okay, Carl . . . okay. I know it’s hard to understand. It’s a complicated business.” John looked at the splattered canvas. “And if this is what you think of me . . . well, I don’t blame you—”

“I’ve already painted you. I’ve painted the only father I could find.”

“I’d like to see it, Carl.”

“I can’t find it. Nobody can.”

“What do you mean?”

“I cried at Grandpa’s memorial service. Did you know that?”

John was surprised to hear Carl bring it up. “Yes. I wondered about it . . . I really wanted to know why . . .”

Carl looked all around the shop, at all the machinery and tools set in their places, hanging on their hooks, tucked into their slots. “Because he knew something. He knew where he was, who he was. If he’d been alive just a little longer, I could have gotten to know him, we could have touched, you know?” He took one more look around the room and then cried, “I don’t belong here!” and ran for the door.

“Carl! Carl, don’t go! We can talk it out!”

Carl slammed the door behind him, leaving green, blue, red, and black paint smeared on the knob.

And John was alone, standing in the middle of the most intense work Carl had ever created. All around, on every side, could be seen chaos, anger, despair. The little shop that Dad Barrett had built and organized with such purpose, such care and love, was now disrupted, desecrated, by an explosion of placeless, meaningless colors.

And in the middle of it all the little television on the workbench was still chattering its nonstop, clamorous message: buy, buy, buy, have, use, indulge, forget; laugh, laugh, laugh at everything, care for nothing; look at this, look at that, now look at this, it’s new, it’s now, it’s different, it’s wild, it’s naughty, you’ve never seen anything like it, don’t miss it!

Then another nauseating, overdone ad: “In these times a man of integrity is needed to keep you informed, a man you can trust!”

John cursed.
As if this stupid tube’s chatter isn’t bad enough, now I’ve got to hear another Slater-for-governor ad!
He reached for the on-off knob, that precious escape route back to sanity.

“John Barrett!” the tube trumpeted. “The voice of integrity, bringing you the world as it is!”

And there was John Barrett’s face. Big, bold, honest. The real thing. You couldn’t help but be impressed.

John stood transfixed for the few seconds his face remained on the screen. He could sense it so clearly: that little box was laughing at him, mocking him! He could hear it cackling! It was slapping him in the face with . . . himself. First he listened and watched; he received the whole message; he let it hit him full force. Then, stunned and heartsick, he silenced that little machine. He switched off its life.

It went blank and stared at him without expression. He backed away from it, staring back at it, hating it, hating himself.

A sight in the rafters made him jump—an apparition, a face lurking overhead!

It was cold. Lifeless. Mechanical. It was perfect. Honest. Impeccable. Professional. His face. Ready to bring you the news reliably and accurately, up-to-the-minute. Number one. Premier.

Carl’s painting. An image without blemish. It was everything John Barrett, anchorman, was.

And it was up high. Lofty, out of reach, untouchable.
I can’t find it
, Carl had said.
Nobody can.

The little box had mocked him. Now this painting, this image, shamed him.

That’s me?
he wondered. “O God,” he whispered, “who am I? Who am I really?”

God heard his question.

And John knew it.
No, no, I shouldn’t have asked that. I don’t want to know. At least let me figure it out myself . . . Don’t tell me . . . Please don’t tell me.

But God heard the question.

John knew he’d gotten God’s attention; he’d disturbed God. He didn’t mean to, but he could sense what he’d done. Somewhere in the big wide universe, maybe everywhere, God had heard John’s voice. He’d heard the question, stopped, and turned.

God . . . don’t look at me. It isn’t that important, really. I didn’t mean—

An answer was on the way. From God? From Almighty God? The little building was dead quiet. Not a sound. The little box sat lifeless on
the workbench. John could hear the wind outside, the barking of a dog, a tiny creak in the rafters . . . the beating of his own heart.

He could hear any sound that might come. Any voice. An answer was on the way. God was going to answer. John looked up into the rafters again. What were they, two-by-fours? He could imagine them snapping like toothpicks. They could never hide him from God. He looked around at the old, single-paned windows. Some were cracked even now. He’d broken one when he was a boy. They could never shield him from God.

This whole building was only a tiny shell made of sticks. A hurricane could blow it away, a mighty earthquake could topple it, lightning could consume it. It could never hide him from God.

God was on His way. God would be here soon. Oh brother. What if God sees that painting? What if He sees this awful mess? What if He talks to Carl?

John looked up at his image in the rafters. The news anchor just gazed back at him, same as usual, cool, collected, in charge . . . paper-thin.

A lie? O God, don’t let that be me. I’m not that guy up there . . . I’m not.

But please . . . don’t tell me who I really am. Not yet. I couldn’t stand it.

John took some deep breaths and tried to clear his head. He had to calm down.

He decided to pray. Sure. Why not? He’d grown up in church. He believed in God, and he’d always said so. He was a good man . . . At least he tried to be.

“God . . .”
Oh man, don’t pray, you’ll give away your position! He’ll home in on you! You want Him to see you like this?

This is nuts
, he thought.
I’ve got to get out of here.
He went to the door. Carl’s paint was still on the knob when he grabbed it. When he got outside he noticed the slickness of his fingers against his palm. He dropped to one knee and frantically rubbed his hand in the grass. He had to get rid of this paint.
No, God, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know Carl was going to do this. I don’t know why he did. His mess isn’t on my hands!

