by Alan Sears
Chapter Six
THE OUTBACK STEAKHOUSE on North First Street in Arlington, Virginia buzzed with people. Larry Jordan and Marla waited in the cramped lobby.
“Must have been a pessimist,” Marla said.
“What? Who’s a pessimist?” Larry asked.
“The architect who designed this place. The lobby is too small. I guess he didn’t think they’d do enough business to have customers waiting.”
Larry raised an eyebrow. “He? How do you know the architect was a man? Women can be architects too, you know.”
“Of course I know that, but a woman would have been optimistic and designed a larger space for waiting.”
“That a fact?” Larry decided not to push the issue. It was one of those discussions no husband could win. He resorted to, “Yes, dear.”
Ten minutes after arriving, they were seated near the bar area. Flat-screen televisions hung from the ceiling. Two showed NBA games, one was tuned to the news. None had volume but each had captioning turned on. Larry wasn’t interested in any of it.
The waiter appeared tableside and offered them drinks from the bar. He seemed disappointed at their order of water with lemon. Marla ordered King Crab legs and sirloin; Larry chose a center cut filet.
“I’m really not all that hungry,” Larry said, after the waiter stepped away.
“Is that why you ordered the nine-ounce filet instead of the seven-ounce?”
“Force of habit. Besides, a man can’t be seen ordering a small steak when a bigger one is listed on the menu.”
“Mr. Cro-Magnon.”
“That’s Mr. Cro-Magnon, esquire to you, if you please.”
Marla grinned and the sight of it warmed Larry. As lousy as the day had been, he could find reasons to thank God. Marla led the list.
“Thanks for suggesting we go out,” Marla said.
“I thought it was your idea.”
“It was, but I don’t mind if you take credit.”
“You know, I’ve argued before the Supreme Court several times, endured their questions, and sidestepped every effort to unravel my argument. But somehow I can never seem to keep up with you.”
“Just the way it should be. I like being the brains behind the brains.”
The waiter brought dark bread and whipped butter, then disappeared again.
“He’s hopping tonight,” Larry said. “It must be tough.”
“A good night for tips.”
“I suppose so...” Larry turned his head and caught sight of the television with a news show playing silently. The image of John Knox Smith dominated the screen, his hand raised as he took the oath. “Now my appetite is really gone.”
Marla followed his gaze. She reached across the table and touched his hand. “He won a battle, not the war.”
“He won a big battle.” Larry looked away, unable to face the screen. “Unbelievable power has been placed in that man’s hand.”
“And did God lose all his power in the process?”
“Of course not, Marla, it’s just that... that...”
“That what? That unbelievers have acted in such an unbelieving way? You know that Scripture teaches the unbelievers can’t think like the believers. He’s acting according to his nature. He actually believes all that equality stuff. He has no way to understand that ‘tolerance’ is not a Christian virtue.”
“And that excuses him?” The words came out sharper than he intended. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be terse.”
Marla went on, “I’ve never verified it, but I’ve often heard that G.K. Chesterton once said, ‘Someone who believes in nothing can tolerate anything.’ That’s where this is leading us. We’ve been married a long time, sweetheart. I know the kind of passion my husband has. I don’t expect anything less. It’s just... Never mind.”
“Oh no, you don’t. You can’t ‘never-mind’ me. Say it.”
“It’s just that you seem to be taking defeat harder these days. You’ve had plenty of successes, but you seem to forget those.”
He squeezed her hand. “I haven’t forgotten them. It’s like climbing stairs; a person doesn’t pay much attention to the steps behind him, just the ones in front—and we have so many steps ahead. The Alliance has been fighting this battle and defending churches and ministers for a long time. We’ve stood in case after case against the government and the ACLU’s push for ‘equality,’ which in reality means surrendering to their very totalitarian agenda. We fight, we win, but in the end, it seems we make little progress. I know why so many give up.”
Marla pursed her lips. “Are you thinking of giving up?”
