Prophet (48 page)

“Well . . . here’s your assignment, guys. Find out who it was. If you see him again, if you know anybody else who might know anything . . .”

They exchanged a look that said,
That’s a tall order.
“Okay, Johnny, we’ll do what we can.”

John turned to Carl. “Let’s take another look in Dad’s office.”

A thorough search turned up no cassette tapes of any kind. Now John was all the more intrigued. “Let’s get back to Mom’s. We’ll check the car, the shop, the tape player in the living room, we’ll ask Mom . . .”

SUNDAY MORNING THEY
went to church with Mom, something Carl had been doing regularly as part of his lodging agreement with her, and something John was ready to try again, for better or for worse. It wasn’t all that bad.

The Pentecostal culture and worship style—pull out all the stops and get on with it—were distinctive, of course, and something you either liked or didn’t, but God was there, and John could sense His presence.

And once again he heard God speak. He could hear God’s voice in the singing, in the testimonies, in the love and sharing, and especially in the written Word of God. John knew that voice when he was ten, and he knew it now. Jesus is the Good Shepherd, he recalled, and His sheep know His voice; they recognize that same old ring of Truth, that same durable, virtuous tone, and, of course that same, unfading love and mercy. Perhaps John wasn’t home yet, but he felt close.

As for Carl . . . “Let’s work on the boat,” he said. Sunday dinner was over, they’d all cleaned up and loaded the dishwasher, and Mom now was reclining in Dad’s easy chair, a quilt up to her chin, resting her eyelids. John thought that activity—or nonactivity—looked terribly inviting, but Carl’s idea prevailed easily, and they went out to the shop.

“I’m checking it out,” Carl admitted as they began to fit the boat ribs for gluing. “Hey, I want God to be there—I want Him to exist. And if He’s there, I want Him to speak to me. But right now . . . well, it’s kind of wait and see.”

John was marking the keel for drilling screw holes.

“Okay, I can understand that.” What John really understood was that Carl was testing everything, examining everything, especially his father, to see if any solid ground was beginning to take hold under all that shifting sand. Wait and see? John had the same feeling about himself even now. God he was sure about. John Barrett was another matter.

Not to change the subject entirely, but slightly, John said, “Well, let’s hear these tapes.”

Dad owned a small radio/cassette player and used to listen to preacher/teacher tapes and music while working out in the shop. It wasn’t hard to find; Dad had it in its rightful place on a shelf above the workbench, a shelf labeled “radio.” Now they had it perched on the workbench near where they were working, and beside it was a stack of cassette tapes gleaned from Dad’s car, his bedroom, the shop, the living room stereo, the closet, and anywhere else Mom could think of where Dad might stash tapes. Most of the tapes were preacher/teacher tapes and were so labeled. Some were copies of old phonograph recordings Dad put on tape so he could listen to them out here or in the car. But some were suspiciously unlabeled, and John wanted to review them carefully.

So began an afternoon of old-time religious culture as John and Carl began gluing and fastening the boat together. They heard southern gospel quartets, one after the other, with thundering bass singers, soaring tenors, and tinkling pianos. Then there was Brother So-and-So bringing life to you from the Such-and-Such Church somewhere in California. And last Easter’s cantata by the church choir, recorded from the back of the sanctuary and sounding ten miles away—Sister Schmidt still came through above all the others—followed by a very distant, fuzzy voice speaking to a pro-life rally from behind a thick curtain of tape hiss. The clock kept turning, and the tapes kept rolling, and John tried to work on the boat while keeping one finger available for the Fast Forward button. It didn’t take long to determine that a particular cassette was not going to bring any significant revelations about Dad’s death or whatever he may have discovered, and yet . . . John sometimes delayed ejecting the cassette because the contents did something else for him: it brought back vivid memories of his father.

They worked, they listened, and occasionally John would remember.

“Sixteens,” he said with a chuckle. “Dad was really into sixteen penny nails. That and Atco tar.”

