Safe from Harm (9781101619629) (9 page)

“We took the boys to Galveston for the weekend. We didn't head back until after lunch. What's up?”

Liz let go of Mark and took a couple of steps toward me, just close enough to make me want to step back.

“Call us about what, Bear? What's Phoebe gone and done now?” She crossed her arms, creasing her dress, and I didn't need to see the eyes behind the tinted lenses of her glasses to know what her expression was.

“What makes you think Phoebe's done anything?” Mark asked his wife. The twins were using him like a maypole, running first in one direction as far as his arms would go and then in the other. Liz whirled and snapped her fingers at the boys. They both stopped instantly and stood passively next to Mark.

“You aren't seriously asking me that question, are you?” Liz said. “Shall I go into why I think Phoebe must have done something if the elders want to speak with us? Not all the parents—us. First her teachers, then the principal—I've had a call from the
crossing guard
, Mark!”

There was a moment where a whole lot of silent communication went on between husband and wife. Without another word ever being said, something was concluded. Liz turned back to me, a big smile on her face.

“We'll see you upstairs, Bear. Not a problem.” She turned to her sons and snapped her fingers again. “Toby. Tanner.” They followed her like ducklings as she strode toward the other parents.

Mark called after her, “Hold their hands in the parking lot!” and without slowing, she held a hand out for each little boy.

I stood there. Mark stood there.

“Is there something I can do to help, Mark?”

He shook his head, thrust his hands into his pockets.

I nodded and we walked beside each other, back to the other parents. Standing apart from the others was a middle-aged black couple and a tall young man I hadn't met before. I thought I knew who they might be.

•   •   •

Jo tumbled off the bus hot, cranky, and impatient to wash the river out of her hair.

I pulled her aside from her friends and asked if she knew exactly what had happened.

“Dad, no. I'd be the last person Phoebe would have come running to. She made a scene. Cara said one of the guys made a pass at her and she didn't like it, that's all I know. But since I heard she was only wearing a towel, she must have let things go pretty far before she decided she didn't like it.” Jo smirked. I didn't like seeing that on her face and I gave her a warning look. She looked away.

Jo wasn't happy with the idea of waiting around the church while I was at a meeting and her mother was watching the twins. I made sure she had her new house key and she caught a ride home with friends.

•   •   •

Peter Martinez had set up a big pot of coffee and a pitcher of iced tea—the lemon-flavored instant kind, but still—on the credenza in the meeting room along with ice, cups and creamer. The meeting room is set up like a large living room, with sofas and love seats, tables and credenza, but we also brought in some folding chairs to make sure everyone could sit where they wanted to.

Seven of our twenty-four elders are assigned to shepherd the youth ministry and we had hoped all of these could be with us to meet with the Pickersley-Smythes, but two were out of town and Barrett Foley had recused himself on the grounds that his wife had been the one behind the ugly phone call Annie and I had gotten that morning. He had apologized, tears in his voice. Sally Foley was only seventy-two, but she was showing signs of dementia. Barrett didn't want to leave her home alone, and after that phone call, he sure didn't want to bring her anywhere near Jonathon Reece. That left us with elders Morse Mealey, Peter Martinez, Casey Dobbins and Jack Crady—all solid. I could count on each of them.

The couple in the parking lot, the ones with the tall young man—those were, as I had guessed, Jonathon's parents and his elder brother, David, the one who had recently been released from prison. Mr. and Mrs. Reece were tall, handsome people, like their sons. Mr. Reece wore a dark, lightweight suit with a pale-gray tie and his wife had on a neat navy-blue dress and a matching hat. David, who looked like grim destiny come to claim his own, was wearing dress slacks with a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Either they hadn't had time to change after church, or they had felt the gravity of the meeting called for this level of formality. I was glad I had opted for khaki slacks and a polo shirt instead of shorts and a T-shirt. Mr. and Mrs. Reece both took my hand when I held it out, David waited long enough for me to get the message, and then gripped it hard—another message. David was there to make sure we didn't mess with his baby brother.

Jonathon told me he had asked them not to come, but they had insisted, and I didn't blame them. Texas has a history with young black men, too much of it grim.

