Dwelling Places (11 page)

“You did? In what way?”

“This guy, a neighbor. He was really hungry to talk about spiritual things. I've never had that happen before.”

“Yeah, it doesn't happen often, but it's really cool when it does.”

“I'm not very good at witnessing when I don't have time to prepare.”

“That's why we have to be prepared all the time.” His smile makes it clear that this statement isn't a rebuke. “You're more prepared than you know. But it's hard to speak up when you get surprised like that. With practice, it gets easier.”

“He doesn't come to church, at least not here, hardly ever anywhere. I invited him to your Thursday study, because he's interested in the Bible.”

“Now, see, you did just fine.”

“Maybe I'll talk to him again.”

“You know this guy?”

She senses that mentioning Mitchell's name isn't a good idea. “Oh, yeah, for a long time. We've never talked much, though.”

He is turning back toward the storage room. “Keep it up, Kenzie. You need a ride home?”

“I've got my bike.”

“Shouldn't be out after dark.”

Mitchell has straight black hair, sort of long, that swings around his face when he walks. Although he isn't that old, he moves with an old-man sort of shuffle, as if he isn't sure of himself. He's a bit bigger than Dad, with pretty wide shoulders but a thinner face, dark eyes close together and a black mustache. There are little bags under his eyes. He looks sort of like a tormented soul, and several times a year when Reverend Darnelle asks for prayer requests, Mitchell's name comes up.

Of course I should pray for him. God has caused our paths to cross, and I feel like Mitchell and I have an understanding. It's almost like a spiritual link. I'm not sure what he believes about God and Jesus. But I bet he would talk about it if I brought it up sometime.

When I passed Mitchell's place, there was one little light behind the sheer curtain of his back window. The rest of the place—the garage that sort of leans, the three sheds and old barn—just look like long shadows. Sort of like Mitchell's life, all mysterious. Maybe a person's house represents that person.

Like our house. It's bigger and busier than Mitchell's. But some days it feels sad, like Mom, or dark and depressed like Dad. And the upstairs especially can feel angry like Young Taylor.

Then I think about me. If I had my own house, what would it be like?

Quiet, I think. And full of prayer. At least that's what I hope I am. I think God wants me to be quiet and strong and praying every moment.

Jodie

Her afternoon plays out like a bad movie. She leaves the school and heads to Oskaloosa to do grocery shopping. This takes well over an hour, stretched by an extra half-hour when she pushes her full cart out to the parking lot and realizes that she doesn't have her ATM card. She hurries back into the store and asks at the register where she checked out and at the two registers on either side. No one has seen the card. She retraces her steps, walking frantically up and down aisles, trying to remember where she stopped to pick up
more than one item at a time or to examine the produce a little closer. Then she makes her way out to the car, her gaze scouring the ground. From there she looks up to the gray sky, wishing she could just cry or scream. Life does not allow her to vent so freely; she has too much else to do. Finally she rummages through each bulging plastic bag before putting it in the truck cab. Sometimes she throws change into a bag rather than wrestle it into the zippered compartment of her billfold. Maybe she threw the ATM card in along with that and the receipt. But all she finds are two quarters and a penny. She stands there by the truck, swearing profusely, and goes through her jacket pockets one more time. Then, in a flash of memory, she checks her jeans pockets and finds it in the back right one, where she never puts anything. She is standing there putting the card into her billfold when Terry Jenkins comes up from the next row of cars.

There goes that smile. Damn it. Here she is wearing the face of a wild woman, having just played through her mind all the hassle of getting a new bank card, after spending the past ten minutes fuming and sweating. Of course it's him. And he is lit up with that look that says she's wonderful anyway.

No, of course not. There must be another reason for all that hope in his eyes, something that has nothing to do with her. He must have come straight from the school, which probably let out a few minutes ago. He's just glad that the day's over.

“Hey, Jodie, how are you?”

“Oh, same as always—trying to get shopping out of the way.”

