Authors: Ann Tatlock
“
But why, Andrea?
” John asked quietly. “
Why stay with me?
”
She sat up straighter. One muscle in her jaw twitched as her mouth grew firm. “
Because I love you, John
,” she said. The words were strong—fortified, he sensed, by something like anger. But the firmness subsided to pain as she added, “
But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?
”
He cringed at her words now, just as he had then. What did he know about love? Apparently, for most of his life, very little. What he knew most about love was that it never satisfied. Maybe for a while, but then the hunger returned, and the loneliness, and the void that was somehow larger than any tangible thing.
John remembered with regret the series of brief affairs he had had. There’d been a number of them over the years—he couldn’t recall how many. They weren’t so much affairs as simply flings. A burst of infatuation that quickly dwindled. Roman candle relationships, Jared called them. John thought of them more as duds, hardly worth the stress of cheating on his wife. The initial flash of excitement wasn’t what he was looking for anyway. Not really. That flash and burnout seemed to be the pattern for his life, though—had even been the case with Andrea back when they were dating. With her, though, Billy had been conceived before the candle had burned itself out, so by the time the dust settled, John found himself married to someone he didn’t know how to love.
He lay down on top of the bedspread without bothering to change out of his clothes. He was tired, but he wasn’t sure he could sleep. He tucked his hands under his head and stared up at the ceiling.
He’d had wandering eyes, and he knew it. A pretty face could still turn his head, though he’d seen few enough of those in the past five years. But he liked to think that what he had been looking for in his wanderings was more than skin deep, was something that would somehow satisfy not desire but longing. The endless drumbeat of wanting to know and be known.
That longing had colored his every decision and influenced his every action before he went to prison. Oddly, and unexpectedly, that same longing had been fulfilled behind the walls and barbed wire of the state penitentiary. He was a different man now, and he hoped to live a different kind of life. That was what he needed to tell Andrea, but he realized abruptly that something had been nagging at him for a long time. Fear. He was afraid to tell Andrea what had happened to him in prison. That one time when she was visiting he’d gotten as far as saying he’d prayed the sinner’s prayer with the chaplain, but the look she gave him told him she was skeptical. “
Well, I’m glad you found religion
,” she’d said. And he wanted to tell her that it wasn’t like that at all, but something prevented him from speaking.
Maybe it was what he’d seen happen too many times. Some of the men who came to Christ in prison went around telling everyone, as if they’d suddenly been reborn into holyroller street-corner preachers compelled to share the Gospel with all the hell-bound passersby. That always made John feel a little sick. The only thing those men got in return was ridicule. Even when some of the believers shared their faith in quieter ways, their words were still mocked, sworn at, laughed over. He supposed you couldn’t expect much from a bunch of criminals, but still, John remembered that the world viewed Christians in much the same way the convicts did—as a bunch of intolerant, narrow-minded, self-righteous hypocrites.
John sniffed lightly. Yeah, he knew. He’d been of the same opinion once. That was before he looked far enough beyond the Christians to gaze directly on the face of Christ. Once he did that, he understood. Once he did that, he had something for the first time in his life that meant more to him than life itself.
There was another believer behind bars, a dark-skinned fellow named Sid. Two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, fists like basketballs, legs like telephone poles, and eyes like a child’s. John had never met a more tender soul anywhere.
They’d commiserated once over the mockery of their faith.
“
You know
,” Sid said, “
you tell some people about Jesus, it’s just like casting your pearls before swine. Hard to see something so precious treated like garbage
.”
John understood completely what Sid meant. Not that people like Andrea were swine, but still, it was hard to open your arms and pour out your treasure to people who might respond by labeling you a fool.
Rebekah, apparently repeating what she’d heard Andrea say, had called what happened to him a jailhouse conversion, one that would only last till he got out.
He would have to prove them wrong. But because he was afraid of casting out his pearls, he would, for the time being, have to do it quietly, without saying a word.
C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN
Billy watched
as Phoebe broke through the surface of the lake, arms flapping, water splashing everywhere. As soon as she caught her breath, she laughed loudly.
“Watch me again, Billy!” she yelled.
She dog-paddled to the ladder and climbed up onto the sun-warmed dock. Then, legs pumping, feet stomping out wet footprints on the wooden planks, she ran to the end of the dock and cannonballed into the lake.
Billy applauded when her head once again popped out of the water like a cork. “You made a really big splash that time,” he said. “You got me wet!” He was sunning in an inner tube several feet from the dock, using his hands as paddles to keep himself from drifting out too far.
Sundays were the best day of the week for Billy. His uncle always gave him Sundays off, even though the restaurant was open. That way Billy could go to church and afterward spend the rest of the day with the family. Mostly he palled around with Phoebe because Beka had to work, but that was all right. He and Phoebe had plenty to do—swimming, playing games, lying in the sun, fishing from the dock, taking the motorboat out with Mom. Billy was always happy to be with his little sister.
She swam to him and rested her arms on the inner tube. “What do you want me to do now, Billy?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “You got goose bumps. Want to sit on the dock? Warm up some?”
“Okay.”
Billy rolled and belly flopped out of the inner tube. The two of them put their hands on the tube and kicked their way back to shore. There, Billy dragged the tube up toward the bank while Phoebe, shivering, ran off to wrap herself up in a beach towel.