Jason and Brick, our full-time youth ministers, sat with their arms draped around Jonathon's shoulders, presenting a touching, if slightly ridiculous, united front. All three wore damp, mud-streaked T-shirts and smelled of river water and unwashed male. They greeted David with the overly friendly handshakes, smiles and slaps on the back that we dole out when we're trying to communicate, without saying it, that, hey, the past is the past, and you're all good with us, man. David took it like you'd take the attention of a pair of untrained puppies.

Liz had posed herself and Mark on the love seat, her hand on his knee. He tried to rise when Phoebe came in, but Liz's hand pressed him back down.

Ahh, Phoebe.

Phoebe had on shorts so brief I think I've seen more modest panties, and in lieu of a shirt, she wore a bikini top tiny enough to do a couple of radishes proud. She slouched against a window, her hands clasping her elbows. Her eyes looked bruised and tired and her small mouth was chapped. She was a mess, and if she'd been mine, I'd have taken my own shirt off and put it on her, or grabbed a sofa throw or tablecloth or anything and draped it around her and taken her home to her mother.

But Phoebe didn't have a mother, and Mark had let his wife pull him back down to the love seat. I felt sorry for the girl, standing there alone. I walked over to her, intending to stand by her, even though I was mad as a hornet about how she might have jeopardized Jonathon's internship. When she saw me coming, she slipped off to the opposite corner. I didn't push it. I let her be.

Casey Dobbins opened the meeting with a prayer that God would give us discernment, compassion, and forgiving hearts and Jonathon's father audibly echoed, “Amen.”

Morse Mealey asked Jason and Brick to explain the situation to the best of their understanding, and they did, not having much more to offer than that they'd seen a near-naked Phoebe leaving Jonathon's tent and “carrying on a bit” as she did.

I wanted to know why Jonathon had had a tent to himself when church policy dictated against just such an event, and Jason and Brick both manfully accepted full responsibility for the lapse, not that that was of any use to anyone right then.

“Why was it
Jonathon
who got a tent to himself? Huh? Why'd you pick him?” David hadn't sat down. He was crackling with suspicion and irritation.

“Dave.” Jonathon started toward his brother.

“Dude,” Brick interrupted, with a goofy grin that made me see again how young he was, just twenty-four, straight out of college. “Short straw. You know. I was jealous, man. Really. I mean, not now, but last night.”

David measured Brick with his eyes until Jonathon gave his shoulder a shake. “Dave. Come on.”

Jonathon, an arm around his brother, told his story. It hadn't changed from the time he told it to me last night. David interrupted once, saying, “That girl is messed up.” His father covered his eyes with his hands during the telling, and wiped them down his face sharply, as if sheeting water off a newly washed face. His mother brought a manicured thumb to her mouth and nibbled her nail polish into oblivion.

Phoebe looked bored, and in the middle of Jonathon's story, slumped to the ground, her back against the wall. She pulled her feet close to her bottom, placing sole against sole, and diddled with the numerous toe rings she wore on her bare feet.

I said, “Phoebe? Do you want to tell us what happened?”

She shrugged, her attention still on the rings on her toes.

“Could you join the circle over here, Phoebe? You're a part of this.”

At that I got a look from her. “A part of what?” Phoebe said, but she stood up and walked over to the circle, all eyes on her, the only young woman in the room. She sat on the arm of the love seat and her dad put his arm around her hips. I was grateful to see that—I don't care what a kid's done, they need an advocate. Not to say that what they did was okay, but to let it be known that whatever the kid's situation, they had someone on their side. Liz was not happy to see Mark embrace his daughter. She wedged herself closer to Mark and gripped his knee tighter. I know enough about stepchildren issues to have told her that for a stepparent to compete with a blood child—that's a game you're going to lose, every time. She would have been so much wiser to ally with Phoebe, not fight her.

“Did Jonathon persuade you to go to his tent, Phoebe?” asked Mark. I'd have asked the same question. It was legitimate. “Did he put pressure on you?” Even the girl's father realized you cannot strip a girl and stuff her in your tent against her will—not without waking up everyone in the fifty-plus tents surrounding you.