He is four years younger than Mack, two years younger than she is. Full, blond head of hair, tawny, long-fingered hands. He places one of them on the truck fender, the other in the pocket of his jacket, a tan suede that gathers at his slim waist. “I usually get here right at suppertime,” he says, “when everybody else discovers that there's nothing at home to eat.”

“I try to avoid that time of day—too dangerous.” She laughs.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“No. Everything's loaded.”

His eyes linger on her for just a moment longer. “Do you ever get a break?”

She is startled by such a frank question and decides to treat it lightly. “A break—what's that?” She laughs a little and hopes he'll stop looking at her so intently. He smiles and finally shifts his gaze to the fender and his hand on it.

Jodie tries to bring the conversation to conclusion. “I'm fine—just a busy day—you know, shopping day.”

“Good. I hope you stay fine.” He reaches for the empty cart and pulls it away from her. “I'll just grab this.”

“Go ahead.”

“Nice to see you, Jodie.”

“You too.” She watches him turn and wheel the cart toward the store entrance. He's still smiling. She calls after him, “Watch out for those moms with toddlers.”

He laughs into the wind and waves back at her.

In the silence of the truck cab, she allows herself to sigh. Her heart stays revved up as she drives across the parking lot. The afternoon is as dark and chill as evening, thanks to a cold front that blows in atop a dense bank of clouds. Jodie takes the east entrance so that she can cut over to the filling station on the next street. After that stop, she drives the few miles back to Beulah and takes the street that cuts straight through the town, then turns off of it to drive past Rita's, sees the car gone, and so doesn't stop. Her mother-in-law is likely at some neighbor's administering medicine or a meal. Much of the time she's not home, but Jodie and Mack both drive by anyway, a habit so entrenched that their vehicles would take that route even with no one at the wheel.

The only stop after that is the post office, and when she finds their box empty she remembers that Mack has resumed this duty; the post office lies on his route home from Hendrikson's. “Well, gee, I guess I can finally go home now.” She talks to herself a lot, certain that it helps her maintain a sense of humor. By now she is over the adrenaline rush from both the lost ATM card and the Terry en
counter. She is ready to go home and arrange the groceries in her cupboards, an action that involves order and thus some comfort.

She is almost past the old town square when a patrol car slowly turns the corner and passes her. Stan the deputy is looking toward the band gazebo that stands near the center of the little park. Jodie follows the direction of his gaze and sees several kids around the gazebo. In the same moment she categorizes them as high school students, she sees Young Taylor sitting on the gazebo steps. She has to look twice to be sure, because he and two other kids are in black garb and dyed hair. But her son's stance is unmistakable. The kid standing closest to him is a girl in black fishnet hose, leather boots, tattooed arms that are bare to the weather, and enough eye makeup for the entire senior class. She and Young Taylor are smoking while the third member of their party exchanges words with several boys who stand near the sidewalk, a pickup parked at the curb behind them.

Jodie rolls down the window to hear what the kids are saying. It's too windy to hear words, but it's clear that the conversation is hostile. Jodie watches the patrol car pull a U-turn and head toward the truck. She pulls into a parking spot in front of the pharmacy, which puts her on the side of the square that's to the left of Young Taylor and his friends. She turns in the seat to watch. The boy in black takes a few steps toward the ones by the vehicle. By now Jodie has recognized all but one of the kids. They're just students, not known for trouble. She trains her gaze upon Young Taylor, hoping that he stays seated. Stan gets out of the patrol car and walks up to the group on the sidewalk.

There are raised voices, still unintelligible, and arms pointing back and forth between the kids at the curb and the boy in black. Stan walks closer to him, and Young Taylor rises from his place on the gazebo steps.

“No, just stay there.” Jodie's words whisper out the open window and are absorbed into the wind. Above the little park, ancient oak branches sway in slow motion. Jodie is ready to jump out of the truck and prevent Young Taylor from tangling with Stan. But he and the officer never get closer than ten yards or so. Young Taylor is talking but
in that offhand way of his, not making direct eye contact, hunching his shoulders and drawing on the cigarette. The boys on the sidewalk have moved closer, but Stan turns and walks back toward them, and they slowly back up and get in the truck.

