Authors: Vinita Hampton Wright
Dwelling Places (24 page)
George waits.
“You know, remembering certain things at the very moment I need toâsomething my dad said twenty years ago in a whole other situation. Highway signs that all of a sudden have some kind of personal meaning. And two days ago, it was the strangest thing⦔
Mack plays with the unbuttoned cuff of his sleeve. “I hadn't walked into the Beulah museum in I don't know how long. But my daughter
and I went there so she could return some props she'd used in the school play. And I'm wandering through all these piles of junkâold clothes and toolsâand on this shelf at eye level is a pair of work boots. And they're exactly like a pair Pop had when I was a kidâsame laces, soles, leather, fastenersâexactly the same boots, only I know we burned Pop's years ago when we cleaned out the shed.”
Mack stops to take a breath. He feels George's attention, quiet and focused.
“And this memory just flashed across my mind, clear as anything. When I was about nine, I went hunting with Popâfor rabbits. There were several inches of snow on the ground, but no sign of more coming when we took out across the fields. We'd been out about an hour when the temperature dropped and a storm blew in. A blizzardâGod, we couldn't see, and the wind was practically blowing me over. We were in the openâno place for shelterâso Pop said, âWe need to just walk. We'll either reach the road or the house. But we can't stay out here.' He had me grab the back of his jacket and walk right behind him, and he said, âYou step right into my tracks. That's all you need to do. Hang on and walk in my tracks.' And we got home that way. I'll never forget watching those big old boots one step ahead of me.”
He realizes that he's close to tears. He stares up at George. “And I'd forgotten all about thatâhadn't thought about it for years. But those boots on the shelfâit's like they opened me up. I just stood there in the aisle, couldn't talk or move.” He shakes his head.
“Objects have a way of jarring memories loose. It's astounding what you can remember when you're triggered just right.”
“I suppose that's normal enough, having something come back to me like that. But I took a different meaning from it this timeâstepping in his tracks.”
George nods slowly. “Following in his footsteps.”
“That's right.” He studies his sleeve again. “But this hearing voices stuffâI was afraid to even tell you about that. Good way to end up in the hospital again.”
George lets out a sigh. “Gee, Mack, it sounds like a pretty sane voice to me.”
“But where is it coming from?”
“What do you think?”
“I think it's me going crazy at last.”
“No, no, no. That's too easy. Just think about it. Where might such helpful, positive thoughts come from?”
“Feels like it's from outside me, not like I'm talking to myself. If I were still religious at all⦔ He avoids looking at George. “There was a time when I would have interpreted all this in a moreâ¦religious way.”
“Such as, maybe it's God's voice, interrupting your calm afternoons?”
Mack laughs nervously. “Something like that.”
“But you don't look at it that way now.”
“No. My daughter claims to talk to God all the time. But she's a kid and into this religious kick right now. I'm worried about her, frankly. But I don't⦔
“You don't pray?” George gazes at Mack the way he often does, even when Mack isn't looking at him but knows he's being gazed at. “You've told me what a religious family you come from, how you've been churchgoing most of your life, even recently.”
“I go for the family, mainly.”
“Mack, what if God is talking to you?”
Mack meets The Gaze in spite of himself.
“Can you be absolutely sure that God would never talk to you in a voice so clear it seems audible? After all, is it telling you to do anything destructive? Is it telling you lies? Is it outside the realm of possibility?”
“God has nothing to do with meâhasn't in a long time.”
“Since when?”
“I don't knowâ¦when I stopped believing everything I heard in church.”
“What about outside of church? What did God have to do with you in everyday life, back when you believed?”
Mack thinks for nearly a minute. The words gather slowly, and the pain gathers with them.
“Well,” he says, his voice hoarse, “out in the fields, I guess. Natureâyou know. I used to feel like God was part of itâthe way things worked, the seasons.” He has to stop, but after a second forces a harsh laugh. “I actually thought of me and God as being partners.” His voice breaks again, and tears began to trickle from his eyes. He wipes them away. “Way back when I believed stuff like that.” A sob escapes him suddenly, and he puts a hand over his trembling mouth.
“And when did you stop believing stuff like that?”
“When Pop died. Whether it was an accident or intentional, it was too high a price.”
He cries freely now. George passes him the box of tissue that has remained unused through all their previous sessions.
“What if you consider that God
may have been
out there, in the fields and the seasons?”