Larry studied the glossy finish on the wood table top. He didn’t answer.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Marla said softly. “I’ve seen you give up so many times before. I’ve seen you walk away from everything for as long as fifteen minutes, then you clinch your spiritual and legal fists again, and head back into the ring to fight another round.”
“Wait a minute. Did my delicate wife just use a boxing metaphor?”
“Maybe. I’d use them more often if I could figure out why they call a square boxing area a ring.” She paused, then said, “‘Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.’”
“Joshua 1:9. How many times have I quoted that in speeches?”
“Hundreds of times. Every once in a while, you need to hear it.” She leaned back. “I think you should quit. Contemplate going back into a private practice. Give yourself the whole night off. Plan a new future. But when the sun comes up tomorrow, pick up your shield and walk to the front line again.”
“You think you’re smart, don’t you?”
“I did take one class on basic psychology in college. Think I can hang out a shingle?”
Larry chortled. “I think you could do anything you want, but the Alliance needs your marketing skills.”
“I’m here for the Alliance, but most of all, I will always be here for you.”
Larry looked back at the monitor. The image had switched to a high-speed chase, but Larry spoke as if John Knox Smith were still on the screen. “We still have business. Serious business. Enjoy your day because the battle has just begun.”
“I’m sorry?”
Larry turned. The waiter was there holding two salads. He looked stunned. It took a second for Larry to make the connection. “I didn’t mean you. I was just talking out loud.”
“Whew. I thought I’d done something wrong.” He set the salads down and slipped away again.
Marla stared at Larry for a moment. “Great, now you’ll have to double the tip.”
THE PICTURE ON the television set faded and the image of John Knox Smith disappeared. Chester Smith sat back in his armchair and stared at the dark screen. Placing the remote on the table beside him, the older man raised his hands to his face, rubbed his eyes, and sighed. “You’ve come a long way from Sunday school lessons and church picnics, son.”
There was no one in the room to hear him. Since his second wife died, Chester had lived alone in the house where the family resided ever since moving to Colorado thirty years before. Those were different days then. He was a different man, and John…well, John had changed in ways Chester couldn’t understand.
Chester named his son John Knox because his family had descended from the fiery Scottish reformer. Even though his own faith was not particularly deep or personal, he had tried to raise his son to be, at very least, a moral man. In one sense he had been successful. John had an honorable job, had made a name for himself, worked for justice—at least justice as he saw it—and lived the life of a law-abiding citizen. So why did disappointment gnaw at his stomach and soul, like a rat chewing through a cardboard box?
For most of his adult life, Chester managed a successful construction business, employing nearly two hundred people. Along the way, he had built a lot of churches, schools, government, and professional buildings. He h
ad made a good deal of money in his time, and he was able to live comfortably in his early retirement years. But caring for his ailing first and second wives had been costly, and he was no longer a wealthy man. Providing his son with a Mercedes E350 as a graduation gift was the limit of Chester’s discretionary spending, but he knew it would mean so much to John to arrive at his first big job with the appropriate image.
At one time, John’s mother Margaret had been a social worker, but emphysema had put an end to that. Her long convalescence and early death left Chester to raise the boy alone. “I made a hash of that,” he said to himself. “The boy needed a mother.”
When Margaret died, he tried to get closer to his son, but it was too late. John had found a new life of his own—a life filled with school work, student council activities, and the varsity debate team. Chester tried to ease his pain through work; he couldn’t blame John for burying himself in things outside the home. At the time Chester felt relief that John had chosen a positive path of self-healing instead of turning to drugs or worse.
Chester slid to the edge of his easy chair and rested his elbows on his knees. His gaze fixed on a small stain a few feet away. Other images filled his mind.
“Fourteen,” he whispered. “Just fourteen. Far too young to lose a mother.”