He got to his feet and walked briskly out to the sidewalk. A change
of scene, that’s what he needed. Fresh air. A different environment. He hurried through the quiet neighborhood, past all the quaint old homes that had been here for at least half a century. He kept waiting for the fear, the holy dread, to ebb away, but nothing changed. As a matter of fact, being outside under the open sky felt even worse. He felt naked out here, a sitting duck with a big target on top of his head.

O Lord, where can I flee from Thy presence?
The Scripture echoed in John’s mind.

He started running.
Nowhere
, he thought.
God’s everywhere. No matter which way you turn, you’re looking Him in the face.

If I flee down this alley, You’re there. If I get in my car and get out of town, You’ll be right in the car with me. If I duck into the subway, You’ll be right there in the tunnel. I could turn on the television and maybe drown You out, but that won’t make You go away. I could buy things to push You from my mind, but You’d still be there when I tired of them.

He kept running, trying to shake the terror. Either he was crazy or God was really after him, but either reason was reason enough to run wildly down the sidewalk, duck around a massive maple tree, and flee down another street past warmly lit windows and friendly porch lights, then up a narrow alley where two dogs barked and chased him along a Cyclone fence until he was past them. What was the matter with them—couldn’t they see he was in trouble, that God was after him? He could see the strangeness of this. God was chasing a man down the street while the poor guy ran for his life, but no one in the neighborhood even noticed. Perhaps they had nothing to fear.

God was getting closer, and He wasn’t a bit tired. John knew God would run him down eventually, but he kept running. He couldn’t stop.

He came to Snyder Park, the local play area for generations of kids. It was night, so the place was empty; the swings were motionless, the baseball diamond vacant. He stumbled across the expanse of grass, found a picnic table, and collapsed on the bench, unable to run any further and seeing no use in it anyway.

He couldn’t get away from God, couldn’t outrun or outfox Him. There was nothing left to do but surrender.

“All right,” he gasped. “All right. You’ve got me. I can’t run anymore. I can’t run. Here I am. Do what You want with me.”

That sounded strangely familiar, like words he’d prayed thirty-two
years ago.

Who are you really, John Barrett?

“Aw!” He couldn’t hold that cry inside. He looked around, his eyes darting here and there. He saw nothing but the park.

I have laid bare the secrets of men’s hearts and you have seen it.

No, no
, John thought.
He’s going to rip my heart out, I know He is!

Now I will show you the secrets of your heart.

John began to realize what he was. He could not turn away from it. The Truth poured over his spirit, mind, and soul like a wave and he had to face it, confess it, know it.

He could not deny it any longer. His soul was naked before God.

“Son,” Dad had said, “the Truth is coming after you, and it’s going to sink its claws into you and not let go until you start paying attention.”

The claws of the Truth were painful. The lies tore away like scabs, and John bled there for hours, stifling his cries of pain in the sleeve of his overcoat—the overcoat he’d received from his father.

CARL FINALLY RETURNED
to Mom Barrett’s at just a little before midnight, carefully opening the screen door to the back porch, painstakingly dragging his feet several times over the doormat, turning the back-door knob delicately and slowly until the latch finally released, easing the door open in hope of minimizing its characteristic squeak—and finding himself face-to-face with Mom, sitting at the kitchen table reading her Bible and waiting up for him.

He looked pathetic, cold, shivering, his eyes red from weeping, his face smeared with paint and tears.

“So how are you?” she asked.

He knew no more appropriate answer than, “I feel like Hell.”

“Have you seen your father?”

The question irked him. “I have never seen my father.”

She raised an eyebrow and directed a finger at his nose. “Oh, you’ve come close, now be honest.”

“I have never seen him, and I don’t care if I ever do. There’s nothing there to see.”

She rose from the table and beckoned with her finger.

He resisted. “Naw, c’mon . . .”

“You come on.”

“Grandma, I am not going to talk to him!”

“I don’t care if you do or don’t, but I do care about the mess you made. Now come on.”

He followed her. He had anything but a right attitude about it, but he followed her out the back door and down the path to his grandfather’s shop, getting a quick update on how she felt about this whole thing.

“The Word of God says not to let the sun go down on your wrath. Well, the sun’s down, but I’m still up, I’m getting tired and cranky, and I’d really like to sleep tonight knowing you two are working this thing out instead of wandering around the neighborhood like a couple of nutty vagrants in war paint.”

“Grandma, he’s just going to give me the same old routine!”

She stopped right outside the shop door and turned to fire her reply straight into his eyes. “Not tonight he won’t.”

She opened the door, swinging it quietly aside as if unveiling something.

Carl stopped in the doorway. He had no response. He could only stare.

There was his father, John Barrett, on his hands and knees in the corner of the shop, hand-scrubbing paint off the floor, working slowly, deliberately, rubbing the floor with a rag, wetting the rag from a can of turpentine, then rubbing some more. He had to have heard them open the door—he had to know they were now watching him—and yet he didn’t turn, he didn’t look up.

Mom said softly, “It took both of you to make this mess, so it’s going to take both of you to clean it up.” Carl was about to offer a reason why it could never work, but she held up her hand and wagged her head. “No, no, now I’ve got you where I want you. You’ve defaced my property, so I’m calling the shots. Get started.”

Carl surveyed the extent of his artistic expression. “It’ll take all night!”

“Oh, longer than that. But tonight you start.” And then she stood there, her feet firmly planted, her face providing no option.