Mack looks at his hands. “If that was God out there all those years, then I'm mighty disappointed in him for letting us lose all that we have.”
As Mack drives down the highway, he squints against the sun that has broken through the dense layer of clouds. It seems to him that the horizon might slant out of kilter or the truck might take its own path. Just as his life's landscape has run off somewhere or been broken into pieces and scattered. Just as the steadiness of God's provision has been auctioned off with the combine and the hay truck. Nothing can be counted on to stay in place. The plain is buckling into dangerous jags, the stream is flowing to other lands. God's geography has changed.
But the sunset begins sweetly, a soft pink-yellow that flows down the ledges of clouds and spills into a lavender pool above the fields. Fields he does not own or tend. Yet they shine as Mack has always believed Heaven would shineâgolden with light even in the cold of death.
The layers of color glimmer upon the tears that fill and refill Mack's eyes. The voice is coming from inside him now, from a profound location that is his alone:
Everything is working out. It will keep working out. And love grows and fails and grows again.
God's geography has changed. Now it is everywhere.
DECLARATION
FACING TRUTH
Cease, ye pilgrims, cease to mourn, press onward to the prize;
Soon thy savior will return, to take thee to the skies:
Yet a season, and you know happy entrance will be given,
All our sorrows left below and earth exchanged for heaven.
â“Rise, My Soul, and Stretch Thy
Wings”
Jodie
Mack appears so determined as he gets out of the car and walks up to the back door that Jodie's impulse is to run upstairs. Has he found out about Terry? What else would make him look like that? But she leaves her hands in dishwater and doesn't move a foot, even when he comes in the door and stands near her.
“Jodie.”
She turns to him and waits.
“I think I've done all the thinking I'm going to do out there at the house.”
“Oh? Is that good?”
“Yeah, I think so. If it's all right with you, I'd like to move back.”
“Sure, babe.” She knows that a hug or kiss would be appropriate, but she can't get herself to take the two steps toward him. She resumes washing a bowl in the sudsy water.
“That's all right?” He sounds so unsure. She wishes he'd just announce that he's going to do it, and not leave the approval up to her. But she makes a point to smile. “I wasn't crazy about you being out there in the first place.”
He goes outside and gathers some things from the truck. She opens the storm door and calls, “You need help?”
“No, I've got it.” She holds the door open for him, because both his hands are full. He comes into the kitchen, then turns to her. “I'll understand if you'd rather I take the spare room, at least for a while.”
She doesn't know what to say. He looks nervous, standing there with his suitcase. Is he trying to take the pressure off both of them, or is he saying he's not ready yet to be intimate with her? “Do whatever makes you comfortable.”
“Does it matter to you?”
Another loaded question. How is she supposed to answer that? But his eyes are steady, his posture questioning rather than defensive.
“It matters to me that you feel at home, babe. And I never asked you to leave, remember?”
He takes a step and kisses her cheek. “I'll move into our room then.”
It is Saturday, and the kids are somewhere else. Jodie continues to work around the house while Mack moves in. He finds her in the laundry room a while later.
“I've got a job over at Danson's place todayâprobably be back by suppertime.”
“Okay.” It's good to see him busy. Since being at Hendrikson's, Mack gets a good deal of freelance work. She's glad he has something to do, that he doesn't have time to sit and think too much. Although he's had plenty of time to do that by himself in the woods. Maybe time to think was exactly what he needed. Time to think without other people interrupting. Maybe Jodie's main fault is that she interrupted too much, trying to help.
Young Taylor troops through the house an hour later. “I'll be gone tonight.”
“As long as you're back by curfew.”
He shrugs. “I won't be here for supper.”
“Your dad just moved back.”
“Really?” Young Taylor contemplates that. “So he seems all right?”
“Yes, he thinks it's time.”
“Cool.” Then he disappears upstairs.
She tells Kenzie the same thing when the two of them prepare supper. She wants to tell their daughter before Mack walks in the door. Kenzie barely makes it in time to set the tableâyouth group gets more demanding all the time.
Kenzie's response is more measured than her brother's. She's happy enough that her dad is moving back, but Jodie expected more enthusiasm.
“Is he still taking all those medications?”
“Yes, until the doctor thinks he doesn't need them.”
“Do you think the doctor really wants him to stop?”
Jodie turns to look at her daughter. “Why would he not want that?”