In another moment Billy joined her at the end of the dock, where she sat with her legs dangling over the water. She had thrown the towel up over her head so that only her eyes peered out at Billy.
“You look like Mary in the Christmas pageant with the towel like that.”
“I don’t want him to see me,” she answered quietly.
“Who?”
She motioned with her eyes toward the porch. Billy looked over his shoulder and saw their dad in one of the wicker chairs reading the Sunday paper.
He turned back to Phoebe. “You mean Dad?”
She nodded.
“That’s silly, Phoeb. You don’t have to hide from Dad.”
“He’s always watching me.”
“No he isn’t.”
“Yeah he is.”
“No he isn’t.”
“Yes he
is
, Billy.”
“Well, okay. Maybe he is. Because he wants to know you.”
Phoebe didn’t answer.
“You’ll like him someday,” Billy said. “Wait and see.” She looked as if she didn’t believe him, but she let the towel drop to the dock and leaned her head against Billy’s arm. “Sing me a song, Billy.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t care. Any one.”
“All right.” He thought a moment, coughed, and cleared his throat. Then he started to sing.
“Jesus is love.
He shows us the way.
He’s always watching over us,
Both night and day . . .”
Billy was kind of proud of this one; he’d written it himself. The tune was a bit different every time he sang it, and sometimes he even changed the words around, but it didn’t matter to him, and it didn’t seem to matter to Phoebe either.
“Jesus is peace.
He takes away my fear.
When I am afraid,
I know He is near.”
His little sister linked her arm through his and shut her eyes. That, and the sun, made Billy feel warm all over.
“Jesus is life.
So when my days are done,
I know He’ll come for me,
And take me home.”
As he sang, he didn’t notice the dock quivering beneath the weight of his father’s footfalls. He looked up in surprise when he heard his father ask, “What are you singing, Billy?”
“Oh, hi, Dad.” Billy smiled. “It’s just a song I made up.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Have a seat.”
Billy patted the dock beside him. He couldn’t help noticing that when his father sat down, his feet actually reached the water. Billy watched the long, narrow toes sink beneath the surface, watched as hungry minnows gathered around and then, disappointed, flickered off again.
“Have a nice swim?” his dad asked.
“Yeah, Dad, the water’s great. You want to come in?”
“Not right now. Some other time, though.”
“Maybe we can go fishing sometime too. Take the motorboat out somewhere.”
“Yeah, sure. You got rods?”
“Three of them. One for me, one for you, and one for whoever else wants to come.”
“That works.”
“You want to come with us, Phoeb?” Billy asked. “We’ll let you hook the worms.”
Phoebe made a face and shook her head. Billy laughed. “She doesn’t like to touch the worms.”
“Well, I don’t blame her. They’re kind of slimy, aren’t they?”
Phoebe glanced at her dad, at Billy, at the water. The three sat silently a moment. Then Billy chuckled.
“What’s funny, son?” his dad asked.
“Nothing, Dad. I’m just happy. I mean, you, me, and Phoebe all sitting right here together on the dock. I can’t think of anything better than that.”
“I’m glad you feel that way, Billy.”
“Can you, Dad? Can you think of anything better?”
“No, I guess I can’t.” He leaned forward and tried to catch Phoebe’s gaze. “What do you think, Phoebe?”
Billy felt the child shrug, felt her cling more tightly to his arm. He answered for her, “She thinks she likes it too.” He felt a small pinch on the inside of his arm, but he ignored it. “I’m teaching Phoebe how to swim, Dad,” he said proudly.
“Yeah? Well, I’m glad you are, Billy. I saw your medals on the windowsill. I’d forgotten how good you are in the water.”
“I like to swim. Coach said I’m like a fish.”
“I know you are. You going to do any more racing at the Special Olympics?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You should if you have the chance.”
“I don’t know, Dad. It was fun when I was a kid, but I got grown-up things to worry about now.”
“You do? Like what?”
“Uncle Owen’s going to teach me everything I need to know about owning a restaurant.”
“He is? You going to buy the restaurant from him?”
“Maybe someday. I like the work.”
“I know you do, Billy.”
“And I got to make a living somehow.”
“Yeah. We’ll talk about that. We’ll get it all figured out.”
“I can do it, Dad.”
Silence. Then, “I don’t doubt that, son.” Dad leaned forward again, looking past Billy to Phoebe. “Phoebe, I think you need a nap.”
Phoebe shook her head. “No I don’t.”
“You look like you’re falling asleep.”
“No I’m not.”
“You know, you might sleep better at night if you didn’t sleep on the floor in Billy’s room.”
“I like the floor.”
“I’m just suggesting you might be more comfortable in your own bed.”
She narrowed her eyes, pulled her mouth into a taut line.
Billy said, “She doesn’t like it in with Beka.”
“So I’ve been told. What’s the matter, Phoebe?”
When she didn’t answer, Billy said, “It’s all right, Phoeb. You can tell us.”
She was quiet another moment before saying, “Beka has scary things.”
“What kind of scary things?” Dad asked.
Phoebe looked at Billy. He nodded at her to go on. “She has candles and things.”
“Candles? Oh, are you afraid she’ll set the room on fire?”
Phoebe shook her head.
Dad prodded, “What is it, then?”
When Phoebe didn’t answer, Billy patted her hand. “You can tell us, Phoeb,” he said. “We’re here to take care of you.”