Fathers and sons; sons and fathers. The thought emptied him. Some fathers and sons bond early and forever. Others, especially fathers so busy with fighting for and supporting a family they fail to mold it, drift away. By the time Chester realized he and John had slipped miles apart, it was too late. John had lost a mother and didn’t need a father, especially one who was absent so much of the time.
Chester had held out some hope that having a new wife would help bring everyone together. It hadn’t. John had written off the family. Home was a place to sleep and eat. Everything for John revolved around his education. He had become consumed with being the best at everything he tried. It was his response to loneliness; Chester could figure that much out.
Chester had always been generous with him, and was never mean. However, like John, he hid beneath a blanket of activity: building things, or working with the various charitable ministries at their Presbyterian church. Chester’s special interest was a series of building programs for senior citizen retirement housing.
Rose, Chester’s second wife, did her best to be a mother to the teenager, but John never gave an indication of accepting her into the family. Chester looked up to the fireplace mantle and saw Rose’s image in a silver picture frame. She had died just two years ago after a long illness, leaving Chester to rattle around in a house too big for him.
Chester wondered if John ever thought about him.
PAT PRESTON CLOSED his Bible and stepped from the lectern at the front of the mortuary chapel. The exterior lights shone through the stained glass windows and painted vivid splotches of gold, blue, red, and white on the floor and the padded oak pews. Everything about the place had been designed to help the bereaved feel comfort. The background music played old hymns in mournful tones; the carpet was plush and dark blue; the walls wore a coat of pale beige paint. Every day, people came to this chapel to say goodbye to a family member or friend.
For the past forty minutes, Pat had done his best to bring words of comfort and insight from the Bible to the twenty people who sat in the pews. All were elderly and only a few were men.
A dark wood coffin rested on a metal stand with wheels. Inside the box lay the body of Reverend Theodore Benson—Pastor Teddy—faithful husband, diligent pastor of Chapel Street Church for fifty-one years, and to some, murderer.
When Pat arrived at the mortuary, he had to drive past a gaggle of reporters, several of whom recorded his arrival with cameras. He ignored them, and thanked God that the mortuary owner had been able to convince the local police to keep the reporters off the property during the funeral. The service was scheduled to start near the end of the day in hopes of cutting down on the number of reporters, and at least miss the major news cycle. Pat wasn’t certain the plan had worked.
Pat dismissed the congregation so they could make their way to the grave site for the final portion of the memorial. He moved to Wilma Benson and sat by her side. She had no family to sit with her through the ordeal. Seeing her seated alone had twisted Pat’s heart so much that for a moment he thought it would stop beating.
“Thank you, Pastor. I don’t…”
He put an arm around her. “It’s almost over. Soon the healing can begin. But—”
“But graveside is the most difficult. I know.”
Pat nodded. As a young student preacher, he had asked the senior pastor of his church what he should say at graveside services. The pastor, half in jest, replied, “It doesn’t matter, no one will hear you anyway.”
The comment caught him by surprise. A few funerals later, Pat understood. The sight of the coffin hovering over an open pit could seize a person’s attention and never let go. Good funeral homes covered the opening with a tarp of artificial grass but it fooled no one, especially the family. As the wife of a minister for over forty years, Wilma certainly knew that.
The small crowd came by to shake Wilma’s hand and express their sorrow. Normally, Pat would have stood to the side, but he couldn’t allow Wilma, a woman he had known for only a few days, to sit alone any longer.
After the last well-wisher passed, Wilma gazed at the coffin and said, “I wish it could have been open casket. The funeral people said it was ‘ill-advised.’”
Pat knew why. The bullets from the marshal’s automatic weapons had done too much damage. “That would have been nice,” he said.
Wilma took a deep breath and rose. Pat joined her. “I’m ready,” she said. He offered his arm. They would ride in the hearse to the graveside. “You know, Teddy used to say that no one hears what the preacher says at funerals.”
Pat smiled. “I’ve said the same thing, myself.”
“He was wrong. I heard everything you said, Pastor, and I will never forget it.”
He patted her arm. “I’m glad.”