Kenzie raises her shoulders high. “Most doctors depend on the drug companies, right? And the drug companies want to keep selling people drugs. So maybe the doctors look for reasons to keep people on medications.”
Jodie gives an uneasy laugh. “Where did you get all that?”
“Just open your eyes, Mom. The first thing a doctor does when you go to him is push pills at you. They never ask about your whole life, like your relationships or your lifestyle. They don't ask about the important things, like what you're afraid of or what you believe in.”
“Sweetie, fears and beliefs are not what doctors get degrees in. They study the body. They're scientists.”
“And most scientists believe in evolution.”
Jodie sits down. The conversation is unsteadying her. “Kenzie, what does believing in evolution have to do with a doctor's ability to care for your body?”
“Evolutionists don't believe in God, and without faith in God, you can't be sure that anything else in your life is right either. No matter how smart you are or how important or rich or whatever, if you don't have faith, none of it matters. And you can be totally misled. Doctors may be smart, but that's not the same as having God's wisdom.” Kenzie sits down too, as though she were an attorney who has just finished her summation.
For a moment, Jodie is speechless. Part of her wants to laugh at this ridiculous line of reasoning, but the sheer earnestness in Kenzie's eyes prevents her.
“Sweetie, who's been teaching you this?”
Kenzie looks away. “You know, at church and youth group. And it's right in the Bible. You want to see the verses?”
“No, I'm familiar with the Bible. But I didn't know that you were hearing this kind of thing at the Baptist church.”
“Why does it matter where I hear it, if it's true?”
“You're making some really big assumptions, and I don't think they're completely true.”
Kenzie looks down at her arms, which rest on her lap. “I know you don't believe. Dad doesn't either. I don't know what happened to everyone's faith around here.”
“Well, whatever faith we haveâor hadânever included some of the stuff you're talking about now. Do you think people should just not go to doctors?”
“Sure, but they should be doctors who have faith.”
“Oh, I see.” Jodie sees the agitation in Kenzie's expression and decides not to take the conversation any further.
“I was hoping Daddy wouldn't have to stay on all those pills.” Still, the child won't look at her.
“I wish he didn't either, and he probably won't have to forever.” Jodie makes her voice as gentle as she can. “But we remember what he was like before he had the pills, don't we?”
Kenzie nods and gets up abruptly. “I'm glad he's home anyway.”
Mack walks in a few minutes later. He looks tired but in a good way, exhausted from hoisting machinery and solving machinery problems. He washes up and greets Kenzie when he sits at the table. She tells him that she's glad he's home.
“Young Taylor's with friends,” Jodie says, putting the last dish on the table. Mack nods. He doesn't seem as worried about Young Taylor as he used to be, and Jodie hopes this is a good sign. Since the incident at school, Young Taylor has been calmer, less hostile. Mack is tight-lipped about it all, but Jodie suspects that it's just as well. Fathers and sons should be able to confide in each other without sending out bulletins to everyone else.
It's when she enters the bedroom a while later that she's stopped cold. All over the top of the dresser are little bunches of silk flowers. When she looks closer, she sees that each bunch is attached to a small card with Bible verses written on it. The handwriting is Kenzie's. Jodie is pondering over all the fake blossoms when Mack walks in quietly.
“She's something, isn't she?” His voice is right behind her.
“Did she put all of these here?”
“No, she left one for me in the car every day I took her to school. Never said anything about it.”
Jodie picks up some little pansies with Psalm 23 dangling from them.
“We can put them someplace else, if you want,” says Mack. “I couldn't throw them away.”
“No. This is fine.” She feels guilty, suddenly, that her daughter has worked harder to encourage Mack than she has.
“It's all she knows to do, I guess,” he says. “Can't hurt anything.”
“You never know what will help.” She says this more to herself than to him.
Mack
Very recently, George confessed that he used to be a Presbyterian pastor.
“You lose your faith, or what?” Mack asked.
“When I realized how badly prepared I was to deal with people's troubles, I went back to school for a degree in counseling.”
“What are you doing here?”
A little shrug. “Decided to get some experience before working with a church again. Believe me, it's much easier listening to folks like you than trying to sort out the very odd family dynamics that get going in a congregation.”
“Folks like me?”