“Huh?” Carl asked. It was a fair question.

“Well, sixteens . . . I mean, they were the binding element that held every major project together, like this shop we’re standing in. It wouldn’t be here without good old sixteen penny nails. But you could use ’em for all kinds of things: you drive ’em into the wall and hang
stuff on ’em, use ’em for stakes and markers when you pour concrete, pick your teeth with ’em . . . I mean, they’re just a very straightforward, no-nonsense, functional nail. Dad loved ’em.”

Carl nodded without comment.

“And Atco tar . . . Boy, there was always plenty of that.”

“What is it?”

John only had to look under the workbench to find a can of the black, gooey stuff. “You use it for patching leaks in the roof. You know, gluing roll roofing or three-tab together, sealing up flashing, covering over nailheads. Great stuff.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But Dad used it to seal up the wounds in the fruit trees too, and it worked great and it was cheap. I mean, we’re talking function here, good down-to-earth function.” And then John laughed. “Like Vicks.”

Now Carl laughed. Vicks he knew about—that all-purpose, gelatinous goo with the strong, camphoraceous smell.

John kept laughing. “Man, Vicks was good for everything. Dad used to smear it on his chest and put it on his chapped lips and smear it up his nose . . . You always knew when he wasn’t feeling well—the whole house smelled like Vicks.”

John got a whim, dashed over to a small cabinet in the corner, flung open the door, and . . . “Voilà!” He produced a large jar of the stuff with a flourish. And then he just held it a moment with a distant look in his eyes and a warm smile.

Carl was enjoying this. “Grandpa was quite a guy, huh?”

John put the Vicks back. “Yeah, quite a guy.”

During another taped collection of old recordings, Carl finally asked, “Man, he really listened to this stuff?”

“Yeah,” said John. “We both did. We’d be working out here and we’d listen to it.”

The Smokin’ Gap Boys came on with their humorous rendition of “A Woman Ain’t an Idol, but She’s an Idle Thing,” and John knew all the words. He could even sing the tenor part. Carl didn’t try.

As Pastor Reynold J. Brimley of the Church of the Full Gospel in Dallas, Texas, came on with his view of the seven bowls of judgment from the book of Revelation, John showed Carl how to plane the edge of one of the boat ribs. “Yeah, right, just hold it steady . . . What we’re
after is a nice chamfer, about a quarter inch . . . Yeah, right, steady, steady, don’t let it get away from you. Beautiful!”

As evening approached, the boat began to take shape. It had no skin yet, but the keel and ribs were impressive, to say the least. This was a marvelous consolation, a reward for a full day of enduring Dad’s favorite obscure tapes from years gone by. Now that was beginning to be a real test. Carl didn’t say anything, but his face was weary as John slapped in another tape and the vociferous “Give God Glory” songs of the Blue Mountain Quartet filled the room, followed by one more scratchy recording of Momma Tanner and the Gospel Belles singing about going home to Heaven where Momma’s teaching angels how to sing.

“I’m goin’ hoooome over yonder, beyond the crystal sea . . . across the River Jordan, where Momma’s waitin’ for me . . .” John knew all the words to this one too.

All it took was a look from Carl, and John ejected that one and slapped in another.

“Wouldn’t you love to hear some good old Led Zeppelin right now?” Carl asked.

John was startled. “I used to listen to Led Zeppelin! How old are you anyway?”

Carl stole a look at the cassette player. “I’m getting old, Dad. I’m getting real old real fast.”

In another hour the tapes were exhausted, and so were John and Carl. The boat’s framework was assembled, and now the glue needed time to dry. John took the last cassette out of the player and tossed it into the box with all the others that had had their say or their song. The tapes had provided some great memories, some great music if you liked that kind of music, and some new perspectives on the Scriptures, but not the kind of breakthrough John and Carl were looking for.

“It was a good time anyway,” said Carl.