Then Stan turns and shouts something at Young Taylor, the girl, and the other boy. He shouts not in anger but to be heard over the weather. Still, Jodie can detect the sternness in his voice. He takes a few steps toward the three and motions them out of the park. Then Young Taylor begins to argue, raising his arms in protest and finally looking at the officer.

“Taylor, just keep your mouth shut.” Jodie's hands grasp the handle of the truck door. Just as she's ready to go intervene, Young Taylor and his crew stride quickly across the bare lawn and away from Stan. Stan watches them for a moment, and Jodie is sure that he sees the finger that Young Taylor flips in his direction. She holds her breath. “Just let it go, Stan, please.” Stan gets in the patrol car and backs into the street. He drives in the opposite direction the kids are walking, but he watches a few more moments before continuing his rounds.

Her heart is racing again. The events of her afternoon clash, and she can't make sense of their sequence. She wishes right then that Terry would walk up to the truck and sit in the cab with her. They could talk about these troublesome kids. He's a teacher, and she's a mother. She knows that she won't go home to Mack and tell him what she has just seen. She won't tell him about Terry in the parking lot. She won't even mention the missing ATM card. All of these things that make her catch her breath must remain in her heart and roam only in her thoughts.

She wants to drive to the other side of the square and catch up with Young Taylor, order him to get his butt in the cab and explain himself to her. She wants to look more closely at this trashy girl he's hanging out with—she thinks it's Lydia Streeter, a sophomore. And the other kid is Kyle something or other. But right now she's afraid to come upon the three of them together. She's never been afraid of her
own kid before. He's never looked so sinister before either. Maybe Rita's fears about drugs and so forth are well founded. Maybe it's time to do something more forceful with Young Taylor, like forbid him to wear freaky clothing or to spend time with these friends. How do you do that with a seventeen-year-old who is taller than you are?

It is four o'clock by the time she's on the last mile to home. Her radio is on, and she sings some forgotten song about devotion, about the blood of Jesus and the rescue of those who are perishing. She's forgotten the verses, but she joins in on every chorus.

Mack

He feels worse all through dinner. He is sure that the kids and Jodie are talking over and around him. Everything that comes up in the conversation is a topic of which he is nearly ignorant. He has to keep asking questions. They answer and then just go on talking.

“Mom, I'm skipping supper tomorrow,” Kenzie says when she gets up from the table.

“You'll be somewhere?”

“Not really.”

“She's fasting,” Young Taylor says, tapping his fork against the knife that crosses his plate. “Aren't you, Kenzie?”

“None of your business.”

“Are you?” Jodie asks. Kenzie glares at Young Taylor.

“It's all right if you are, I just want to know where you're going to be.”

“With friends probably, at the church.”

“But, you know, fasting doesn't count if people know about it. You're supposed to do that stuff in secret.” Young Taylor pretends concern, raising eyebrows at his sister.

“Just cool it.” Jodie takes the fork from his hand and gathers his plate and other silverware.

“You're not trying to lose weight, are you, Kenz?” Mack tries to catch his daughter's eyes. She seems distressed at all this attention. “No, Dad, we just fast so we can pray together. Christians have been
doing it for centuries. Jesus talked about it. It's not so weird, there just aren't many people who do it anymore.”

When they get ready for bed a few hours later, Mack sits on the chair and takes off his boots. He sighs loudly, as a signal, then says, “I'm going to talk with Kenzie about all this church business. Or maybe I should talk with that youth pastor or whoever he is.”

Jodie twists from the open closet door and frowns at him. “Why would you do that?”

“She spends all her time at the church! That's not normal, even for a religious kid. She's going overboard with this stuff—like kids that end up in cults, led by maniacs who convince them to wait for flying saucers or to poison themselves.”