“You're here because you recognize the need for a little assistance. You've come to a point that you're willing to change some things if need be, if that's what it takes for life to get better. In so many church situations, nobody thinks they have problems. They simply have
convictions,
and they're trying to get everyone else to live up to them.”
Today George is settled into his chair, looking rumpled. His chin rests on the hand he's brought up to scratch his cheek. Mack wonders what kind of pastor this guy was, but he can't linger on that thought. Instead, he dives right into the conversation, all business.
“I used to think that if I could just get over the hump, make the money, keep things together, I'd be okay. For a year I worked at the school bus barn during the day and farmed nights and weekends. Then we lost the farm.” Mack is just a few minutes into today's session. It's easier to get started nowadays. He just starts talking without thinking too much. “Then I thought that I needed to find new work to do, more steady income. I've been at Hendrikson's for nearly two years, and the pay's all right, but that's not enough either.”
George's eyes are steady. It occurs to Mack that those eyes are a lot like the eyes of his father, or Ed, or the other men he's spent his life with. No nonsense. A lot of things hidden there.
“And nowâ¦it feels like nothing's enough. Like I need other reasons to be here.” Mack stops and takes a sip of coffee.
“You want to know why you're on this earth.”
“Something like that.”
“That's a big question. A lot of brilliant philosophers have failed to answer it.”
“Well, I don't care about philosophers. I don't live with them or meet them on the street.”
The bushy head of hair dips a little deeper, and George stares over his glasses at Mack. “So who do you care about?”
“My family, I guess. I don't know. Maybe I don't care one way or the other.”
“Do you want to know just for yourself?”
“Maybe.”
“What I mean is, what do
you
think? Why does it matter to you that you're here?”
Mack looks straight at the blue eyes. “I honest to God don't know. I'm not sure it's that important anymore. I used to think I needed to be around for the kids. But kids do whatever they want to do. Both of mine seem to be surviving, and they're not that interested in being involved with me.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I try to talk to them, but they never say much. It's like they're being polite but they're keeping the important stuff close to the vest.”
“Keep in mind that they're teenagers.”
“I know that. That's my point. They're nearly grown, and if I'm here or not, they'll find their way.”
“You think they don't care if you're around or not?”
Mack sniffs and shrugs, turning his gaze to the window he has come to know so well. At last George straightens up in his chair. He uncrosses his legs, then recrosses them at the ankles.
“In my professional opinion, I think it's safe to say that it does matter to your kids whether you're around or not. Children feel a need for their parents, in different capacities at different times. Does it matter to you that your own father's not around anymore?”
“Yeah, but we worked together. In a lot of ways we were partners. Young Taylor hasn't known me in the same way.”
“So you're sayin' that not only did the farm define your work but it defined your relationship with your father.”
Mack sighs. Here comes another little path to walk down. Another topic full of sneaky turns. He decides that George probably likes to play chess.
“See, what you're doing, Mack, is redefining your whole life. It's not enough to just get another job. Something fundamental has changed, and the old ways of dealing with life aren't going to match up anymore.”
Mack rubs his eyes. “I don't have the energy to reinvent myself.”
“I don't think that's what you have to do. More like finding yourself. There are other parts of yourself that've always been there but just didn't get much time or attention, because of the particular life you had. Now that life is over, and you've the opportunity to get to know more of Mack.”
“I don't see that.”
“Okay. I suppose I'm getting pushy.”
“Not pushy, just too psychological.”
“Oh no, not that.”
Rita
She got to bed at midnight and has been up since five. At ten
A.M
. she is wrapping the last of the date breads and tying up little baggies of peanut brittle. The cookies have been done since yesterday about this time. She surveys her work and declares it good, but not before a coughing fit bends her double. She curses, but only in her mind. It took her strongest will to lie in that hospital bed and take what they gave her until she could go home. Now the cough is working its way back. When did she get to be so weak?
All the treats are divided into piles and labeled with the names of their recipients. Each pile she transfers to a clean paper grocery sack; she's been saving them for months. Everybody hands you plastic now; she's got enough plastic bags to wad up and use for insula
tion. Bud the grocer knows that she likes real grocery sacks. Now she loads up a sack for each person on her list, packing and repacking so as to avoid breaking fragile sugar cookies or mashing bread loaves. There are sixteen sacks, and it takes more than an hour to pack them to her satisfaction. She coughs and sips tea with lemon and honey, deciding to hold off on the brandy until she's finished driving for the day.