John had to agree, still feeling a special warmth deep inside. “Sorry if I prolonged the experience with some of these tapes, but . . . It was just like I was spending the day with Dad again.”

“Well, I got a better glimpse of him today too.” Carl stepped forward to check one joint on the boat. It was mostly just an excuse to touch it, admiring the work they’d done. “And I got a better glimpse
of you.”

John knew what Carl meant. “So did I. It’s been twenty years since Dad and I were that close. Well . . .” John had to be careful lest his emotions rise again. “We had those days back then at least. And that kid who worked with his dad . . . he’s still in me. He’s still there.”

Now John did break into tears and just gave himself time to feel it through.

Carl was enjoying the mystique of this old shop. The whole day had been a fascinating chain of little discoveries, and even the silly ones—the Vicks and the Atco tar, for example—were special in their own way. This building was full of Grandpa’s personality, his heritage.

“You must have built a lot of stuff out here, huh?”

John was wiping his eyes, just coming back together. “Yeah, we did, especially around Christmas. We tried to build something special every year.”

“Yeah. I saw the rocking horse and the bookshelf.”

“Did you notice that chandelier in my room?”

“Yeah.”

“I made that when I was fourteen.”

“No kidding!”

“Yeah, and Dad made surprises too, things I never knew about. One Christmas he made a whole wooden chess set. Have you seen that?”

Carl was amazed. “The one in the living room?”

“Yep.”

“He did that?”

“It must have taken him months. He turned all those little pieces on the lathe over there.”

Carl just shook his head in wonderment.

“I knew he was up to something, but you know, when Christmas is coming you’re not supposed to ask questions. I’d find out on Christmas.” John chuckled with the memory. “And he always hid my present in the same place, and I always knew where to go to find it—”

John stopped so abruptly that Carl thought he’d been shot or had had a heart attack or a stroke or . . . he didn’t know what.

“Dad?”

John was frozen there, his eyes first gaping and then darting across
the room, locking on the lower wall near the workbench. Almost with a leap, he dashed across the room to that corner and began moving some tools aside.

Carl raced up behind him.
Oh brother, now what?

John had uncovered a hinged panel in the wall, the kind that usually concealed plumbing or a furnace or ductwork. It was held shut by a small brass bolt that slid aside easily. In seconds John had the door open.

There, in a small alcove where firewood had once been stored, lay a fat manila envelope. Scrawled across the face of the envelope in black marker pen were the words, “For John.”

It was all Carl could do to keep from grabbing the envelope and ripping it open himself, so great was his curiosity.

As for John, his movement was arrested by awe. He reached out slowly, timidly, as if approaching a sacred object. He picked it up with both hands, not wanting to upset it, rip it, bend it. There was no telling what it was.

But it had been placed here recently. It was still clean; there were no spiderwebs on it, no dust or mildew.

Carl couldn’t help himself. “C’mon, open it up!”

John got to his feet and went to the workbench. A utility knife was in its place in the second drawer, ready for use. John carefully slit the envelope open and pulled out the contents, laying it all on the workbench. Carl was right there to see everything.

Some photocopies of legal documents . . . another copy of the excerpts handcopied from Annie Brewer’s autopsy report . . . some names and addresses . . . pages of notes in Dad’s handwriting . . . copies of some letters . . .

The last thing John pulled out of the envelope was a plain, unlabeled tape cassette.

CHAPTER 21

JOHN LAID THE
papers out flat on the workbench while Carl moved a few cans and tools to make more room.

John was shaking. “He knew . . .” He stared at the papers in front of them. “Do you see all this, Carl? You see what he wrote on the envelope? He knew I’d find it. He hid it there, knowing I’d find it.”

Carl couldn’t think of a thing to say. He could only take it all in, gawking at the contents of the envelope, leafing through them, arranging them.

Then he spotted something and pointed at it so hard he almost stabbed the paper, immediately drawing John’s attention to that spot.