David made a move but yielded to Jonathon and Mrs. Reece sprang from the couch and said, “Oh, no, you don't!” before her husband said, “Evelyn. Let the man ask his questions. Jonathon has nothing to fear here.” She sat down but didn't lean back against the cushions. Her husband cradled her hand in his, either to comfort her or to contain her. See, that's what I mean about an advocate—no matter what, Jonathon knew he had people on his side, people who were assuming from the beginning that he was in the right.

Phoebe's eyes wandered over the faces in the room, some mad, some concerned, and settled on mine.

She wasn't feeling ashamed or guilty or embarrassed. She didn't seem to feel the weight of David's angry stare. None of that was in her face. “You said I'm a part of this—well, what
is
this? The Inquisition? I like Jonathon, I wanted to make him happy but he squealed like a little girl. I don't know why. Maybe he's gay.”

David drew breath in between his teeth but didn't say anything. Phoebe set one bare foot nonchalantly on the coffee table, admiring her toe rings.

Jack Crady, a good and grave man who has four adult daughters, said gently, “Phoebe, you say you like Jonathon. Didn't you know that your actions could have cost Jonathon his job? More than that, if Jonathon had been weak enough to accept your offer, do you know he could have been arrested? Jonathon is twenty and you're a minor, and—”

Phoebe snorted.

Liz stared fixedly at the foot Phoebe had propped on the table. She suddenly leaned forward and pointed.

“Is that my class ring? Are you wearing my class ring on your
toe
? Mark, that's my class ring! How did she get my class ring to fit her toe? How did she
get
my class ring? Have you been going through my drawers?”

Phoebe gave the first smile I'd seen that day. It was a wide, genuine smile. She had been waiting for Liz to notice.

“I cut the back of it with wire cutters. Because it's real gold, it cuts easy. Bends easy, too. You never wear it. I didn't think you'd mind. And you go through my drawers
all the time
. I figured it was like a house rule, a hard-and-fast.”

Liz moved so quick none of us could react. She reached across Mark and slapped Phoebe across the face. Hard. Mark, too late, snatched Liz's wrist and yanked her back. There were cries and gasps but not from Phoebe who had reeled from the strike, but now stood up straight, shoulders back, eyes burning, the white imprint of a hand across one cheek.

Phoebe said, “If I tell my grandfather you slapped me, he'll kill you dead.” She said it like she meant it. You could hear dry ice in that voice.

Liz was up, pushing against Mark and leaning toward the girl; her face was a fist, tight and clenched.

“That house is mine. You get that? Everything in that house is
mine
. Every stick of furniture, every fork, every spoon—the
light
bulbs are mine. The clothes on your slutty back are mine—”

We were all on our feet now. Mark caught Liz by the shoulders and swung her around to face him. He dragged her into him until their noses were nearly touching. “Can you get it together or do we need to—”

She jerked free from him. It took her long seconds to calm herself, her breath ragged in front of all the horrified onlookers.

Phoebe surveyed her audience. It couldn't have been better. She had a good portion of the church's hierarchy—some of whom numbered among the community's movers and shakers—here in the room with her. She was incandescent with triumph. This was her moment and she was going to enjoy it.

Her words came as deliberate and measured as an assassin's bullet. “I'm sorry, did you call
me
a slut? Is that what you said? My ‘slutty back'? At least
I
never slept with another woman's husband. At least
I
never got pregnant to trap another woman's husband into—”

Liz's hand was up again but Mark caught her wrist and held it firm.

Mr. Reece stepped forward decisively and held his hand out to his wife.

“Evelyn.” He looked at his son. “Jonathon.” He addressed me and the other men in the room, never looking at Liz or Phoebe. “We'll say good-bye. Jonathon will be coming with us. He won't be back here. He won't be working for this church. No.”

Jonathon said, “Dad—” but Mr. Reece held a hand out to quiet him. Morse, who'd been busy at the credenza, slipped back to the circle and handed Phoebe a clean handkerchief filled with ice and gestured for her to put it on her face. She looked up at him, her eyebrows high, and put the cold pack to her cheek. He patted her arm and gave it a squeeze and then pulled her down on the couch next to him, an arm around her bony bare shoulders.